Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Don’t half-ass anything. If you’re going to mess up, make it epic.
—From Remy’s Affirmations for a Badass
Remy
Remy’s head was spinning. She’d been counting on a quick, productive planning session. Instead, she felt like she was participating in the strangest form of foreplay.
And what was deeply concerning—she didn’t mind it.
“Shall I begin, my queen?”
She focused on the notebook for a moment, collecting herself, and noticed the slight shake of her hands.
Good god, this man was getting to her in crazy and unexpected ways.
Every time she regained her equanimity, he managed to knock her off balance again.
As a person who not only required but placed the highest value on order, routine, and the expected, she found Sebastian Wheatley highly…
irregular. Clearing her throat, she waved at him to proceed.
“There will be appearances.”
Her pen stalled on the paper. “Begging your pardon?”
“Ah-ah, my queen. No begging in public. That’s best left for our times of privacy.”
“Sebastian…” she sighed, trying not to be ruffled by his teasing. “Tell me about these appearances.”
“Well, we definitely will need to be seen in public. Give the paps a chance to capture us as a couple.”
Her heart thudded and she momentarily forgot how to spell ‘appearance.’ “Sounds good.” Sounds fucking awful. But, twenty million, Remy. Think about the shelter. “Go on.”
“And, of course, there’s my upcoming premiere for a film called Atlas Unhinged,” he continued smoothly.
“As my significant other, you’ll need to join me on the red carpet.
It can be overwhelming, so I’ll have my publicist contact you to go over the ins and outs.
A stylist will set you up with wardrobe, hair, and makeup—on my dime, of course—and you’ll need to take some time off, as the premiere is on a Wednesday. ”
“I thought those were on the weekends.” Her voice sounded small to her ears.
“No, they’re usually held earlier in the week, to align with Friday film releases.”
“Oh,” she managed. Then, remembering she was a strong, accomplished woman, she gathered herself. She could do this. She’d survived a lot worse. “Please let me know the date as soon as possible. I have to reschedule clinic, which I don’t like to do to my patients.”
“Of course, Arabella. I don’t want any of this to negatively impact you, your career, or your patients,” he replied quietly, and she heard the sincerity in his response.
“Thank you, Sebastian. I truly appreciate it. My patients are everything to me.”
Their waiter came by with their food, Enzo following behind as he profusely apologized for the delay.
They’d had a problem with the stoves. Remy looked at her watch.
It was quarter to one—thirty minutes had flown by and she hadn’t even noticed, so absorbed had she been with their negotiations.
Both she and Sebastian assured Enzo it was fine and they hadn’t even noticed.
He stepped away with a small bow and a big smile.
“Happy anniversary.”
Remy had just picked up her fork, a bite of chicken parm balanced perfectly on the tines, and she stopped the motion so quickly she was surprised the morsel stayed put. “Excuse me?”
“I first saw you at twelve forty-five on Friday. It’s our forty-eight-hour anniversary. Happy anniversary, Arabella.” He held up his glass, brown eyes sparkling more than the Pellegrino he’d ordered.
Ok, that was…really sweet. Bash Wheatley, beguiling movie star, was a cinnamon roll. And Remy was surprised to find that she liked it. Very much. She dropped her head and laughed softly, utterly charmed. “Goofball.” She lifted her glass. “Happy anniversary, Sebastian.”
He winked and pulled a pair of black-framed glasses out of his pocket—the retro-nerd type.
She’d noticed them earlier when he donned them to read the menu, but then he’d tucked them away while she considered her own lunch choices, so she hadn’t gotten a chance to really take in the visage of Sebastian Wheatley in glasses.
He was insanely, indubitably, breathtakingly…hot as fuck.
The saliva in Remy’s mouth dried up and she struggled to swallow. Her future husband cocked his head.
“Everything ok, my queen?” Sebastian raised an inquiring brow, and Remy was terrified he could read her thought bubble.
“F-fine,” she rasped, before downing a couple gulps of her water. “Just processing all this.” No way was she going to tell him that the simple act of putting on glasses had her more flooded with arousal than her best clit-sucking toy could produce. “Bon appetit.”
