Page 68 of Late Harvest

Remy folded her arms. “And what would my taste be?”

“I don’t know.” Sebastian shrugged, still looking out the window, where twilight had shifted to darkness. “But I don’t think this is it.”

Remy dropped her head forward and then released a laugh of capitulation. “How do you do that?”

He turned to face her, his gaze neutral. “Do what?”

“Know that”—she waved her hands around, motioning to the room’s contents—“about me?”

“I don’t know. It just strikes me as a very intentional look. Very detailed. Maybe even a bit whimsical. And you, my queen, strike me as someone who wouldn’t bother with that.”

Remy shook her head, looking at the ceiling, a smile forming on her lips despite the disquiet still churning in her belly from the earlier interlude and the surreal vision of a movie star standing in her bedroom. Where he would sleep. For at least the next year. As her husband.

It really was disconcerting how clearly he saw her. Being paid attention to with that level of care and focus was something that hadn’t happened in a very long time. Not since the Remingtons.

“This house belonged to a couple with impressive taste and apparently sufficient disposable income to spend on home improvement projects. One of them got an incredible ‘drop everything and go’ job offer on the West Coast. He left quickly, leaving his husband to sort a rapid relo sale. It was a right place, right time situation for me. They offered me the bedroom furniture and I didn’t see a reason not to take them up on it. I did get a new mattress.” Remy’s cheeks heated. Was she blushing? Other than hot flashes burning her up from within, Remy never blushed.

And, yet, at the mention of a mattress, there she was, red-faced like a virgin bride on her wedding night.

That was an unfortunate mental metaphor. Now all Remy could do was picture her and Sebastian on a honeymoon. Her, virginal and untouched—not just by a man, but by the hellscape that had been her life. And him, folding her into the refuge of his arms, loving her with his body and gentle soul.

Nope. Nope. Nope! She would not do this. She barely recognized this woman standing in her skin, lost in a fantasy.

Remy needed to get her mind back on track and focused, which had been her shield and salvation—out of necessity—for as long as she’d been alive.

Good God. If this is how things were starting, it was going to be a long year.

Chapter Thirty-One

Singing in the shower is fun, until you get soap in your mouth.

Then it’s a soap opera.

—From Bash’s dad joke collection

Bash

Bash wasn’t sure what had just happened, but an entire series of emotions moved swiftly across Arabella’s stunning face. Amusement. Sadness. Fear. Desire? And then she shuttered all expression.

He took a step toward her, and she took a quick step back, almost recoiling. Bash instinctively stayed put, even though he ached to continue their embrace from downstairs. To tell her about his epiphany—one that still had his mind whirling and his heart racing. Instead, he went for the safety move. Less cowardice and more not wanting to frighten away his skittish queen with the nature of what he longed to profess.

“Arabella,” he began carefully, “I don’t want to invade your space. I—I know I told you at the restaurant that I wanted to sleep in the same bed. But I have no desire to make you uncomfortable. You’re opening your home to me and upending your life. I don’t want to cause you any more stress than is inherent in this situation. I’ll sleep on the couch, or at a hotel, until we can sort this.”

He glanced around the pristine room, noticing she didn’t have a single decoration. Nothing on the walls. No knickknacks. Just her laptop on the dresser, where she’d carefully placed it. In fact, he realized, the only decorations in her home were that clown figurine and the framed photo on her living room fireplace mantle.

Her mouth opened and closed a couple times, the bob of her elegant throat captivating him as she swallowed. She clearly hadn’t expected him to offer the adjustment to their living arrangements. “I—oh, ok.” He watched as she pulled herself together, suddenly all business and icy cool. “As we agreed at the restaurant, we can do this as a trial. And I appreciate you having Jared order furniture. So we have it as an option.” Arabella lifted her chin. “I trust you to be respectful. We can share a bed and show consideration for each other’s space. Including in my—our bed.”

“No wall of pillows? That’s how they often manage forced proximity in romance novels.” He winked at her, enjoying the puzzlement in those deep blue eyes.

“Forced prox—what the hell is that?” Her arms were folded in Classic Arabella Stance.

“Exactly what we’re doing here.” Bash nodded. “And, yes, I will absolutely respect you and your space and your needs. Starting right now. Not sure what your bedtime routine is, but how about I go set myself up in the hall bathroom and you can do”—he grinned—“whatever nighttime ablutions you do.” Though he’d love to watch. Pull back the curtain and watch her in her natural habitat, so to speak. So ordinary and so real.

“I brush my teeth, floss, and wash my face. That’s what I do.” Arabella frowned at him, shuffling awkwardly toward the open bathroom door.

She was trying to maintain that icy aloofness, but his queen was nervous. Oh, she was outwardly a cool customer, but he could see the pulse beating in the mesmerizing hollow of her neck. Bash would absolutely worship that spot one day. Oh, and she was a fastidious flosser. Called it!

Bash allowed his jaw to drop comically, deciding on the spot that playing up the fool role would probably work best to soothe those prickly nerves of hers. “You ‘wash your face.’” He made air quotes. “With what?”