Page 41 of Late Harvest

“Great. Let me just get out my Excel spreadsheet.”

“Sebastian Wheatley, would you just be serious for a moment?” she scolded without heat, rolling those sapphire eyes and shaking her head back and forth, now sounding like a schoolmarm.

Good god, he wanted to role play with this woman. And then fuck her until she screamed his name over and over.

She narrowed her eyes, as if she could read his filthy mind. “Can we please get through this? We have a lot to cover.”

“Yes, ma’am. Reporting for duty.” He saluted her. His cock, thankfully hidden under his napkin, did too.

Wait…had she just called him Sebastian? He was pretty certain she’d done that earlier too. Fuck, that was hot. Normally he hated his full name. But coming out of her lovely lips…he had a new appreciation.

“Moving on,” she said, and then cracked him up when she pulled a small Moleskine notebook out of her bag. Opening it up to a fresh page she wrote Sebastian Marriage at the top and then underlined it.

“You were a straight A student, weren’t you?”

She cocked a brow. “You need to ask?”

“Nope,” he drawled. “Just an observation.”

“Well, now that we’ve established you have a keen sense of the obvious, shall we get to work?”

His prickly little Scrub Angel was back. And he was all in.

“First,” she began, pen poised over the paper, “let’s discuss parameters. You mentioned cheating rumors earlier. For both our sakes, for the duration of this relationship until the divorce is finalized, no dating anyone else, no heavy flirting, and definitely no sex.”

Bash frowned, his gut churning at her casual reference to their eventual divorce. Even more, he disliked that she felt the need to articulate no cheating. “Arabella,” he said, suddenly feeling more serious than he ever had in his life, “I need to be crystal clear on something. I’ve never cheated on anyone. And I never will. I may have an ‘active social life,’ shall we say, but I always respect the women I’m with. It won’t be any different with you.”

“But you’re surrounded by temptation, Sebastian. I’ve seen your Instagram. Let’s be real about this.”

“And an addict may be surrounded by temptation, too. But when they make the intentional decision, every hour of every day, to be true to their health and well-being, they’re able to turn away from any temptation. Because what’s on the other side is far, far better.”

Something shifted behind Arabella’s eyes when he mentioned addiction. He’d seen her with a glass of wine at Brinder’s, so he didn’t think she was an alcoholic. What was that look? Another question to file away with the E necklace for later.

“I expect the same from you, Arabella. This is my reputation, too. And I know what it feels like to be cheated on publicly.” Fucking Poet Walsh. “Further, this role depends on my wife and me demonstrating our faithfulness and stability.”

“Are you prepared to go at least a year without a sexual partner?” she asked in a cooly detached manner. “That seems as if it could be a challenge.”

“Are you?” he rejoined, ticked—and more than a little hurt—that she thought so little of him and his potential for fidelity.

She huffed, “I haven’t slept with anyone in—” she halted “—in quite some time. It definitely won’t be a problem for me.”

Bash frowned again, still nursing the sting of her assumption. “And as for me, my queen, contrary to what you see spun in the tabloids, I’m capable of keeping it in my pants. Give me a little credit for some self-control and self-awareness, Arabella.”

Besides, if I have my way, I’ll have you naked under me, over me, and in a myriad of other positions before the month is out.

Regret flashed across her face. “Of course, Sebastian. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to impugn your character when I don’t even really know you. Please accept my apologies.”

He merely nodded, casually reaching beneath the table under the guise of adjusting his napkin to surreptitiously push down on his randy cock—which naturally had perked up at his internal planning.

A small crease appeared between Arabella’s brows as she wrote “No cheating” in the worst scrawl he’d ever seen. Despite the churning in his gut after she felt the need to articulate that rule—her lack of trust in his character was more upsetting than he’d expected—he couldn’t help but be amused at her handwriting.

“You write like a doctor,” he teased, needing to lighten the moment for his own sake, if not hers.

“I am a doctor,” she replied primly, then smiled at him. “Actually, my writing has always been trash. Et—um…a friend of mine used to tease me that it looked like I wrote with my non-dominant foot.”

“That’s savage.” He pretended to open a notebook and write on it. “Tell me her name and I’ll write her a strongly worded email.”

Arabella’s smile slid from her face, her eyes so sad his heart missed a beat. “You can’t,” she responded softly. “She’s gone.”