“Merci.”
Gah. Fucking fuckery. Her core clenched at his perfect French accent.
As they dug into their meals, another thought occurred. She remembered Lila’s comment about necessary PDA.
“We should also discuss ground rules around physical intimacy.” Remy was proud of how neutral her voice sounded, because neutrality was most definitely not her current state.
Sebastian popped a bite of sea bass into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully and taking his damn time swallowing. After a ridiculously drawn-out sip of his sparkling water, he propped his elbows on the table. “I’m all ears, my queen.”
And dammit, even his damn ears were sexy.
Fighting to maintain her composure, Remy lifted her chin.
“I consent to kisses on the lips, but only in public. No tongue. You may hold my hand or take my arm. Hugging is fine, as is a kiss on the cheek or your arm around my shoulders. But no fanny slapping, and definitely no groping of any kind above or below the waist—in public or in private.” Remy put down her pen and downed the rest of her water, her mouth dry as cotton.
“No gropage. Got it.” He pretended to add to his invisible list. Then his brow furrowed, a crooked smile tilting up the corners of his lips.
How was that so delectable? He looked like a hot professor with those glasses.
And more damn mouth-watering than was fair.
“What about if you want to grope me? Or if you ask me for more…physical intimacy. I just want to be clear—you don’t need to ask.
I’m all in. You can grope me anytime you want.
I consent.” He waggled his brows. “Write that in your book.”
She inhaled at the wrong time, a piece of her chicken sliding down her trachea. Remy had gotten food stuck before, but this was different. She couldn’t get any air in her lungs—her windpipe was completely obstructed.
Remy shot to standing, her pulse racing, eyes watering as her body battled to expel the foreign element. She looked at Sebastian and motioned frantically to her throat.
He flew out of his chair, knocking it over with a resounding clatter, and rushed to her.
The next thing she knew, he was pressing his grasped fists above her belly button and below her rib cage, pulling forcefully inward and upward.
Once, twice…and then the chicken dislodged, flying out of her mouth with the force of the movement.
Remy gasped for air, tears streaming down her face. Sebastian reached for her napkin and turned her toward him as he wiped her face, dabbing gently. As she inhaled gasping breaths, he pulled her into his arms, rubbing his hands on her back in a soothing, circular motion.
“You’re ok, Angel. I’ve got you. You’re ok, now. I know that was scary,” he crooned, holding her until her breathing settled into a normal pattern.
Out of the corner of her still-watering eyes—whether from her choking or the tender care the likes of which she hadn’t experienced in a very long time, she couldn’t, and didn’t want to, discern—Remy saw the flashes of cameras, some lunch patrons with their smartphones raised.
Bash tucked her further into his firm chest, shifting her so his body blocked her from the lookie-loos.
She buried her face into his embrace, lulled by the steady beat of his heart.
Eventually, he kissed the top of her head and eased her back, peering into her eyes.
She almost sobbed at the attentive concern in his expressive brown eyes.
“Better now, Angel?” he asked, a gentleness to his voice that shook her almost as much as the whole almost-dying thing. “You scared me there.”
She opened her mouth to assure him she was fine now, and then coughed again, her throat still raw from the choking episode. Reaching for the flat water she’d been drinking, and noticing it was empty, Sebastian grabbed his own glass, lifting it to her lips. “Small sips now. Easy does it.”
And like a little girl, she complied. Except, when she was a little girl, there’d been nothing even close to this tender care. Only the awful opposite—vicious anger and heartbreaking apathy, courtesy of her father and mother respectively.
Remy cleared her throat and tried again. “Thank you,” she croaked, then took another sip—absolutely not thinking about how her lips were touching where his own lips had. A kiss that wasn’t a kiss. “You saved my life, Sebastian.” Her eyes filled with tears.
“I would do anything for you, my queen.”
This time, when he called her ‘my queen,’ it wasn’t in a lighthearted, teasing way, his seriousness evident in his tone.
Sebastian Wheatley was either a phenomenally good actor. Or he truly cared about her. And she wasn’t sure which one she needed most to be true.