His eyes narrow. “Is it climate controlled? Because a treasure like this needs?—”
“It’s climate controlled,” I assure him, laughing a little at his vehemence. “You like it?”
“I fucking love it,” he says, still staring down at it before lifting his gaze to my face. “Thank you, Mindy. This is the coolest gift anyone has ever given me.”
“I’m glad,” I say, shrugging my shoulders in excitement. “I knew he was one of your all-time favorites.” I nod to the poster of the legendary golfer that hangs behind us on the wall.
He reaches for the other item in the bag, a flat white box. “You got me something else too?”
“This one is something more practical,” I say quickly, a little self-conscious because…hello?I’m buying for a billionaire.
He opens the box, and his eyes light up. “You got me gloves?”
“I heard you tell Antonio you lost one of yours.”
“I lost one, and I haven’t had a chance to get new ones.”
“They’re… yeah, they’re not super fancy or anything, but… okay, you’re putting them on.”
Jesus, help me. What if he thinks they’re shitty?Granted, they’re nicer than any gloves I’ve ever owned, with black Italian lambskin and a cashmere lining, but they’re not the most expensive gloves ever made or anything.
“These are perfect,” he says, wiggling his fingers.
“They are?” I ask in surprise, and he laughs.
“Yeah, they actually are. The cashmere lining feels really good, which is something I need.” He swallows hard before adding, “I have something called Sensory Processing Disorder.”
“What’s that?” I ask softly, sensing this isn’t something he shares with everyone.
“There are a lot of variations. For some people it’s how they process sounds or scents, but mine has to do with how my brain processes touch, specifically certain textures.”
“So, certain textures are uncomfortable for you?”
“Yes, exactly,” he says, surprise tinting his voice. “It’s a real thing. I’m not making it up.” Remi sounds a little defensive, and I rest my hand on his forearm.
“I believe you.”
The set of his shoulders relaxes like he wasn’t entirely sure that would be my response. “A lot of people don’t believe in stuff they can’t see. It took a long time to get the diagnosis.”
“Will you tell me about that?”
One of his gloved hands covers the one I have lying on his forearm, an almost automatic gesture that seems to come naturally. “I was a toddler when my mom noticed I took off my clothes every time Icould. At first she thought it was just normal toddler stuff, but when I did have to wear clothes, I clawed at my skin.”
He grimaces and continues. “From what she’s told me, it was pretty bad. Sometimes I would draw blood.”
I picture a little brown-eyed boy who was so uncomfortable he literally scratched blood to the surface of his skin. “Oh, Remi, that sounds horrible.”
With a nod, he relaxes against the back of the couch. “She started taking me to dermatologists. When one would tell her they couldn’t find anything wrong with me—no rashes or skin diseases—she would find another one. This went on for months until she finally came across a female dermatologist who talked to me, not to my mom.”
“Which makes sense since you were the patient,” I reply.
A small smile edges up one corner of his mouth. “Of course, I was only two, so my verbal skills were limited. But Mom said Dr. Keller asked me why I scratched myself, and I told her it was because my clothes were too hard.”
“Okay, that’s kind of adorable,” I say.
“No other doctor had ever looked me in the face and askedmequestions before. I guess they thought I was just a child so they’d talk to my mother instead. Anyway, Dr. Keller suggested it might be SPD. Her brother was an occupational therapist, so she referred me to him.”
“And did that help?”