Page 71 of Late Harvest

She’d groused and grumbled at him all week as they’d staged public dates to ‘feed the beast,’ all under Melody’s careful guidance. But, Sebastian Wheatley refused to reveal his plan for the weekend. Remy wouldn’t stoop to pleading…but it was tempting.

Even when it came time to pack, he was cagey. Remy had thought she’d get a clue about what he’d cooked up from what he instructed her to bring. Instead, Jared—now ensconced in a nearby townhouse on Sebastian’s dime—had apparently purchased clothes for her and packed a monogrammed titanium set of TUMI luggage. Remy had the distinct, somewhat-nauseating sense it had been more expensive than she wanted to know.

The commercial flight they’d boarded early that morning crept to the gate, and the anticipatory butterflies in her belly began a renewed tizzy. Remy had been surprised that Sebastian wouldn’t fly private, remembering his recent flight from LA to Charlottesville. But he’d opined about reducing his carbon footprint and explained the specialized service he used, which provided private lounges and sometimes direct tarmac transportation to and from the plane—though not in this case. She and Sebastian had been the last to board, and during the flight, he’d prepped her to be the first to deplane. He’d already also signed autographs for the entire plane crew, leaning on the fancy tray he’d extended from the center console of the first-class seat.

Remy still didn’t know their destination, only that they’d been in the air for about two hours. Earlier, as they’d headed from the private lounge to the boarding area, he’d put a mask on her. Remy was grateful no one else was at the gate at that point or she’d have felt ridiculous. Thankfully he removed it as soon as they entered the jetway. Then he’d dramatically placed headphones over her ears so she wouldn’t hear the pilot’s announcement at takeoff, grinning like a clown as he zipped his lips.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Miami.” The pilot’s voice crackled over the speaker and Remy’s gaze slammed into Sebastian’s. A massive smile spread across his handsome face, eyes twinkling. Miami?

“You may have heard we have notable guests with us today. Actor Bash Wheatley and his—and I quote—‘lady love and queen’ Arabella are going on a special date. He’s asked us to be a small part of it. Your flight attendants have shared your instructions, so this is your big moment. Are you ready? Ladies and gentlemen, start your engines!”

Sounds of passengers making loud vrooming and engine noises filled the plane around them, coupled with waves of laughter and clapping. Across the aisle, a grinning couple held up their phones to record them.

Remy slowly turned to Sebastian, careful to keep her face neutral as her heart beat a furious tattoo of shock and excitement. “What did you do?”

“Welcome to Miami, my queen. I know that’s more typically the way to start a NASCAR race, but it worked better. Artistic license.” He shrugged elegantly with a wink that did strange things to her stomach. “Chop chop, Arabella. We better get a move on. The Sprint Race begins at noon and Qualifying is at four. We have Palm Club passes, and I don’t want to miss a minute of Filthy F1.”

Chapter Thirty-Four

We get so worried about being pretty. Let’s be…pretty formidable.

—From Remy’s Sinister Affirmations

Remy

He’d gotten her tickets to the Miami Grand Prix. And not just any tickets. Invite-only Palm Club passes. Where high-profile guests from billionaires to royalty to entertainment stars hobnobbed.

With a shaking hand, Remy smoothed out the navy one-shoulder linen sundress Jared had instructed her was her outfit for Saturday, and fiddled with the lanyard around her neck. It was humid in Miami, and Remy prayed her hair wouldn’t go limp. Once she realized where they were going, the pressure to look worthy of being on Sebastian’s arm was almost paralyzing.

She’d never really worried about how she looked—patients in the OR and families in the shelter weren’t judging her on her hair or makeup. Sebastian, of course, looked like a million dollars in his linen pants and button-down, the sleeves rolled up to reveal his muscular forearms.

“This is just surreal,” she whispered, grasping Sebastian’s hand like a lifeline with the hand that wasn’t occupied with nervous fidgeting.

“Ready to go to the Red Bull Racing team garage?” He tugged her forward.

Remy froze, anchoring her feet to the ground. It would have been comical if she hadn’t been Freaking.

The.

Fuck.

Out!

“Th-the team garage?” she managed past her closing throat.

“Sure.” Sebastian lifted his shoulder, eyes dancing. Over the past couple weeks, he’d grown a short, well-groomed beard, and the overall effect was…dizzying. Her ladyparts in particular were in the fan club. “How else are you going to meet your favorite drivers?”

Remy opened her mouth but couldn’t produce a sound.

What happened next was almost as overwhelming as his casual announcement that she was meeting people she’d only ever seen on TV.

Sebastian pulled her to him, wrapping one arm low around her back and lifting her face to his as he eased her mouth closed with a knuckle, brushing it back and forth across her chin and along her jawline. Slowly, he leaned in and pressed the gentlest of kisses to her lips.

He hadn’t kissed her since their make-out session in the kitchen. Not even on their public dates. There was plenty of handholding, though. And Sebastian seemed to love playing with her hair, often running his hands through it and toying with the ends. In fact, just such a moment had been captured by the paparazzi, and People had one of the nicer headlines—‘A hairytale ending for Bash?’ Both Sebastian and Melody had firmly advised her not to look at any online coverage of them, instead curating for her the most flattering of the stories.

It wasn’t hard to comply with their guidance. Remy had had enough trauma in her life to prevent subjecting herself to the sordid underbelly of the Internet.

Despite the arrival of guest bedroom furniture, Sebastian had remained in her room, in her bed. But he hadn’t touched her beyond platonic, teasing nudges and occasional cuddles that—while wonderful—felt confusingly, frustratingly too platonic. Every now and then, she caught his gaze dropping to her mouth, which somehow made her breasts feel fuller and heavier each time. But their encounters had remained firmly G-rated.