Page 39 of Late Harvest

A man in slubby pants and a half-tucked shirt appeared in her field of vision behind Bash. He was perched on a bench across the street, a camera with a massively long lens pressed to his face. She froze, half in and half out of her car.

“Um, Bash,” she whispered, her eyes darting between him and the photographer. “I think there’s a member of the paparazzi across the street.”

Bash turned sideways to follow her line of sight, and then shook his head. Releasing her hand, he shifted to face the pap.

And just like when he’d let go of her last night, she immediately missed the warmth of the contact.

“Jerome! My man! Do you have a tracking device up my ass or something? How do you always manage to find me, dude?” Bash sounded all ‘hail fellow, well met,’ but she could see the lines of tension in his body.

“Special talents, man. Special talents,” the man called back jovially, still snapping away.

“Listen, if we give you a picture, would you leave us in peace? And maybe not tip off your buddies?”

The photographer lowered his camera. “An exclusive of you walking into a restaurant with new arm candy? Sure-fucking-thing.”

Wait…did that guy just refer to her as arm candy? Remy shifted uncomfortably in her seat, smoothing out her shirt and jeans, suddenly very worried that her outfit was all wrong. And had her hastily purchased nude lipstick worn off while she’d sipped from her emotional support water bottle during the very safe, not super-fast drive to the restaurant?

As if sensing her discomfort, Bash turned back to her, his eyes and voice equally soft. “You look stunning, my queen. Never doubt it.”

He turned his attention back to the photographer, which gave her a moment to exhale the breath she’d been holding and wipe her sweaty hands on her pants legs.

“Two shots. No questions. Deal?” Bash called.

“Deal, man.”

Bash put his back to the photographer, concern written all over his face. “You ok? Look, Jerome’s been following me for years, and while the bar is quite low, he’s one of the better ones. We can leave and shake him, if you want. This can be…a lot…and I haven’t had a chance to discuss paparazzi and publicity with you yet.”

Paparazzi and publicity? Remy closed her eyes briefly. How had she not considered this particular element of their…relationship? When she opened her eyes, immediately catching his gaze and holding it, Bash silently conveyed that he had her back. If she wanted to leave, flee the scene, he would absolutely fold his well-built frame back into the seat and let her drive them home. But that wasn’t who she was, and she had a feeling he knew it, too.

Remy straightened in her seat and fixed her well-used mask of neutrality. What had she gotten herself into?

A deal to save the shelter that meant so much to her and to survivors of domestic violence. It was all the reminder she needed.

“I’m just fine, Sebastian.” His full name slid out of her mouth. And it fit. If he was going to refer to her as Arabella, he’d be Sebastian to her when he wasn’t being his actor self. “Let’s do this.”

Smiling broadly, he reached for her. The sensation of her hand sliding into his felt far too good.

Yep, she was absolutely in over her head. Good thing she was an excellent swimmer.

Chapter Seventeen

What did the patient with a broken leg say to his doctor?

I have a crutch on you.

—From Bash’s dad joke collection

Bash

The owner of La Capaninna, a diminutive Italian with a big personality named Enzo, welcomed them like old friends, vigorously shaking Bash’s hand and slapping his back during a hug that was impressively robust for a man of his size. When Enzo turned to Arabella, she stepped back slightly—out of hugging range—and offered her hand.

Ezno, obviously a consummate pro at making guests feel welcome, gently took her proffered hand and bowed slightly over it. Arabella rewarded him with a small, but genuine smile, after which Enzo seated them at a cozy table in a private alcove and personally took their lunch orders. As one of the servers delivered drinks to the table, Enzo briefly enthused about how much he liked Bash’s work in his most recent action film. He seemed to get a little misty eyed when he added how he adored Honor, and how proud Bash must be of her Oscar.

As Enzo walked away, Bash took a meditative sip of his sparkling water to settle himself. The man’s well-meaning comments had hit an exposed nerve. Of course, Bash was proud of his sister. But it was hard not to be a bit envious. Honor had survived a congenital heart defect, reunited with her first love and married him, had a baby, and earned even more impressive hardware for her bookshelf at her home in Wales.

And him? Well, he was staring down forty-nine and realizing he had more life behind him than in front of him. And yet, if the health gods were with him, he could easily have another three decades of life. Even better? This time around, he had the gift of life experience and self-awareness. Not too shabby.

It was time to run headlong into the next phase of his life.