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“Hank just graduated from college, so he’s home now. And he likes working the land. This might be the only opportunity Jack has to escape a life he doesn’t truly want.”
Remy sighed audibly. “It’s just that...it won’t be the same, Is. I don’t have anything against your brother. But this was our big reward, our last hurrah. I’d hate to let anything ruin—er, change it.”
“Having Jack here wouldn’t ruin anything. It wouldn’t even change it that much.” She wanted to say she hadn’t expected his brother to be around, either. But she couldn’t complain because it was his family’s vacation home. She was lucky to have the use of it. “Will you give it a chance?” she asked instead.
“Wait.” He sounded suspicious. “Don’t tell me he’s already agreed to come...”
She winced. “He has. He could change his mind, but—”
“So the house-sitting gig is a go?”
She didn’t have an answer on that yet, but Remy had confirmed, by his reaction, that she wouldn’t be able to offer Jack a room at the cottage. Although...if she handled her brother’s lodging and he stayed elsewhere, she didn’t see how Remy could be that upset about having him on the island. The Windsors didn’t own all of Mariners. “If not, I’ll find him a hotel.”
“With what money?” he asked. “You’re always scraping to get by!”
Because she didn’t have rich parents who paid for everything! She opened her mouth to say so but thought better of it. He’d just accuse her of being too sensitive or jealous. “He has some savings.”
“Shit,” he muttered. “He’s going to come, isn’t he?”
Finally irritated beyond her ability to hold back, she felt her patience snap. “Why not? Maybe he and Bastian can hang out together,” she said and disconnected.
Tossing her phone on the seat of the swing, she got up and began to pace. She shouldn’t have agreed to come here. It’d sounded so fun at the time, but she didn’t like being at the Windsors’ mercy, having to be so grateful to be using the cottage that she couldn’t feel free to help her own brother.
She was mumbling all the things she wanted to say to Remy—that she wouldn’t let herself—when her phone dinged. That had to be him. No doubt he’d texted her, angry that she’d hung up on him. She could already hear him berating her for not having more understanding when he was under so much stress, saying that if he failed his exams, it’d be because she distracted him and couldn’t take care of herself and her own problems for a few weeks.
Reluctantly, she scooped up her phone to see if she was right. Remy had tried calling back—three times. But he hadn’t texted her. The text had come from Bo. And there were no words, just a picture of a chess board on his kitchen table.
12
Having Ismay over was a mistake, and Bo knew it. He could’ve sent her a link to play a digital game of chess, which would’ve allowed her to stay at the cottage or play from wherever she was. That would’ve been safer, especially with Bastian around to make a big deal of them getting together again.
But Bo hadn’t sent an electronic link. He wanted to see her too badly. He’d wrestled with himself for an hour before giving in and inviting her to play. Then he’d hoped she’d have other plans and turn him down, because it would keep them both safe from spending more time together and, possibly, getting too close.
Instead, she’d accepted his invitation, shown up with a bottle of wine and the groceries to make a cheesy sourdough bread appetizer, which she’d just put in the oven. And now she was sitting across from him, puzzling over her next move in the game they’d started before she’d stopped to make the appetizer.
She touched her knight as if she was going to move it and looked up at him. He shook his head. Then she fingered her rook, and he nodded. She was learning fast, but there was no replacement for experience. He probably helped her more than he should. She’d learn faster if he let her make more mistakes—but his guidance kept the game interesting, and it made him feel better about beating her. At least he gave her a fighting chance.
“Why shouldn’t I have moved my knight?” she asked.
“Because it would’ve left your queen vulnerable.”
“No, it wouldn’t.” She pointed to the pawn protecting her queen.
He showed her what would’ve happened two moves down the line, once he’d changed the position of his bishop, and she frowned as she propped her chin on her hand. “Damn. It’s frustrating that I don’t seem to be improving.”
“No one improves that much over the course of a few games. You know what Malcolm Gladwell says.”
“What does Malcolm Gladwell say? And where did he say it? InThe Tipping Point? Because I read that book and—”
“It’s inOutliers,” he said. “Gladwell claims it takes ten thousand hours of intensive practice to get really good at anything.”
“You’ve put ten thousand hours into learning this game?” she asked skeptically.
He remembered the long days in prison, when—other than lifting weights or reading—chess was all he had to fill his time. It was also the only way he could make a few bucks, so he played whenever he could, almost as if it were his job. They weren’t supposed to gamble, but that certainly hadn’t stopped them. They bet on almost anything and wagered almost anything they could trade—cigarettes, drugs, cash, a cell phone, food, even gum. “Maybe not that many. But close.”
“When you were young, or...”
“I’ve always liked it,” he said to avoid a more direct answer. Then he asked her a question—to distract her but also because he’d been curious. “That picture you showed me...”
