Page 47 of Late Harvest

“Angel,” he whispered against her lips, fighting the pull to get lost in her again.

“Mmm.” Arabella pulled him closer, sucking his tongue into her mouth.

Oh, god. He knew the right thing to do here, but he also never, ever wanted to stop kissing her. He’d have to quit acting and she’d stop practicing medicine, because his lips would be attached to hers until the end of time.

The loud crack of a branch brought him back. He reluctantly broke off the kiss but kept his lips rested against the decadent pillow of hers. “Arabella, Angel, we have to stop,” he murmured.

“No,” she moaned against him, redoubling her efforts.

He wished there was an award for maximal self-sacrifice, because he’d surely win that statue. “Dr. Remington,” he said, sensing using her work title would cut through the sexual haze they both had gotten lost in. “We have to stop.”

Arabella clearly registered the use of her honorific, pulling back suddenly, eyes flared wide. Oh, just kill him now. RIP Bash Wheatley. Cause of death? Kissing his Scrub Angel. Her lips were puffy and red from his ministrations, her glorious hair askew, chest heaving in that simple but enticing peach top that hugged her breasts so perfectly. It took every. Fucking. Ounce of his willpower not to dive back in, fuck the paparazzi.

Paparazzi.

The word in his head was like a bucket of ice water dumped over him. As was the look of shock on Remy’s face.

“I—we—we shouldn’t have—I can’t,” she sputtered. Her hand gripped the handle behind her and she pressed herself against the door.

“Easy, Angel. There’ll be time enough for you to freak out about what we just did in a minute” he soothed. Lord, his future wife was a skittish one. He lowered his voice to the calming tone he used whenever temperamental actors were melting down on set. “Arabella, I loved kissing you. And I didn’t want to stop. But I’m pretty sure we have company.”

She frowned, her head turning rapidly side to side as she quickly scanned around them.

Arabella spotted him just after Bash did. Jerome. Tucked in behind the boxwoods that separated Remy’s driveway from her neighbor’s yard, the flash of his camera visible even in the bright sunlight.

“Fuck,” he breathed.

Arabella turned to him, her face pale, the small pulse at the hollow of her neck fluttering behind the E. “What do we do?”

“Just open your garage door and pull inside. I’ll call my publicist.”

His heart settling into a more natural rhythm, Bash switched by rote into professional mode. And he hated it. Normally he loved his work. Accepted—and sometimes even welcomed—the accompanying celebrity…even notoriety, as long as it served his purposes. But today, with the most magnificent woman he’d ever known snuggled in his arms and kissing him like he’d never kissed before, he resented their intrusion and the interruption it caused. Deeply, grudgingly resented it.

Chapter Twenty

You don’t need everyone to fawn over you—you’re not a damn teddy bear.

—From Remy’s Badass Bitch Affirmations

Remy

As it happened, Sebastian didn’t need to call his publicist. Or his agent, Slash. Odd nickname. Within seconds of entering her house via the garage, Sebastian’s phone lit up like the Fourth of July. He looked at his screen and back to Remy. She motioned for him to take the call and he tapped the display, putting it on speaker.

“Do you mind telling me what the fuck is going on?” A peeved male voice filled her living room.

She bent to remove Chicane from his house, pulling him to her chest and rubbing her nose against his fur as she collapsed onto her couch. Her legs shook, whether from paparazzi or that kiss, she couldn’t discern.

“I assume you’re referring to my lunch date.” Sebastian settled in diagonal to her on one of the overstuffed chairs, watching her as he spoke.

“Ding ding ding. Jesus, Bash. You pose for a photo with some woman I’ve never seen before. And then all of a sudden, I’ve got alerts pinging like a row of slot machines in a casino.”

“How marvelously descriptive, Slash.” His words were teasing but the line between his brows deepened as he frowned. He still hadn’t taken his eyes off her. ‘You need anything? Water?’ he mouthed.

She shook her head. ‘I’m ok. Promise,’ she mouthed back, smiling at him and feeling an odd sense of comfort when he smiled back, the corners of his eyes creasing. Small wrinkles. Yep, even they were practically pornographic on Sebastian.

“Yes, Arabella and I ran into Jerome on our way to lunch, so I agreed to two pictures and no questions as long as he left us alone during our meal.”

“Smart thinking,” a female voice chimed in. “Jerome works quickly. The photos are all over every entertainment site and speculation is flying about,” she paused, “this nameless woman.”