Page 83 of Late Harvest

“My queen is worn out from her Filthy F1 and then our own filthy fun.” Sebastian brought their linked hands to his mouth and kissed the back of her hand. “Shall we go to sleep, Arabella?”

She stifled another yawn. She had a long week of clinic visits and OR cases in front of her, starting Tuesday. Bash had arranged for a late checkout followed by a commercial flight Monday afternoon, and then she really wanted to pop over to the shelter since she’d missed her day this weekend.

“It’s going to be really busy for me this week. I felt so guilty about canceling tomorrow’s surgeries. Thankfully my practice manager had all my patients rescheduled within a week. I’ll have some really early starts and later evenings, and I’m working through lunch all week to fit in patients I had to cancel. I don’t want to inconvenience them so I can have fun.” She yawned again, her eyes watering.

Sebastian eased her forward and then moved his leg so he was no longer straddling her, guiding her back onto one feather-soft pillow and positioning himself next to her on the other. Boo, she could have easily fallen asleep in his arms like that.

“Arabella, you’re allowed to take some time for yourself and have fun.” He caressed the side of her face.

She looked down, trying to pull herself together. “I just—I haven’t taken any time off in years.”

His beautiful brown eyes flared. “Not even sick days?”

She shrugged. “I don’t get sick.”

“Arabella, everyone gets sick sometimes.”

Remy watched the little circles he was now tracing with his finger on the back of her hand, sure that if she looked at him, his compassion at her pathetic life would break her.

She lifted her shoulders again. “I never had the luxury of getting sick. When there’s no one to take care of you…” She trailed off, desperate not to get into anything maudlin during this special weekend. “I guess it’s just mind over matter for me. I don’t allow myself to get sick, so I don’t get sick.”

Sebastian’s eyes moved across her face and she could read his sorrow for her. All her life, she’d had to deal with the ‘poor Arabella’ comments. That lessened once she was out on her own, though she was well aware that people at work pitied her for not having family or a social life.

Please don’t make me talk about it. Please don’t pity me.

“Well,” he began, and Remy braced herself, “I spewed my guts all over my co-star’s pants once, so if you can teach me your sickness-blasting ninja mind skills, oh sensei, I’d appreciate you doing me the solid.”

Remy let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

“It’s the least you can do for me. I am the person who made sure you met your Formula 1 idols.” He winked and kissed her cheek.

Remy laughed softly and nodded. “Thank you, Sebastian.”

“For what?”

She briefly reached for the spot where he’d bitten her—a tender bite so different from the marks Doug had inflicted on her.

“F1 in person was amazing. But you’re the best part of this weekend.”

Chapter Forty-Three

Why don’t skeletons act in movies?

They lack the guts.

—From Bash’s dad joke collection

Bash

It had been a long-ass week. Bash kept busy, mostly working out in Brinder’s gym, visiting Honor and his nephew, and immersing himself in the Paradise script Walter had sent, though they hadn’t yet signed the contract. Bash could almost feel the producer’s intense scrutiny through the flurry of media coverage that had surrounded his romance with Arabella.

He now had pages of character development notes, and every day the link between him and this character grew stronger. Bash also took on bunny duty. He and Chicane had bonded while Arabella worked long days, catching up from her measly day off.

Her work ethic was a marvel. When they’d returned home Monday, Remy had gone to the gym, swam a mile, and then headed to the shelter. Bash wanted to go, but Melody convinced him to wait for the weekend so she could coordinate better security…and the right photo ops.

A part—a big part—of Bash resented that Melody wanted to capitalize on the misfortune of others. But Arabella endorsed the plan, even suggesting his visibility might help St. D’s—and other shelters. Eventually, he agreed, and a lot of work went into ensuring the identities of the women and children there would be protected from the harsh and often uncaring glare of the paps.

The rest of the week crept by. Remy was long gone by four in the morning—beginning work in the OR or her clinic no later than seven, but sometimes operating as early as six a.m.—and often didn’t return home until after eight. She’d eat a few bites of whatever he’d made for dinner, and then collapse into an exhausted sleep. By Thursday night, he was deeply worried about her. So much that he considered texting his brother-in-law to intervene. But Arabella had insisted she was fine and that she’d rest and recuperate over the weekend.