Page 69 of Late Harvest

Her eyes narrowed. “With soap. Just classic bar soap. What else would I use?”

Drawing on years of experience as the comic relief, Bash grabbed his chest, staggering around. “Soap?! ‘What else’ she says. You’re slaying me, Arabella. Positively slaying me.” He looked to the sky—well, where it would be if a ceiling weren’t in place. But he could pretend with the best of them. “What have you done to me, universe? Soap? My queen’s beautiful face, cleaned with…soap?” He sighed dramatically, nodding like a sage on the mountaintop. “It’s good you found me when you did, Arabella. It’s not too late to baby that gorgeous alabaster skin.”

Bash smiled internally when said skin took on a pale pink tinge at his flirting. But he did mean it. Her skin was lovely. He often had to fight the instinct to trail his fingers along her cheeks and jawline.

“You’ve shocked me to the core with your”—he crinkled his nose and laced his voice with dramatic consternation—“soap affliction. Ok. So you wash your face. Then what?”

“And then I go to sleep.”

“No serums? No retinoids? Nothing?”

Arabella made a dismissive sound. “Waste of money.” But the corners of her lips turned up.

“I’ll have you know, my queen, that the benefits of proper cell turnover, collagen production stimulation, and unclogging of pores is not a waste of money.” He continued his dramatic opining as he moved to the doorway, half into the hallway. “Overnight skin repair is essential at our age.” Bash halted and turned back into the room. “Hey, how old are you anyway?”

Arabella blew out an exasperated breath. “I’m forty-seven.”

“Just a baby.” Bash winked at her. “I’ve got a couple years on you. Forty-nine.”

His soon-to-be wife rolled her eyes. “Duh. The Internet already told me that.”

His eyes widened dramatically. “Arabella, my queen, did you… Google me?”

She moved toward the bathroom door, beyond which he’d glimpsed a well-appointed set up, including a massive, raised tub surrounded by earth-tone stone. Boo. He should have lobbied to use that sumptuous space.

“You bet your ass I did. I never do anything without thoroughly researching it first. My neighbor, Lila, practically built out a dossier on you. She could work for the NSA.”

A wide smile stretched his face. “My queen cyberstalked me…” he trailed off, teasing.

“I wouldn’t go that far, Sebastian.”

“Whatever…if that’s your story,” he sang, stepping fully into the hallway and then leaning halfway back in the room. “And as your older and wiser almost-husband, I am taking it upon myself to correct your abysmal, misguided nighttime ablutions. Unconscionable,” he declared, all high dudgeon, smiling to himself when he was rewarded with the sound of her laughter.

Chapter Thirty-Two

I am a no-nonsense motherfucker who takes charge of my life and my destiny.

—From Remy’s Badass Bitch Affirmations

Remy

Counter to her expectations, Remy slept like a log—the best sleep she’d had in a long time. But when her eyes opened on schedule at four in the morning, so she could be swimming by four thirty, Remy experienced a level of disorientation that shook her to her core.

There was a man in her bed.

For the first time since him.

Even though she’d largely banished it from her thoughts, Remy forced herself to mentally form his name.

Doug.

She slammed her eyes closed, her traumatized mind betraying her into thinking the presence next to her was him. Remy’s pulse raced and her breathing turned shallow. She couldn’t open her eyes. Couldn’t erase the image of his face looming over her. In anger. In a state of unbridled rage—eyes snapping and hands clenching. In abject supplication as he love-bombed her after he’d hurt her.

Remy fought to open her eyes, a small whimper escaping as the man next to her mumbled in his sleep, then shifted toward her. Instead of freezing in fear, Remy relaxed. That mumble belonged to Sebastian. It was Sebastian next to her, not Doug.

Doug is gone. You’re ok. Doug can’t hurt you anymore.

Sebastian’s reassuring presence and the comforting chant—one she hadn’t needed to exercise in a long time—released her from the fear-stranglehold. Remy carefully turned her head to the side. There lay Sebastian Wheatley, curled on his side and facing her, sound asleep. One hand was tucked under his pillow, the other draped across the sheet pulled across him. Solid biceps peeked out from under the short sleeve of his shirt, and her gaze devoured the well-formed traps from the tops of his shoulders to his neck. He’d worn a T-shirt and athletic shorts to bed last night—keeping his word about respecting her.