of his smile. I scowled to hide my deep swallow. He disappeared into his bathroom, coming back out with his clothes, which hung limp and heavy from his fingers.
When he began to unknot his towel, I said, “I’m right here.”
“And?” He dropped the towel.
Cheeks glowing crimson, I whirled around. Unfortunately, the mirror gave me a direct line of sight on Remo’s backside.
Naked backside.
Naked and sculpted.
Look away, I told myself. Look. Away. But I was terrible at taking orders. Even from myself.
His body was an intimidating weapon of toned muscle and buffed flesh. Thighs bloated with power framed by trim hips extending into a waist that smacked of rigor and lack of indulgence. A warrior’s body. Deadly to rival men; deadlier to rival women, because how were we supposed to look away from so much male perfection? And on a personal note, how was I supposed to feel about my own soft flesh and slender muscles, by-products of my preferred way of life—indolence and immoderation?
I wanted to beg him to open his mouth and utter something crude and vicious, but my throat was currently too busy purging the excess saliva pooling at the back of it to produce any sound, so I did the only reasonable thing . . . I dropped my gaze to the doily on the dresser and counted the looped threads.
The slosh and scrape of fabric against skin had more of my skin heating. Why was I still standing here? Oh, yeah . . . because there might’ve been ghosts outside, and I preferred to be in the presence of an uninhibited faerie than a devious specter.
“Are you decent?” My voice sounded weird, thready and throaty.
“I believe I am, but I don’t think you share my conviction.”
“What are you talking about?” I lifted my gaze to the mirror, found Remo staring back at me in the glass, half-dressed. The good half. Had his chest been covered but not his legs, my internal combustion would’ve made me a pathetic target for that forked tongue of his.
“I’m talking about the fact that you clearly think me on par with your little Daneelie friend.”
“We already went over this in the kitchen. Joshua Locklear is not my friend. Plus . . .” I licked my lips, the pillar of flawless masculinity behind me miring my brain’s ability to form rational thoughts. Wringing the life out of the ends of my bathrobe’s belt, I spent minutes sorting through my head, trying to retrieve the words I’d meant to add. It was only when he smirked that they came back in sharp focus. “Plus, why do you care what I think about you?”
Remo’s eyebrows hugged his piercing green eyes. “I don’t.”
My fingers slid off the belt ends, and I turned toward him, feeling like I’d somehow regained the upper hand. “You clearly do. You keep bringing Joshua up.”
“I bring him up, because he’s the reason we’re here.”
That made zero sense. “He’s the reason I’m here. I still don’t know why you’re here.” I crossed my arms. “Why are you here? I know you claimed stupidity, but that doesn’t explain why you followed me through a mysterious portal. Were you afraid I was headed somewhere fun, and you didn’t want to miss out?”
He took a step toward me, a giant step that put him right in my face. I tilted my neck farther back so my glare was perfectly aligned with his.
“I followed you out of the pavilion because I thought you were going after my brother.”
I tightened my arms. “Does your brother usually hide in the Duciba?”
Water dripped out of the tunic clenched in his fist and onto my bare toes. “I didn’t know where he was. And then I saw you studying the painted circlet. And I got curious.”
“So, curiosity made you go after me?”
A storm brewed in his eyes. “Like I said, it was stupidity that made me go after you.”
“So, you consider yourself a stupid person, Remo Farrow?”
“Not usually”—his timbre was low and deep—“but you somehow bring out the worst in me, Amara Wood.”
I stood my ground even though my heart was clocking my breastbone, and my good sense was telling me to add some space between myself and the bulky fae. “Or maybe I just bring out what’s already there.” Why was I provoking him? Did I want to get stabbed by a pen? Not especially.
“Your last name suits you. You are a piece of wood. A splinter.”
I knew this wasn’t a compliment, and I knew I was playing