“And she says he seems calmest when he hears music.” Remy’s expression turns curious. “What kind of music?” “Classical stuff,” he answers, sliding his gaze to Wicker. “Cello.” Remy follows his gaze to Wicker. “Oh,” he says, brow knitting together. “He’s yours.” “Why does everyone keep saying that?” Wick bursts with a flare of annoyance. “He might come out brown like Pace—you fuckers don’t know.” Remy just snorts. “It’s like the molding. I know dibs when I see them.”
