Page 34 of Late Harvest

“Talking. Stick!” Lila hollered from across the room, and the other two women instantly snapped to attention, then cracked up.

“If you two are quite finished,” Lila said, her eyes dancing with laughter, “we do need to hammer this nail into submission.”

“Oh shit.” Nell turned to Remy. “Speaking of nailed…are you going to have to,” she lowered her voice, “sleep with him?”

“We can all hear you, and all of us here have had or are having sex. Especially you, Nell. You’ve got a built-in penis at home.” Lila paused and then snickered, which rapidly escalated into a full-out belly laugh. “Ok, that came out wrong,” she gasped through her laughter. When she finally composed herself, Lila blew out a massive breath. “At least I’m assuming you’re having the sex.”

Nell’s gaze flitted away, her lower lip between her teeth.

Lila waved a hand. “There’s something behind that face you just made, Nell Gallagher. But that’s another meeting. As for me, I am grieved to share that I am not having the sex. Unless my vibrator collection counts.”

“You have a collection?” Nell aimed the fan at her face.

“You don’t?” Lila cocked her head.

“I have one,” she emphasized. “I named it Tom, after Tom Hardy. Tom gets me off many a night.”

Remy reached over and high-fived her. “Nice, girl. Get it, however and whenever you want.” Taking a sip from her refreshed wine glass, and making a mental note to stop after that, she realized the other two were watching her expectantly. “Oh, me?”

“No, Chicane here. Of course, you, Arabella Remington,” Lila scoffed in mock exasperation.

“Oooh, she called you by your full name.”

“Not her full name, Nell,” Lila clarified, shifting a pile of blonde curls behind her shoulder with her free hand. “What is your middle name so I can chastise you properly?”

Remy swallowed, a pang of sorrow zapping through her. “I don’t have one. My, uh, my mother named me after the baby Jackie Kennedy lost. She was obsessed with the Kennedys. Especially John John.”

“Ah, RIP, John John. A true Hottie McHot Pants.” Lila lifted her glass for a toast.

“Hottie McHot Pants?” Remy asked, tapping hers to it.

“It’s what Ross, my sister-in-law’s best friend, calls next-level gorgeous, panty-meltingly scorching men.”

“Here’s to Hottie McHot Pants men!” Nell shouted, lifting her glass.

“Cheers!” Remy and Lila joined in. Even Chicane tapped his teeth and chirruped.

“And?” Lila goaded, eyebrows raised.

“And what?” Remy pretended to be interested in the sip of wine she was taking. It was an excellent bottle. Well worth the hundred dollars she’d paid after seeing the write-up at the liquor store. Expensive wine did double duty as her chosen indulgence and vice.

“Are you currently sexually active?” Nell asked, sounding just like her husband doing a history and physical assessment.

“Only with my favorite vibrator.”

“Mah girl!” Lila yelled. “Bring it.” She leaned in for a fist bump, which Remy returned with a smirk.

“So are you going to have to sleep—have sex—with Bash Wheatley?” Nell’s greenish-yellow eyes widened.

“No. Definitely not. He can sleep in my guest room.” Remy tipped her head in the direction of the pathetically empty room. “Once I get some decent furniture in there.”

Or any furniture, actually. Note to self…find a place that can deliver furniture quickly.

“He’s going to stay here?” Lila asked.

“I mean, I guess when he’s not filming. Until we,” she cleared her throat, “divorce. I’m sure as shit not moving. I love this house.”

“But you’ll probably have to kiss him. You know, some PDA for the paparazzi.” Lila’s eyes were glued to her smartphone.