Page 84 of Late Harvest

Chicane had been missing his mother too, and the bunny’s happy chittering when she picked him up mimicked what was happening in Bash’s own heart every time he saw Arabella. Still, she was too tired to eat dinner Friday, falling asleep on the couch while cuddling Chicane, so he’d carried her to bed.

When the weekend finally arrived, Bash couldn’t wait to spend some quality time with his queen. He’d awakened early, both horny and lonely. Arabella was still sound asleep long past her usual wakeup time. Instead of burying his face between her legs and starting her day with an orgasm, he’d eased out of bed. She never even stirred. It was clear evidence she’d pushed herself too hard this week, and Bash fought a razor-slash of guilt.

He should’ve found a race further out so Remy could better plan her schedule. But after the fun of watching the race on TV with her, his impulsivity had won out and he had to bring her to the very next race. Now, his Scrub Angel was drained and his own capriciousness was to blame.

The May morning sunshine poured through the great room’s white wooden shutters, tiny dust motes dancing in the slatted beams. Bash ran his hand through his hair and adjusted his red-light therapy mask—a form of self-care that forced him to be still and relax for twenty minutes. He checked his watch—just after seven—and sighed, running his hands through Chicane’s silky fur. The lop had adjusted to sleeping later so Bash could take on morning care and play duties. It was the least he could do.

His poor queen. “I really did a number on your mommy’s life, didn’t I, Chicane? Messed up her carefully balanced schedule and exposed her to paparazzi…shit…and cruel commentary to boot. Hopefully she’s followed instructions and hasn’t seen the worst of it.” People could be such assholes, hiding behind their keyboards. He’d bet his life savings those trolls couldn’t hold a candle to his queen. Intimidatingly smart. Capable. Trusted. A healer. And gorgeous to boot.

He was getting a dream role from this arrangement. He hadn’t expected to get his dream woman.

Bash knew what Arabella was getting from the deal—a strong future for the shelter that meant so much to her. But this morning’s headlines had him second-guessing the whole fucking thing. Because she wasn’t just getting a donation to her passion cause. She was receiving heaps of publicity—much of it positive, but some so spiteful, it sucked the very air out of his lungs.

Like today’s shitshow. Some dickcrud had snapped a particularly unflattering picture of Remy leaving the hospital last night. Her hair was in a slapdash ponytail, showing the signs of the masks and ‘astronaut’ helmet she wore in the OR. She had on black leggings and an F1 zip that had been flapping in the breeze, making her look about twenty pounds heavier. She’d also been mid-yawn, a hand moving up to clearly catch it. One headline was particularly malicious. It was simply the question, ‘Bash, why?’

Why indeed. “I don’t owe the world an explanation, do I, Little Prince? But they’re going to get one.”

Melody had begged him not to go off half-cocked. And he wouldn’t. Only because it would hurt Arabella more. But he was determined to eviscerate the slugs who’d dared to insult his queen.

More than that, he was seriously contemplating calling off the whole fake marriage. Arabella didn’t ask to be abused by a spiteful public. Bash had grown up in the public eye and, as a result, had built up a thick skin and largely indifferent attitude. Even with that, he knew exactly how much it hurt when some of the callous jabs slipped past the armor and landed hard. How could he have ever thought to expose Arabella to this circus of a life?

He’d give the shelter the full twenty mil and crawl to Walt Pennyrose on his knees if he had to. But he had to free Arabella from the chaos of his life, worsened by the shallow pettiness of the film industry.

Even if his soul would shatter and never be the same.

For all that he sensed she was the mate that fate had designed for him, he recognized she may never return those feelings. Not with the intensity and surety that had settled into his being. If they broke up, she might face a bit of public blowback—though he’d make sure Melody reinforced that Arabella initiated the breaking up—but eventually her life would return to normal.

Just the idea of not being with his queen depressed him. He wasn’t even sure he could go through with it.

Such a selfish bastard.

Bash sighed again, trailing his fingers along the lop’s back and being rewarded with the bunny’s happy sounds.

“What am I going to do, Little Prince? I don’t want to hurt your mommy. And the idea of not being with her—and you—shreds me. But I have to protect her. If you have any ideas, let me know.” Chicane merely looked at him, his little nose wiggling. “Nothing? Well, that sucks. Here I’ve been telling myself you’re a magic bunny. Kind of a letdown, little man.” He stretched out on the couch. “Well, you know where to find me if you think of anything.”

Chapter Forty-Four

Notice the little shit today and have lots of fucking gratitude.

—From Remy’s Badass Bitch Affirmations

Remy

“Who are you talking to?”

Remy yawned as she tied the sash to her silk robe—one that matched her nightgown. It was a silly indulgence, but after a childhood of tattered, second-hand clothes, this was a private way she could spoil herself. Fancy clothes at work didn’t make sense.

She moved further into the living room and froze. “And, more importantly, what in God’s name do you have on your face?”

“Not in God’s name, my queen. In the name of self-care, relaxation…and fine line obliteration.” Sebastian sat up and removed the bizarre contraption. “More importantly, good morning, my queen. Chicane, say good morning to Mommy.”

Her fake almost-husband removed the mask, rising smoothly from the couch, the muscles underneath his athletic shorts bunching in a most appealing way. One particular muscle of his had been on her mind all week at work. It had been an ongoing battle to stop picturing his cock sliding into her.

Around midweek, she’d awakened at two in the morning needing to empty her bladder. Sebastian had been sprawled out on his back, the sheet draped at his waist. Remy had been tempted—so freaking tempted—to pull back the sheet and suck him awake.

But common sense won out. She was already short on sleep and she’d needed to be up within a couple hours. Still, it had taken her much longer than normal to fall back to sleep.

Remy cleared her throat and reached for Chicane, tucking him under her chin. “Good morning, my darling. I’m sorry I’ve barely seen you this week.”