7
Back in the bar, Remy thought she might be sick. She worked through it, keeping her head down, drowning in her own thoughts.
By midnight, the bar was nearly empty but for a couple of older regulars. The Romans were gone, thank the Lord.
Tossing a towel onto the bar, she excused herself and went out back. Sitting on a stack of milk crates, she leaned her head back against the rusting tin wall and tried to breathe.
She’d barely had a full minute to herself when she heard, “Remy.”
Her eyes snapped open. Sawyer was walking toward her; she could see his flashy black SUV idling in the parking lot. He moved toward her like a prowling jungle cat, big and sleek and muscular. In well-worn jeans and a tight white t-shirt, he could have been walking off of a movie set instead of hanging out in
