I didn’t keep flour, sugar, or cocoa powder in the house, so I was glad she’d brought all the ingredients. However, I did have quite a few baking essentials.
“I actually have pans and mixers and all that jazz.” I flipped open one of the bottom cabinets.
Her head snapped back. “You have a Kitchen-Aid?”
I didn’t.
But once upon a time, she had.
“I do, but it might be dusty. It hasn’t been used in a while,” I replied.
Beautiful understanding dawned on her face. “It was Sally’s, wasn’t it?”
I simply nodded.
She closed the cabinet. “Then maybe I shouldn’t destroy it.”
Chuckling, I thought back on the time she’d poured powdered sugar into the mixer and it shot out, covering my kitchen like a winter blizzard. “Don’t be silly. She’d be happy to see it getting some use.”
Remi wrinkled her nose. “By your girlfriend though? Come on, Bowen. That’s kinda weird.”
“Yep. Even by my girlfriend. Sally was”—I paused before finishing—“kinda weird herself. She made me swear I’d find someone else if anything ever happened to her. In her last suicide note, she even planned for it.”
She nestled in closer. “God, Bowen. I can’t even imagine what that must have done to you.”
“It was awful.” I pointedly tightened my arms around her. “But it’s better now. You have made everything better. Use the mixer. And the pans. And anything else you find. Okay?”
She smiled, and like it always did, it healed yet another crack in my soul.
“I love you,” she whispered, tilting her chin up, a silent request for my mouth.
I did not make her wait.
Just before sealing my lips over hers, I replied, “I love you too.”
The kiss was slow and gentle.
Fucking finally, Remi and I existed in a reality—together—where the worst thing that had happened to us was overcooked chicken and mushy risotto. She could have made those brownies with salt and mud and I would’ve grinned like a fool through every single bite.
“Come on.” I pecked her lips once more. “I could go for a brownie too.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll do my best, but shoo. I need my space.”
I released her hand and teasingly smacked her ass. “Yes, ma’am.”
“I’ve actually been wanting to talk to you about something.”
I quirked an eyebrow. “Good something? Bad something?”
She made an eek face. “A plane crash something.”
My gut wrenched, clueless as to what direction she was going to take us. I walked around the bar and sank down onto a stool across from her. “Okay. Hit me.”
She propped a small recipe card on top of a canister and then got busy, pulling out bowls and a large plastic spoon. She disappeared below the counter for a second and then reappeared with a hand mixer instead of the Kitchen-Aid. “I’m not sure if you’ve been keeping up with the emails or not, but settlement checks should start hitting banks tomorrow. And well, I have no idea what to do with this kind of money. I was hoping you might be able to give me some advice or at least point me in the right direction.”
Ah yes, the settlement that had restarted it all. This was a very manageable part of the plane crash for me. There was nothing to hide. No details to skirt. Just facts and numbers. My specialty.
“Absolutely,” I replied. “Do you mind if I ask how much money you were awarded?”
Shifting from one foot to the other, she looked uncomfortable and avoided my gaze as she scooped out half a cup of flour. “Two point nine…million.”
My jaw almost came unhinged. “Holy fuck.”
“Yeahhhh,” she drawled. “It’s the whole brain thing. Nobody, not even my doctors, really know what to make of it. I mean, I’m fine. But on paper, a head injury with a year of complete memory loss sounds really bad.” She turned, tapped the button to preheat the oven, and then moved on to opening a bag of granulated sugar. “Anyway, I’ve already decided I’m giving half of it to the victims’ families’ fund. But that still leaves me with well over a million dollars. I have a retirement account I contribute to every month, but I feel like maybe I need to look into more serious investing or something.”
She grabbed the cocoa powder and added three heaping spoonfuls. After eyeing it for a second, she added another. “I’ve considered buying real estate. This guy I know buys up cheap duplexes, renovates them, and rents them out. He’s even built a small complex of apartments. I think it only has, like, six units. But if the building was mostly paid for, that kind of passive income could bring in a pretty penny long term.”
Typical Remi, she was talking a million miles a minute, so I chimed in just so she’d know I was keeping up. “Not a bad idea.”
She went to the fridge and took out a stick of butter. After unwrapping it, she placed it in a bowl and then popped it into the microwave. “But then I think of all the stress of managing something like that. Even with the new restaurant manager, I’ll still be spread pretty thin to stay on top of The Wave. Plus, the whole goal when I opened Grey Realty was to take on new agents. That was always my plan, but we’ve only been open a few months, so maybe I should wait a while anyway. Ugh, I don’t know. It just seems like so many opportunities and I have no idea which, if any of them, I should take.”
