Page 65 of Late Harvest

Bash mimed zipping his lips. “You’ll have to see the movie.”

“Rude!” She launched a pillow at the side of his head, her aim freakishly true.

“Whoa, whoa, tiger!” he laughed. “Simmer down there. Such violence.”

Arabella’s naturally pale skin went paler, the smile falling from her face. Bash’s stomach followed along. What just happened?

He sensed it wasn’t the time to ask. And as for Arabella, she quickly recovered, smoothing her hair.

“Sounds amazing.” Her voice wobbled a bit, but Bash heard the sincerity while he mentally bookmarked this moment for further introspection.

“I think so. There is something about Bram and his brokenness and the possibility of redemption that just speaks to me. I’ve never played a role like this.”

“I’m sure you’ll be amazing, Sebastian.” He soaked in Arabella’s soft smile. “When do you film it?”

“Assuming I get the role, everything begins in about two months. There’ll be preproduction first. Principle filming starts in August and we’ll be finished hopefully by mid-December. A bit of post-production. Right now, it’s slated to release in May of next year.”

“That long?” Arabella’s sapphire eyes were huge. He’d forgotten she didn’t know about the nuts and bolts of his business.

“These things take time.”

“So, we, um, we’ll do this”—she waved her hand vaguely around, and he clocked the subtle tremor—“for a little more than a year? I know that’s what you said when we first discussed this, but I thought it was maybe a bit of an exaggeration. So…” she paused, coughed, and cleared her throat aggressively, “about thirteen months?”

“About.” Bash didn’t want to think about their inevitable expiration date when they were just getting started. True to form, he changed the subject. “I have a question, too, my queen. May I?”

Clearly picking up his vibe—this woman was magnificent—she nodded regally but dramatically. Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday had nothing on Arabella Remington.

“Now that we’ve said our vows and I’ve kissed the bride, I’m thinking we need to make this official. As in Instagram official. Time for the hard launch.”

“Ohhkaaay,” she drew out, that small frown back. “What does that mean?”

“I’d ask if you’re kidding, but I can tell you’re not. We need to share our relationship status with the teeming social media masses. Otherwise, Melody is going to kill me. And I’m too pretty to die young.” He gave her his trademark smolder.

“Oh. Alright. If you think that’s…” She buried her nose in the wine glass again.

Damn. That smolder was proving ineffective. Or, perhaps it was that his queen preferred authenticity to image. “Do you trust me?”

Her gaze collided with his. “Yes.” The quiet resolution in her response touched something deep in Bash.

“I’m going to snap a picture.”

Arabella immediately reached up to her hair, a panicked look on her face.

“Easy, my queen,” he soothed. “Not our faces. Just put your feet back on my lap.”

One dark brown eyebrow flew up.

“Please?”

Arabella shook her head but wordlessly complied, shifting back to her original position and stretching her shapely legs across his lap. Bash moved his book and her laptop into the frame, along with their wine glasses. Draping one arm ‘casually’ across her legs, he leaned back and framed it so only that tableau would be visible. He doublechecked it and then uploaded to his public profile, adding ‘Rocket Queen’ by Guns N’ Roses with a tiny private smile.

“Oh, what’s your Instagram handle? I’ll tag you.”

“I don’t have social media.” She lifted an elegant shoulder.

“No social—what? Why? How do you keep in touch with people? Know what they had for dinner? See their ten zillion kid pictures and fancy vacations and carefully curated life photos?”

Arabella smiled, but he perceived the sadness lurking behind it like an arrow was signaling to it. “I don’t really have anyone to connect with that way.”