Page 31 of Late Harvest

Earnest brown eyes scanned her face. “I think she needs water.”

“I think she needs a shot—or five—of something strong.” Remy closed her eyes and shook her head, trying mightily to ingest Bash Wheatley’s words.

When she opened them again, someone had put a glass of ice water on the table in front of her. Bash released his gentle grip on her hand—she didn’t even want to contemplate how soothing that had been and how much she instantly missed the contact—and handed her the water, which she downed in three gulps. Only when she placed it back on the table did she realize her hands were trembling. She tried to form words, but couldn’t.

“Arabella, I know this sounds so farfetched. But I promise, you’ll barely see me. I’ll be gone off and on for at least half of our fake marriage. I’m begging you. I will give you anything you want. Cars. A mansion. Buy you the fanciest surgeon stuff for your OR. Hell, I’ll build you a hospital wing. I’ll pay to name a newly discovered plant species for you.”

“You can do that?” Brinder, who she knew was a BBC nature documentary nerd, sat at attention, clearly momentarily distracted from his vociferous opposition to her fake marriage to Bash.

Bash nodded absently at Brinder, then turned his unsettling focus back to her. “All that’s in addition to donating ten million to the shelter⁠—”

“Twenty million,” she heard herself say.

“Pardon?” He took her hand again, cradling it between his and rubbing soft circles on the back.

Tiny hairs rose on her neck as she watched the hypnotic movement.

“Twenty million. I don’t need anything else. But if you really want this role, Sebastian Wheatley…” She lifted her eyes to meet his, a discomfiting hum of electricity catching her by surprise. “I will agree to fake date you, after which, I’ll marry you for an agreed-upon period of time. Long enough for you to secure and then film your dream role.” She took a deep breath and tried to tug her eyes away from his penetrating stare. “In exchange for a twenty-million-dollar donation to St. Dymphna’s.” She rolled her eyes. “Not nymphos.”

That word brought an entirely different set of circumstances to mind. In particular, sex with Bash. Her cheeks flamed, the tips of her ears joining the party. This reaction—and her wayward thoughts—were completely out of character for her.

Remy’s eyes had been fastened to Bash’s, offering her a front row seat as a glorious smile spread across his stupidly handsome face.

“Done. Ten million payable right away, and ten million at the conclusion of our arrangement.” He brought her hand to his lips and kissed the back of it. “You won’t regret this.”

Famous. Last. Words.

Chapter Fourteen

Real women aren’t perfect—perfect ones aren’t real. Own your messy, tangled self. And be damn proud of it.

—From Remy’s Badass Bitch Affirmations

Remy

Remy knocked—probably too hard—on the bright red door, whimsical stained glass panels running along each side. Fitting for the woman who lived there, even if it was just a rental. It came flying open, scaring the shit out of her. She screamed. Then Lila screamed.

The ortho nurse recovered herself first, slumping against the frame and grabbing her chest with one hand. “Jesus, Remy. You almost made me pee my pants.”

“That’s ok. I nearly crapped mine.” Remy’s heart rate was zooming—whether from the Bash Bomb or the door scare, she wasn’t sure. Probably both.

“You’re the one who was banging on my door like the zombie apocalypse had started!” Lila yelped, eyes flared comically.

They stared at each other and then burst into laughter.

“Oh my god, I so needed that.” Remy wiped at her eyes.

Lila fixed her with a knowing look. “I think I know what this is about.”

“You get three guesses.”

“I only need one.” She cocked a brow. “Bash Wheatley?”

Shocked, Remy exhaled a puff of breath. “How⁠—”

Lila held up a hand, clearly recognizing the confusion on Remy’s face. “I was there today when Honor concocted the carrot.”

“I don’t even want to know what you mean,” Remy sighed out under her breath.