Page 52 of Late Harvest

Remy saw this coming a mile away. It was part of why she hadn’t been able to sleep last night.

“You don’t have to do this, you know.” His voice was low, serious.

“Don’t I?” Remy parried, not sure she had it in her to defend aloud what she’d been struggling to accept as her new reality.

“No. I know the shelter is important to you⁠—”

“Understatement,” she acknowledged in a whisper.

“—and my brother-in-law has dangled an enormous amount of money in front of you to help St. Dymphna’s.”

Remy said nothing. Just waited quietly, somewhat impatiently, for Brinder to get his concerns off his chest already. So she could shut it down and then get back to work.

“I’ve discussed this with my wife. There are other ways to raise money for the shelter. Honor said if the proposed situation is too much of an imposition—and how the bloody fuck it wouldn’t be, I don’t know—she’d host a fundraiser and secure meaningful donations from her entertainment industry colleagues. You don’t have to…Christ”—he gripped the back of his neck—“pimp yourself into marriage with Bash.”

Remy sat up a little straighter, her own concerns sliding away at the umbrage slicing through her veins. Brinder wasn’t saying anything she hadn’t already thought. But hearing it aloud rankled.

“I don’t see it as pimping myself.” She infused her trademark iciness into her voice and Brinder had the good sense to look embarrassed at his unfortunate terminology. “I see it as an efficient and mutually beneficial means to an important end.”

“But we can get you to that end another way.” Brinder leaned forward, resting his forearms on his legs, his rolled-up dress shirt revealing part of the sleeve of tattoos that ran from the back of his wrist up his arm—evidence that Brinder wasn’t the stodgy kind of chief medical officer so characteristic of the early years of her training. He was an ally, if not a sort-of-friend. His hazel eyes were earnest with worry. “This just feels all wrong. Like a massive conflict of interest. Not to mention an upheaval of your life that isn’t necessary. You have no idea what it’s like to be married to someone with that kind of profile. I mean, it’s a lot for me, and Bash has exponentially more exposure than Honor. It’ll be a bloody circus, and I don’t want you cast in the role of wife to the center ring clown.” He heaved a massive exhale. “Sorry, I know that’s harsh and not fair to Bash. Emotions are a bit closer to the surface these days. I just want to make sure you know we’ll raise funds for you another way. You have my commitment. And Honor’s. If you want it. Just say the word.”

Remy looked at the ceiling, forcing a fortress of calm into her body. Her fight or flight response was kicking in—something that used to happen whenever she was immersed in conflict. But the sensation hadn’t been so strong, so overwhelming, in years.

Pulling in a deep breath, she got herself together and said the one thing her mind kept returning to all sleepless fucking night.

“But what about Seb—Bash’s role?”

She caught herself, but probably not fast enough. She couldn’t put a finger on why, but it seemed odd to use his full name with Brinder.

Brinder frowned, either not catching her near slip or not finding it important. “There has to be another way for him to nab it.”

“There isn’t, Brinder.” She smiled sadly. “He already gave my name to his producer. The paparazzi have photographed us together. Including at my home in a very”—she pushed a swallow through her parched throat—“intimate embrace. If he ‘dumps’ me and finds someone else, it just plays into Walter Pennyrose’s concerns and S-Bash”—Good job, barely tripped on it that time—“will miss any opportunity at his dream role. I don’t think I can do that to him. Not even if I—how did you phrase it—end up firmly placed in the center ring of the Bash Circus.”

Brinder opened his mouth to speak but Remy continued. “I’ve already considered walking away from this and begging Honor for her help. But I won’t be the one to end someone’s dream. I’ve seen a dream die—in the ugliest possible way,” she choked out, “and I won’t ever be a part of that again.”

Her boss stared at her, scanning her face like he could read her thoughts the way he read diagnostic imaging. Eventually, he heaved another big sigh, dropped his head between his arms, then stood slowly and held out his hand to shake. “Ok then. You have my full support. Whatever you need.”

Remy stood as well, taking the proffered olive branch. “Thank you, Brinder. I appreciate your concern. You’re a class act. But I’ve got this under control. Now, I better get back to the OR.”

She moved to the door and then paused, her hand steady on the cool knob. “Oh, and Brinder?” she offered over her shoulder. “I like clowns. A lot.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

How do birds say ‘I miss you’?

Tweet, tweet, tweet.

—From Bash’s dad joke collection

Bash

Six days later.

It had been a surprisingly grueling week. Bash had never done a voiceover for a film, and it was significantly more complicated than the simple voiceover commercials he’d done as spokesman for a premium watch brand. Long hours in the recording studio were followed by a handful of media interviews Melody had arranged to feed the beast—during which he steadfastly refused to address any rumors about Arabella, including confirming her name. And then, finally, a productive meeting with Slash to review upcoming non-film projects that was, much to his relief, blessedly tension-free.

By the time his Signature private flight—courtesy of the studio backing his upcoming release—landed at the tiny airport outside of Charlottesville on Sunday afternoon, he was drained.

Despite that, he hummed with excitement to see his queen. They’d exchanged texts during the week, but given her OR and clinic schedules and his seventeen-hour days, those brief missives were few and far between. They were also simple and businesslike—mostly quick notes to confirm some aspect of his premiere and Arabella’s brief updates on the security features installed by the employees of the private security company his sister used.