Page 133 of Late Harvest

“My beautiful queen, you and I…we’re kind of a late harvest. I know our profile is complex, but it’s also exceptional. And I wouldn’t trade it for anything. It’s the sweetest, and the most perfect. And I love you.”

Chapter Seventy

In a world where you can be anything, be the terror in the night who brings nightmares to men who call their female colleagues ‘babe.’

—From Remy’s Sinister Affirmations

Remy

Troy was at it again, mouthing off in the surgeon’s lounge. She could hear his claptrap through the closed door as he bitched about the food in the lounge, the poor state of residents being trained, his scrub nurse, and Remy herself. Striding into the lounge, she cut off the start of what she was sure was ramping up to be a scathing screed about her.

She motioned for him to join her across the lounge, where there was more privacy.

“Troy,” she bit out, keeping her voice low as she pinned him with a fierce gaze. “I’ve absolutely had it with you and your attitude. Keep this up, and I’ll throw you out of this hospital. You can finish this conversation with yourself in the parking lot. Exactly no one wants to hear the rot coming out of your mouth.”

Troy opened and closed said orifice, no sounds coming out.

“Last warning, Troy. Last. One. I’m already documenting your behavior in your file. Stop mouthing off. Stop calling your female colleagues ‘babe’ and ‘girlie.’ Start treating others with respect, or you can start looking for a new job. Without a reference from Evangelist. Your choice.”

She folded her arms, staring him down.

“Yes, Dr. Remington. Understood,” he gritted out, saying the right things. But Remy could read the sinister look in his eyes. Sadly, she spoke ‘angry narcissist’ fluently. This was not going to end well for him. The tension was already too thick to resolve easily.

Remy debated going straight to Brinder, but she really wanted to eat a decent snack before launching into her last case of the day. She’d missed lunch, and her growling stomach was already hollering at her for that. Her life may be drastically different than two months ago, but at least her pre-Sebastian routine was still solidly intact, including her propensity for skipping meals in favor of seeing patients.

The last weeks had dragged by, the early August heat as oppressive as her loneliness for her favorite clown. Yes, they FaceTimed multiple times a day. They’d even—Remy’s cheeks flushed at the memories—engaged in phone sex. But nothing could replace Sebastian Wheatley, live and in person.

Soon he’d get a weekend off, and he was already sending her fabulously filthy messages about what he intended to do to her body.

Remy smiled to herself, nibbling on curry chicken salad she’d dolloped on a cracker. She had ten minutes. Just enough time to swallow some sustenance and send her own message to Sebastian. She wasn’t nearly as proficient at sexting as he was, and she certainly wouldn’t do that in a public space where anyone might look over her shoulder, but she was definitely going to send something flirty to her husband.

Her husband.

Sebastian Wheatley was her husband.

Was it normal for a forty-seven-year-old woman thinking about the man who held her heart to feel…giddy?

She knew he would be immersed in filming—he’d warned her today was a long shoot—but she’d send something flirty for him to enjoy later.

Remy’s phone buzzed as she unlocked it, startling her.

Lila was right. She was jumpy.

“Something wrong, Dr. Remington?”

Remy wanted to smack the smirk off Troy’s face. She carefully composed her features, tamping down that sweet fantasy. Besides, Remy wasn’t a violent woman; she’d had enough of that. She preferred private, respectful, but effective evisceration by words. And only when warranted.

Before she could formulate a pithy response, Brinder bustled into the lounge, exhaling in relief when he saw her. But then she caught the look on his face.

Blood drained from her head, and Remy was glad she was sitting, as she wasn’t sure she could feel her extremities. “Is it Sebastian? What happened? Is he ok? Did something happen on set?”

“Bash is fine, Remy. But, something has happened.” He glanced around, and Remy realized they had a very attentive audience, one not even trying to pretend they weren’t actively listening. “I need you to come to my office.”

Heart thudding, Remy stood on shaky legs. “But my case⁠—”

“Is going to be delayed. Or performed by another surgeon.”

“But I’m not—what’s going on⁠—”