Remington (The Theriot Family 1)

If I thought Elandra only knew secrets like my stepmother did, I’d make sure she left town and couldn’t come back, but if I found out the rumors were true and she’d killed my cousin Dustin, she wouldn’t get an offer that kind.

Dustin had been shot in the back the last time we’d tangled with the Landrys. He’d only been twenty-two, and he’d been brash and stupid and took a hell of a lot of chances, but he was family. Our rules were important, and we stuck by them faithfully, but sometimes a person’s actions deserved consequences that made it necessary for us to break them.

Pop and I caught up on some more minor matters of business before wrapping up. My father stayed in his office, and I found my stepmother and said goodbye.

“Don’t let your father get involved in whatever is heating up with the Landrys,” she said.

“I’ll do my best, but he’s stubborn, and ultimately he’s the head of the family, so…”

“Tell him he can direct things from here.”

“I have a feeling he’s more likely to listen to you than me, but if it makes you feel better, he seemed to be backing off. He really wants to do this for you.”

I said goodbye and left, not feeling any less concerned about the situation than I had when I’d arrived. I wanted my father to have time to relax. I wanted my stepmother not to be worried about him all the time, but this was a heavy weight. I needed to make sure the family looked strong while also seeing that my father didn’t overexert himself. It fell to me to keep my brothers and everyone I cared about safe. I pushed all those thoughts aside. No matter how much I’d taken on, I deserved to occasionally enjoy myself, so I was going to take Henri on a shopping expedition.

10

Henri

I took some time to explore Remington’s house. He’d told me I could, and I wasn’t about to turn him down. The place was gorgeous, and I was hoping I might learn something about him. I considered seeing if I could get into his locked office, but even if I did, I was sure he’d figure it out. I didn’t want to think about what the consequences of my defiance would be.

Still, there was plenty to discover in the rooms that were open to me. On a cart in the kitchen, I found a stack of cookbooks, most of them vintage. I guessed they were collectibles rather than something he used regularly. He seemed like the kind of man who just knew what he wanted and made it.

On the ground floor, along with the kitchen, there was a modest-sized living room that made me feel as if I’d stepped into the 1920s with its antique furniture and black-and-white pictures on the wall showing New Orleans during that era. There was even an old phonograph in the corner, and I wondered if it actually worked. Before I explored more, the chandelier made of glass beads drew my attention. The room was like Remy, beautiful but with enough quirks to give it character. There was one other room downstairs. Two walls were mostly multi-paned windows, and the other walls were covered with shelves full of books including history, historical fiction, mysteries, and books about art and natural history.

There was also a large, comfortable chair that was situated to catch the late-afternoon light from the courtyard out back. I imagined Remington sitting there, reading, watching the sunset, seeing the city come alive as night fell, hearing sounds from the streets around him. Did he really enjoy quiet, reflective time like that? What would be the purpose of a room like this if he didn’t? I’d love to sit there with him, but that wasn’t what he’d hired me for.

I went upstairs then. The locked door taunted me, but I had other places to explore. The guest room colors were bright, a bold blue on the walls, pale blue bed linens, and a rich green rug.

There was one last space I hadn’t seen yet, the upstairs space that sat over the small library downstairs. I stepped in, and what I saw made my breath catch. There was a gorgeous cello leaning against an antique chair. I could see Remington playing the cello, his whole body moving with the music. I imagined he would be as focused playing music as he was in bed. There was a piece of music on the stand in front of the chair. It was titled “Bayou Melody.”

The walls were decorated with pictures of string instruments and a framed musical score of “When the Saints Go Marching In.” I loved that he had small spaces filled with things I was certain he was passionate about. He might seem cold at first, but he was definitely a man filled with passion. I had no doubt that passion could turn to anger in a second, but when it had been directed at me, he’d made me feel more incredible than I ever had.