Page 86 of Late Harvest

“Which is…” Remy trailed, unable to stop smiling.

“That, my queen, is the delicious, fruity milk that remains after you finish eating the cereal.”

Her jaw dropped and she busted out laughing. She couldn’t help it. “Sebastian, that’s just…gross. You’re a forty-nine-year-old man. You shouldn’t be putting that crap in your body.”

“I wasn’t aware there was an age limit on breakfast broth,” he harrumphed. But his eyes were twinkling. “Honestly, I haven’t had these since I was in elementary school. But I went to the grocery store this week—in disguise, of course—and found myself wandering the cereal aisle. I saw good ol’ Fred and Barney happily tapping spoons, and I had to have some. I’ve been waiting for a special occasion to crack open this beauty. My queen emerging from a six-thousand-hour work week seems just perfect.” Sebastian paused and dramatically poured a generous amount into a mixing bowl, topping it with fat-free milk.

Remy settled onto a barstool—like a normal adult—and guzzled her coffee while she cuddled Chicane. Sebastian was such a born performer, and she had to admit she was enjoying the show, even if her caffeine hadn’t yet kicked in.

“Delicious yumminess of youth, enter my mouth!”

Sebastian’s booming delivery was worthy of the stage. He took a heaping spoonful and chewed, a small frown unfurling. He swallowed and ate another spoonful—this one smaller.

Wiping his mouth with a napkin, he muttered, “Well, that’s a fucking buzzkill,” and tossed the napkin onto the island, glaring at the bowl.

“Something wrong, dear?”

He arched a brow, her innocuous tone not fooling him. “Yes, something is very, very wrong. I have ruined a core childhood memory. Just the idea of Fruity Pebbles brings back the glorious, memorable scent. This was my favorite childhood treat. And now the magic is gone. The magic is gone!” he wailed, throwing himself around the kitchen.

“Goofball,” Remy mumbled under her breath without heat, a smile tilting up her lips.

“I can never get it back. Now when I imagine my Fruity Pebbles and my beloved breakfast broth, all I will remember is this—this swill!”

Chicane chirruped in solidarity.

“Poor baby.” Remy stood and kissed Sebastian’s cheek. “I’ll make us some eggs.” She handed him the bunny and reached for the refrigerator handle, a wicked smile playing across her face. “So, I’m guessing we shouldn’t have SpaghettiOs for lunch?”

“Evil queen,” Sebastian whispered, and fell to the ground.

It was Remy’s favorite morning ever.

Chapter Forty-Five

I have an inferiority complex, but it’s not a very good one.

—From Bash’s dad joke collection

Bash

“That was…eye opening. And powerful.” Bash scrubbed a hand down his face and collapsed on the couch, emotionally spent.

He and Arabella had spent three hours at St. Dymphna’s. He’d been moved, almost to tears, by the safe house’s programs—from living space, to counseling, job training, aftercare programs, and more. Anya, the executive director, toured him with pride. He met all the current residents, the photographer Melody hired ensuring she only captured the backs of their heads. They would also pixelate the images to further protect identities.

He’d ensured his donation was anonymous—his financial manager was deft at that—but sensed Anya had connected the dots between a timely eight-figure donation and his presence in Arabella’s life. Multiple times, he saw the question forming on Anya’s lips, and he’d carefully redirected her attention.

“It wasn’t…too much?”

Arabella perched on the couch next to him, her back ramrod straight. She’d been unusually quiet on the drive back, waving a warm good evening to the departing security officer at change of shift outside her house, but not talking at all. Bash could feel the heaviness of her heart in his.

“No, Arabella. Not too much. It was…” he blew out a breath. “I understand why you’d sell your soul to the devil for that place. For those women. And children.”

“Sebastian,” she whispered, turning to him. “I didn’t sell my soul. Far from it.” She squeezed his hand. “Thank you for coming with me. It means a lot.”

“Not sure how a Hollywood actor coming to visit is meaningful to people who fear enough for their safety and lives that they flee their homes.”

“I meant to me.” Arabella’s smile was soft, her eyes sad. “But also to them. Your generosity is already making a difference. And now Anya has the funds to not only stay open, but to expand St. D’s mission. She wants to open safe houses across the region.”

Bash nodded, his throat thick with tears he needed to shed.