Page 32 of Late Harvest

“Wanna come in?”

“Yes? No… Yes. But, I need to get home to Chicane. Truly was over earlier, but it’s been hours.”

“What do you need?”

“I need to process. Can you come over? I’m convening an emergency meeting of the Red Wine Supper Club.”

Remy curled into the comfortable corner of her couch, Chicane snuggled in her arms. A mostly empty glass of Cabernet sat in front of her. The second one she’d consumed in the past forty minutes. Next to it, an empty pizza box was the only evidence of the late dinner she’d ordered for her and Lila.

“You really need to eat better, Doc,” Lila admonished gently, pointing to where their medium pizza once sat. “No dinner last night. Pizza tonight…”

“I hate cooking,” Remy grumbled, grateful for the relatively benign topic. She wasn’t quite ready to face the reality of the deal she’d made with a certain enticing devil.

“Then get a meal service. And, in the future, I’m in charge of Red Wine Supper Club meals.”

“Deal.”

“Deal.” Lila reached over from her perch on one of the two plush armchairs and shook Remy’s hand.

Her doorbell sounded and Lila’s eyes widened. “Is that him?” she whispered.

Remy stood and passed Chicane over to Lila. “No. I don’t think so. I invited someone else with a nickel in this quarter, so pretty sure it’s her. Only because when I left Brinder’s, I told Bash I needed one night to think this through—the logistics, the implications, et cetera. He agreed not to contact me until I text him tomorrow morning.”

“You have Bash Wheatley’s cell phone number?” Lila practically shrieked. “Fuck me!”

Remy froze halfway to the door, eyes fluttering closed at the combined notions of ‘Bash’ and ‘fucking.’ What was this freakish hold he had on her libido?

The Ring doorbell chimed again, startling her, and she emitted a small squeak.

From the chair, Lila snickered. “You’re a jumpy thing, aren’t you?”

“Who knew doors were so scary?” Remy responded, releasing a quiet chuckle as she opened the door.

“Ok. You have completely captured my curiosity.” Nell Gallagher stood in her doorway, a bottle of Pinot Noir in her hand, the other fidgeting with her pink Lululemon jacket. “I have no idea what this is about, and I don’t even know if you drink or like wine, but I brought the nectar of the gods.” She waved the bottle. “I’m assuming this is about the shelter.”

Remy welcomed her in and did the introductions.

“Small Evangelist world. You’re Nell Gallagher, right?” Lila marveled, quickly recognizing Remy’s new guest as the spouse of one of their medical staff colleagues. “I’d get up, but I don’t think Chicane here wants me to move. I just tried, and he glared at me.”

The women smiled at each other and then Nell ducked her head, blushing furiously as her shyness froze her to the spot. Noticing Nell’s discomfort, Lila infused her voice with warmth the way Remy had seen her do so many times with her patients.

“So you volunteer with Remy at the shelter and you’re married to Nate Gallagher, midwife to the multitudes.” Lila paused and Remy could practically see the wheels spinning. “Oh my god, wait a hot damn minute. I just put it together. Why am I so slow? Fucking perimenopause brain fog. Your husband was the midwife who accompanied Honor Wheatley and monitored her pregnancy on the trip to receive her Oscar, right?”

“He prefers the term ‘accoucheur’ because he’s just that fancy.” Nell’s cheeks had calmed to a softer pink, but her nerves were on display as she shifted from foot to foot.

Remy was an admittedly grumpy loner and Nell a painful introvert, yet despite those interpersonal challenges, they worked well together at the shelter. But this may have been too much for Nell, Remy thought guiltily. She likely hadn’t realized there’d be a new face when she agreed to come over.

“Holy shit.” Lila beamed at her and Nell. “The whole Evangelist world is like six degrees of Kevin Bacon. It’s really nice to meet you, Nell. I love your gorgeous red hair.” Lila’s warm smile instantly seemed to ease Nell’s awkwardness, the other woman’s shoulders visibly relaxing as she tucked a lock of that stunning copper hair behind one ear.

Jealousy wasn’t an emotion Remy ordinarily felt—unless it was coveting another hospital’s surgical equipment. But Nell’s hair made her own feel boring. Remy ran a self-conscious hand over it, cringing at how messy it was after a long day at the shelter. And her clothes were rumpled, her shirt featuring a splotch of red sauce at the hem courtesy of a close encounter with a toddler at the shelter who’d discovered the joys of flinging food.

Holy shit. She’d been so focused on the marriage ambush, she hadn’t even considered her physical appearance. And Bash Freaking Wheatley saw her looking like this. Fuuuuck.

Nothing to be done about that now, but she wouldn’t make that mistake again when she saw Bash tomorrow.

Tomorrow. When she would see Bash Wheatley. To iron out the details of their fake marriage.

Dear God. How was this her life?