Page 110 of Late Harvest

“Angel,” he choked out, overcome with a roil of enormous feelings that flooded his body. “I’m so sorry. So very sorry.”

“I can’t talk about this anymore,” she wept into his chest, her tears soaking his Bunny Dad shirt.

“You don’t need to, my queen. Just rest and sleep. I’ve got you.”

And I’m never letting you go. No one will ever hurt you again.

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Each day, do one thing that fuels your happiness.

—From Remy’s Badass Bitch Affirmations

Remy

Remy rose before the sun—as was her routine, even when recovering from a nasty virus. She was feeling considerably better, but not well enough to swim. Moreso, she didn’t want to risk spreading any lingering germs. Instead, she fed Chicane and set him to play in his digging box, brewed an Americano, and settled onto the couch. Her intention was to review her upcoming cases and the post-op notes from the surgeries Slattery had jumped in to complete for her.

Instead, her eyes were drawn to the book on the table. The one Sebastian had apparently finished yesterday, because his ‘This scene was better in rehearsal’ bookmark was now resting beside the novel. He’d once treated her to an unhinged rant about never, ever dogearing a book, which apparently was equally as dangerous as naming The Scottish Play.

Intrigued, Remy picked up the novel. And promptly became engrossed in the story.

Some time later, a loud gasp pulled her attention from the page, where the leader of the pack had just knotted his fated mate.

Holy shit, that was hot.

Remy’s eyes flew guiltily to Sebastian’s dramatically flared ones. She hadn’t intended to let him catch her in the romance-reading act.

“Are you—Dr. Arabella Remington—reading my shifter romance?” Sebastian grasped his chest, reeling around the family room.

Remy smiled, shaking her head at the theatrics on display. A hot, funny man was a special thing to behold.

With a start, she realized she’d smiled and laughed more in the last weeks than she probably had in the entire last decade.

“I mean, yes?” she offered, tucking the book carefully back on the table. “I came down early and it was…calling to me.” She shrugged.

Sebastian howled, doing a remarkably accurate impersonation of a wolf. Chicane chirruped along. Such a daddy’s boy.

“Calling to you like a wolf’s fated mate,” Sebastian gloated, chin lifted in the manner of one proved right. “You’re loving that shifter romance, aren’t you?” He hopped on the end of the couch, grabbing her feet and placing them on his lap.

“It’s…slightly addictive,” Remy admitted, rolling her eyes fondly. Because she really was so damn fond of this man. “Freaking transitive property,” she muttered to herself, wondering how she could sneak the next chapter.

“Say what? Whose property?” Bash stretched out alongside her.

Good thing her couch was extra wide. Perfect for two. Which hadn’t been a consideration when she purchased it. It just worked in the room. Now, she couldn’t imagine the room without it, or the man sharing it with her.

Remy raised a brow, then moaned as he began rubbing her feet. “Transitive property. Put simply, you like something, and I like you, ergo, I like what you like.”

“I did not learn that in my theater program at NYU. Smarty pants.” He pressed his thumbs into her arch and she rolled her eyes again, this time in pleasure. “I look forward to using that in a sentence and impressing Jared. Oooh…better yet, Brinder!” Sebastian appeared marvelously pleased at the prospect. Almost giddy.

“You’re welcome,” she teased.

“You’re welcome back,” he replied, “for introducing you to the wonders of a great romance novel.” He swept his gaze across her, like he could see any wayward germs still besieging her. “How are you feeling this morning, my queen?”

“Much better.” She smiled, suddenly feeling shy and awkward. She caught his gaze and looked away. “Thank you for taking care of me, Sebastian. I—I really appreciate it. I’m sorry for being needy. And I hope you don’t get sick.”

“Number one”—he patted his impressive four-pack—“iron guts. Rarely get sick. And if I do”—he lifted one shoulder—“no biggie. Some barfing. Maybe some shitting. Then it’s over.” He grimaced, holding out a placating hand. “Not to minimize your suffering.”

“Of course not,” she laughed.