Page 102 of Late Harvest

Remy acknowledged the knot of fatalism weighing her belly—the surety that this man would love her deeply and thoroughly, lightening her world with laughter and new experiences. And then, just as swiftly as it had fanned, the flame would fizzle. Leaving her alone, bereft. Ruined.

The ice queen would once again hermetically seal her heart. It was the only way to safely maintain its beating when it had been ravaged and needed to heal. It would happen via muscle memory—learned the agonizing way a lifetime ago.

But it would be worth it. To release unlocked emotion and love deeply. To be happy. Carefree. Cared for.

Even though Remy was setting herself up for eventual heartache, she found herself nodding. “Yes,” she whispered, relieved at the composure of her voice. “Yes, Sebastian. I will be engaged with you.” She swallowed, the razor blades of defeatism slicing her delicate throat. “For as long as you’ll have me.” Remy repeated his word choice, holding out her left hand. Her surgeon’s nerves carried through, allowing her to keep her hand steady as Bash slipped the ring on her fourth finger.

A perfect fit.

Chapter Fifty-Five

George Clooney said, “I'll direct.”

Leo Dicaprio said, “I'll produce.”

And Matthew McConaughey said, “I'll write, I'll write, I'll write.”

—From Bash’s dad joke collection...

only slightly pissed my name wasn’t in the joke

Bash

Three days in Manhattan felt more like three painful, never-ending lifetimes. The press junket for his upcoming premiere was exhausting and frustrating—the wash-rinse-repeat of the same questions about the movie, his family, their success, blah blah blah, particularly annoying. Some buzz had begun around Paradise, with rumors dropping of his involvement. But since he hadn’t signed the contract—hopefully that would happen in the next week—Bash couldn’t say anything about the film. He did take advantage of the opportunities provided to share his admiration for Walt, for the director, and the cast that had been named and confirmed.

Bash adroitly danced around questions pertaining to Arabella, only saying they were enjoying each other’s company and she was magnificent—his favorite adjective to describe her. He didn’t reveal their engagement. That would happen after he returned home to his queen. She was his home. And he was stunned at how much he missed her.

Every night, Bash fell asleep imagining her tucked in bed with her laptop doing something ‘doctory,’ as he finished his nighttime routine. At least he’d finally convinced his woman to use his facial cleanser. But she’d drawn the line at his ‘potions and lotions,’ as she referred to the half dozen bottles that comprised the ablutions he completed by faithful habit every night.

And every morning at the hotel, he reached for her, disappointment settling low in his belly when ‘her’ side of his hotel bed was empty.

They hadn’t been intimate since Miami. It wasn’t from lack of desire. Far from it. He was about to explode from the need, taking himself in hand more the last week-and-a-half than he had in the previous six months combined.

Oh, he’d booty-called her last Sunday, so overwhelmed with a need to bury himself between her legs that his rock-hard cock felt like a third, very insistent, appendage.

But when he got home, he’d found her still in her clothes, nervously pacing the room. Bash saw the desire in her eyes. That was hard to miss—flames of heat sparking in the loveliest sapphire. But the taut lines of her body as she wrapped her arms around herself revealed something just as compelling.

Arabella was scared. Nervous. She needed to be cherished, not ravaged.

Instead of tossing her onto the bed they shared and bringing her to a screaming orgasm, he’d merely wrapped his arms around her tense body and kissed the top of her head. The slow wave of relaxation through her body was almost as gratifying as the release he was denying her. And himself.

That restraint had continued into Monday night, when he’d longed to celebrate their engagement the good, old-fashioned way. But he’d held back.

His hesitance was partially self-preservation and partially because he knew his queen well. He’d breached her walls quickly in Miami, and unsettled her. Then he proposed. Arabella needed time to process, her agile mind turning over every facet of this relationship that had only been fake for him for about two-point-five seconds.

And the self-preservation part? Bash knew, deep in his bones, the next time he held Arabella Remington in his arms, he’d be making love to her. He’d reveal the depth of his feelings. The foreverness of his commitment. He’d say the words that formed on his lips over and over again.

And he had to know she was ready for it. Because he sure as hell was.

It was well after ten when the town car pulled into the driveway. Bash could see a faint light peeking under the shutters in the family room, but the rest of the house appeared dark. Disappointment bled into his veins, overtaking the excitement he’d built up at the idea of Arabella waiting up for him.

He waved at one of their two night guards—shaking his head again at the vulnerability of this house—and crept silently through the front door. Bash’s lips curved in a fond smile as he quietly toed off his shoes, leaving them in the appointed spot. His queen had trained him well on the house rules.

In the family room, Arabella had left a lamp on. Bash looked around, soaking it in. For all that he worried about the lack of safety for both of them living here, this place had become special to him. He tiptoed over to Chicane, who didn’t even stir from deep inside his elaborate bunny mansion, then advanced to the bedroom.

Bash stopped in the doorway and let out a small sound of stupefaction.

The moonlight filtered through the closed shutters, creating just enough light to illuminate Remy.