Page 72 of Late Harvest

Remy sighed, sinking into the embrace and trying not to be too freaked by how right it felt. As Bash brushed his lips back and forth across hers, chills erupted on her arms.

Just as she was about to open her mouth and indulge in the sensation of his tongue on hers, he pulled away, leaning back ever so slightly. She frowned but he merely grinned at her.

“Better? Can’t have you speechless for Filthy F1. You ready, my queen?”

Remy nodded, and then the biggest smile she’d ever experienced burst from her.

“How could I not be, my consort?”

Sebastian’s handsome, beaming countenance matched hers.

Oh, hell. He’d done it. Sebastian Wheatley had made her fall in love with him.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Why are there no snowmen racing in F1?

Because they never make it through the warm-up.

—From Bash’s dad joke collection

Bash

“Ican’t believe I got to wave the checkered flag! The flag! At a Grand Prix. Where Max won. And I met him!” Arabella was talking a mile a minute, gesturing wildly. “And his principal strategy engineer. She’s such a fucking badass. And I met her. And gave her advice on her friend’s bad knee.” Remy did an excited little hop in the hotel room. “Oh…and the engines! Did you hear them, Sebastian⁠—”

“Kind of hard to miss,” he teased.

“—The sounds just fill up your blood until it races along in harmony. Oh my God…and when Max jumped into the arms of his team. I’ve seen it on TV so many times. And to be right there when it happened. I can’t—I can’t believe it. Sebastian…I don’t think my feet have touched the ground since yesterday.” She spun around and faced him, radiant with joy.

Bash had done a lot of exceptionally cool things over the years. He’d schmoozed with royalty and heads of state. He’d floated in a hot air balloon over the Great Wall in China and enjoyed a private-guided desert safari in Dubai. Been to Super Bowls. Olympics. Stanley Cup finals. The list was impressive and endless.

All of it paled to the bliss of being at Arabella’s side at the Grand Prix. Those previous outlandish experiences were empty and wan compared to her sheer elation over the past two days.

He’d arranged for dinner at L’Atelier de Joel Robuchon Miami—the only restaurant in Florida with two Michelin stars. When Jared booked it, Bash had been pumped for the famed sensory dining experience. But watching Arabella dance around their penthouse suite at the Four Seasons made him want to cancel the reservation and order room service.

“How did you arrange for me to wave the flag?”

“I spoke with the race promoter. George was supposed to do it, but I offered him a million-dollar donation to his favorite charity if he’d allow me—well, you—the honor.”

“Clooney?” Remy’s blue eyes were wide.

“No, Boy.”

She assumed her default Arabella Stance, arms folded. “Boy George was going to wave the checkered flag?”

Bash laughed. “No, you were right the first time. Clooney. He and I both have movies releasing the same day this month. I told him if his beats mine at the box office on the first weekend, I’d double the donation.”

“You’re going to give his charity two million dollars?” Arabella blinked fast, obviously absorbing the sum and the gesture.

“Hey,” he only half-pretended affront, “one million. I don’t love how you just automatically assumed his movie would do better.” Bash put on his best fake pout. But, chances were Clooney’s would do better. Bash had seen a preview. It had galvanized him even more to want to pivot to different roles.

Arabella dropped her head and chuckled, then lifted her eyes, the sapphire brimming with tears. “Sebastian,” she whispered. “Twenty million to St. D’s. Two,” she caught herself, “one million to another charity. How—are you sure—I can’t—” she halted, her struggle to process all of it squeezing his heart.

“Arabella, please don’t fret about the money. I’ve made a lot of it over the years and I have a strong financial management team. I donate a significant amount each year in my personal philanthropy. It’s my way of giving back—of evening out the ridiculous amounts of money I’m paid to do something that’s really not all that important in the great scheme of the world.”

“Sebastian.” Her voice was low and serious. “First of all, I know I’ve said it a jillion times this weekend, but thank you. Thank you for creating a weekend for me that has been magical and beyond my wildest dreams. Your thoughtfulness…it means more to me than I could ever properly express.”

Bash started to speak, but Arabella put up a staying hand, and he smiled at the signature ‘Dr. Remington look’ that brooked no argument. It was such a fucking turn on.