Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Don’t fucking give up, because a true badass bitch never backs down from a fucking challenge. No quitting, bitch.
—From Remy’s Badass Bitch Affirmations
Remy
“Holy shit,” Bash breathed, white-knuckling the handle above the passenger door of Remy’s black Audi Q8 as she pulled into a spot outside the restaurant.
“I knew you liked F1, but I had no idea you drove like you’re actually in a Grand Prix.
Jesus…I think I just violated the safety clause in my contract.
” He slumped back into the leather seat.
“Have I updated my advanced directives lately? Gonna need to if I keep hanging out with speedy Max V. here.”
Remy looked over at him, shaking her head in amusement.
She tried—good lord she tried—not to give in to his hilarious dramatics.
But there was something so appealing about this goofily endearing man residing inside the form of a god descended from Mt.
Olympus. When she’d opened the door earlier, her first thought—uninvited and largely unwelcome—was he looked…
delicious. There was no other word for it.
The day was surprisingly warm for April, so both of them had eschewed jackets.
Bash wore a crisp, pale aqua button-down, which he’d rolled up to his elbows, revealing tanned, muscular forearms. His dark-wash jeans molded beautifully to his body, hugging pronounced thigh muscles in a way that made her mouth water.
And his hair? Oh, gods. She just wanted to run her fingers through the dark, loose waves on top and stroke the back of his corded neck where his hair was shorter.
In sum, Bash Wheatley was freaking hot. Otherworldly, blessed-by-the-gods, soak-your-panties hot.
Remy might be an ice queen. But she wasn’t immune to the potent, sizzling effect of Bash Wheatley. And his forearms.
She tore her gaze from the arm porn on display. “Wuss,” she teased, surprising herself with her out-of-character joking. “If you can’t take the heat, get out of the fire, baby. Also, I thought you said you didn’t know F1, much less arguably the best racer in the line-up.”
“What can I say? I did some Googling.” He lifted a shoulder, a massive smile spreading across his face. “And…you just called me ‘baby.’”
She rolled her eyes. “It’s just a figure of speech, not an endearment.”
“Boooo,” he pouted adorably. “I guess I’ll just wait patiently until you determine your special nickname for me.”
How was he so good at disarming her? Her walls were strong and thick—out of necessity. “Good grief, Bash. What am I going to do with you?”
“The possibilities are endless…”
Bash’s smile shifted into something else. Something that made her core clench. His eyes darkened, the lids dropping ever so slightly as he rubbed a finger slowly below his full lower lip. He hadn’t shaved, and dark stubble graced his chiseled face.
Oh fucking hell. Why was he so damn appealing? This whole charade was just a convenience to save St. D’s, and she’d be damned if she let it be more. She was absolutely not setting herself up to be hurt. She’d had more than enough pain and loss in her life.
Once again, his phone chimed.
“Saved by the bell.” she uttered hoarsely, her heart thumping unnaturally.
He opened his door and coasted around the front of her car. She’d barely reached for her handle when the driver side door opened and he held out a hand. “Shall we, my queen?”
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.