Page 73 of Late Harvest

“Second,” she paused and cleared her throat, “I’ve been watching you closely these past couple weeks, as our lives have rapidly comingled. You’re so much more than you allow people to see, Sebastian. You put on the playboy flirtatious act in public. Or the clown when arrows hit too close and you need to deflect and distract. The happy-go-lucky action star, when really your heart yearns to bring a different kind of character to life. I see you, Sebastian Wheatley. I see you. And maybe, while we help out each other’s causes—your role of a lifetime and a shelter that means everything to me—maybe we can—” She halted, swallowing hard and looking up at the ceiling as she drew a deep breath. “Maybe we can build a true friendship. The kind that lets us be unapologetically who we are and still like each other—even the ugly and broken parts. The kind that celebrates the big wins and soothes after the hurts. That champions each other and provides a safe haven from all the world’s disappointments.”

Remy twined her fingers together, the zinging pinch of her knuckles grounding her in the reality of an emotionally surreal moment.

“This isn’t easy for me to offer, Sebastian. I have a lot of broken parts, along with some pretty deep-seated fears. And…I haven’t had a true friend in so long, it terrifies me. But I trust you. I trust you, Sebastian Wheatley.” She inhaled a shuddering breath.

A lone tear snaked down Bash’s cheek. He blinked and two more followed it.

“Arabella,” he whispered, voice hoarse, taking two steps toward her on suddenly wobbly legs.

This time, when he moved to her, she didn’t flinch or step back. She held her ground and his gaze, some combination of hope, fear, and worry in her stunning eyes.

“I have never,” he whispered, his throat thick, “had that kind of friend. Not even Slash. It sounds…beyond amazing. But you’ve got something wrong there.” He watched as her face fell, hope sliding along with it, and he grasped her hand, lacing his fingers with hers. “We don’t need to build that kind of friendship, Arabella. We already have it.”

Arabella breathed in shakily, her free hand covering her mouth.

Bash pulled her closer, removing her hand from the lips he longed to kiss for the rest of his life, and settling—temporarily—for a kiss on the inside of her wrist, entranced by the delicate blue veins weaving beneath the pale ivory of her skin. He dragged his nose along the soft skin and then looked up, finding her eyes fixed on him.

“We already have it. And it’s the best gift ever. Even better than Filthy F1 in person.”

Arabella choked out a laugh-sob and he gathered her into his arms, marveling at the way she fit perfectly against him. Like she was designed for him in every way.

His entire adult life had been spent running away from commitment. Now? He wanted to run headlong into Arabella Remington’s life and never leave—despite the powerful worry his queen would insist on a time limit on their relationship. That said, as the hockey great Gretzky said of scoring goals, ‘You miss a hundred percent of the shots you don’t take.’

And Bash was going to shoot his shot.

He squared his shoulders, closing his eyes and pulling emotional strength from the rightness of this woman in his arms.

“Angel,” he rasped, surprised by the tears of revelation and joy clogging his throat, “I’m going to be really frank and freak you the fuck out, ok? And I just want you to listen for a minute.” She stiffened in his arms, but said nothing. “I want more than this rare universe-gift of a friendship. You agreed to a fake marriage with me, and at first, I was fine with surface fakery and flirty cohabitation. Hell, that’s been my M.O. for way too long.”

Sensing the nerves pulling her body taut, and hoping to trigger her parasympathetic nervous system to counteract the fight-or-flight that was always right under her surface, Bash softened his voice, brushing a hand in soothing circles between her shoulder blades. “There’s nothing fake about any of this for me. I know it’s fast—but when you know, you know. And I know I want to be in your life a lot longer than a quickie fake marriage. I want the real thing.”

“Sebastian. You say that now, but what happens when you meet someone⁠—”

“Stop.” He forced himself to keep his voice calm and even, for her sake, but his heart ripped at the seams at her unfinished thought. Because she was going to say ‘what happens when you meet someone else.’ He knew it. He could read her so well. And it was clear his queen was just like Walt and so many others—assuming he would shallowly flit away from her when someone younger, shinier, more fun came along. Like she hadn’t just completely transformed his heart.

Well, fuck that. Just like with Walt, he would prove his loyalty to her. He’d just engage his most tenacious self in convincing her. Starting now.

“I mean it, Arabella. You’re forever for me.”

“I can’t⁠—”

She started to pull away, but he held tighter, keeping his arms as gentle as possible. Even though he expected it, Bash couldn’t deny the pang of hurt that her gut response was in the negative. “I know. You can’t. Yet. But you said you trust me, right?”

She nodded against his chest.

“I know you’ve been deeply hurt. And the idea of someone doing that to you fills me with a rage I can’t even begin to articulate. But, Arabella, if we are going to be this for each other, I have to understand all of you—even the scared, and ugly, and broken parts. The ones you’ve so deftly hidden from the world, and yourself.” Arabella trembled in his arms, her tears dampening the front of his shirt. “Please give me the honor of your full trust. And I promise to cherish it, and you, forever.”

Chapter Thirty-Six

Push through the pain, bitch. Your bright fucking future ain’t gonna happen on its own.

—From Remy’s Badass Bitch Affirmations

Remy

Remy shifted in the cradle of Sebastian’s arms, her forehead now resting against his chest—her new favorite place—soothed by the steady, steadfast beat of his heart.

A heart he was offering her. If only she were brave enough and whole enough to take it.