Page 55 of Late Harvest

Remy rolled her eyes but didn’t look over.

The race unfolded with expected tension, with several lead changes and a near miss on an overtake that had her on the edge of her seat. She’d ordered a pizza earlier, but had only eaten one slice before the surprise appearance of her fake almost-husband. Now, her stomach was in knots. And Remy was pretty sure the race had nothing to do with it.

“Box, box!” Remy yelled, seeing the perfect opportunity for her favorite racer to enter the pit lane. The sound switched to the radio frequency between Max and his engineer. “Box, box!” the engineer echoed.

A piece of pizza halfway to his mouth, Sebastian snarfed at the term—which Remy knew could also be slang for vagina—and then demolished the slice in two bites, still chuckling. Despite herself, Remy’s lips twitched.

A few laps later, her favorite driver did a strategic overtake of the British racer who’d been trading leads with him. “Amazing move by Max,” the commentator enthused. “Let’s switch to ‘driver’s eye’ footage from the cockpit.”

“Cockpit,” Sebastian whispered, giggling like a schoolgirl at a slumber party.

“That was a rough straight for Lando,” continued the analyst. “The car had good balance, but it was bottoming and he lost time.”

“Oh, come on!” Sebastian cried out, now laughing hard. “Bottoming? Who knew this was such a dirty sport? Absolutely filthy.”

A giggle slipped from Remy’s lips. She couldn’t help it. “Only if you have the sense of humor of an eleven-year-old boy. Now hush.” Remy made the mistake of swatting his arm, gulping at the powerful flex of his bicep under her hand. She snatched her hand away, ignoring the zap along her fingers from the contact.

Chicane, clearly getting as revved as the racers, began shifting around, signaling an imminent arrival of zoomies. One eye on the television, Remy eased him out of Bash’s arms, trying like hell to avoid any more contact. And failing miserably. Bash tried to help her and ended up holding her forearms, looking up at her and squeezing gently.

How was anyone that handsome in real life? And, yet, Sebastian seemed completely down to earth, relaxing and polishing off the last of her pizza, his long legs crossed at the ankle, resting on the coffee table with her reluctant permission.

A bolt of unwanted lust—it was unwanted, right?—sizzled through her, and Remy knew if she checked her simple, cotton panties, they would be damp with desire for him.

Even in the best of times with Doug, before things spiraled to the depths of hell, she’d never experienced such intense physical yearning. If Sebastian Wheatley could elicit that kind of response from her body by simply squeezing her arm, what would happen if he explored her body with sexual intention?

Remy shuddered and then quickly scooted past him, putting Chicane in his running box.

Box, box! Remy rolled her lips together to hide her amusement at Sebastian’s potty humor infecting her now. She checked the lap count. Fifteen to go, and the drivers in the numbers two and three spots were burning down their tires. Max’s were in worse condition, but he kept them at bay. Remy stood at attention, arms folded, gripping her elbows as she watched the duel.

“I’m not sure you’ve breathed in the last minute.” Sebastian’s deep voice lifted past the speakers.

“Quiet. This is tense. The guy in third just got new tires, then undercut and gained on Max. Now he has fresh tires and Max is on the hards that have worn down. We want him on mediums. I don’t think soft is the right compound for these conditions today,” Remy responded, eyes fixed to the screen.

“I have no idea what you just said, but that was hot. I love it when you talk filthy F1 to me. Also…the hards? Same, dude. Same. The soft ain’t good in some conditions. Thankfully, I’m only on my softs when I want to be.”

“Shush, you perve. I can’t hear the TV,” she reprimanded, with no heat. “Timing is everything on this.”

“And a quick stop for some fresh rubber for Lando,” the analyst crooned excitedly. “Will he take Max?”

On her couch, Sebastian fell back against the cushions and positively howled. Remy rolled her eyes hard…and burst into the kind of laughter she hadn’t experienced since Etta.

Instead of the powerful wave of sadness that rolled her and took her under every time she thought of her best friend, this time Remy got the distinct sensation of Etta there with her, doubled over in hysterics and wiping the tears from her eyes. That happy, soothing image, coupled with Sebastian’s snickers of lingering amusement, served to knock down another section of Remy’s carefully constructed walls.

Still smiling, she circled around the side of her couch and sat down…just a little bit closer to Sebastian than she’d been before.

Cutting off any additional commentary from him, Remy pointed to the screen. “Now, pray for a small crash and a safety car. Manifest safety car,” she chanted. “This is a street circuit known for its wrecks, and we need an opportunistic safety car to get…fresh rubber.” She winked at Sebastian.

He grinned back at her.

Another wall bites the dust.

Not two minutes later, the tenth and eleventh place drivers, vying to finish in the points, crashed and spun out.

“Safety car!” she and Sebastian yelled in unison, high-fiving.

Oh, hell. Remy was in serious danger of falling for her playboy fake husband.

Chapter Twenty-Four