Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
How did Darth Vader know what Luke Skywalker got for his birthday?
He felt his presents.
—From Bash’s dad jokes collection
Bash
It was chaos. Absolute chaos. ‘The Barn,’ as everyone called it, was louder than a dance club in Ibiza—except the music was sugar-sweet pop, not techno.
And instead of writhing, tight blonde bodies in barely there outfits promising all manner of sexual delight, the crowd consisted of one infant, three toddlers, five energetic kids who appeared to be between six and ten—although he really didn’t have child-age-benchmarking skills, so who really knew?
—and four sets of parents plus one other single friend of theirs.
And him.
What fresh hell was this?
His intent had been to leave for LA the prior night.
Until a certain chief of orthopedics materialized, upending that plan.
He hadn’t yet figured out how to see his Scrub Angel again, and he needed to formulate a new plan.
Quickly. He was due at the studio on Monday morning to record a voiceover for an animated film—a zany role that tickled him and would be a fun experience, but was hopefully just an appetizer before the meatier role he yearned for.
The one that was currently dangling agonizingly just out of reach.
Bash was pretty sure he couldn’t push back the studio time—he’d already delayed it more than a week to give him time to see his new nephew. That left him less than thirty-six hours to charm his way into the delicious, magnificent, extraordinary Arabella Remington’s bed.
Bash was quite sure the reformed playboy Dr. Brinder Desiiigh wouldn’t wingman this one. Instead, he bought himself a little less than two days to place himself in her pathway and pray chemistry did the rest.
Except he was losing several critical hours in his quest.
Earlier in the week, when Honor had invited him to her friend’s birthday party, she hadn’t indicated the full nature of it.
The one o’clock start should have clued him in, but clearly he hadn’t been thinking straight.
And he’d barely slept last night. Every time he closed his eyes, piercing sapphire eyes stared back.
Challenging. Unimpressed. Unreachable. Glorious.
Arabella Remington. This time yesterday, he’d heard her name for the first time. Twenty-four hours later? She was playing on nonstop rotation in his head.
He’d taken his hand to his cock three times already—twice last night and once in the shower this morning—imagining tugging off her scrubs and diving into the nirvana he just knew would be between her thighs.
A nerf dart whizzed by his head, followed by a tow-headed girl he was fairly certain belonged to Ross’s sister, Gaby. “Missed me!” she screamed, essentially blowing out one of Bash’s eardrums.
Look. Bash really did like kids—pied piper and all. But, after this week’s exposure to a gaggle of them, perhaps they were best served in ones and twos. This? This was a somewhat terrifying elementary school version of the Lord of the Flies. It was bedlam fueled by cake and juice boxes.
Honor had told him it was Xander’s birthday celebration, being held in a restored barn on Xander and Ross’s property.
He’d imagined a delicious cookout. Some time by the pool table—a promise that had yet to be fulfilled.
Maybe some peaty whiskey with his brother-in-law and any other adult who wished to partake.
His strategy was to subtly probe the women present for how to shatter the thickest ice he’d ever experienced. And Bash knew Remy would be worth it.
Instead, the barn was Chuck E. Cheese on steroids.
Bubbles danced around the room to entertain the three toddlers—two little girls and one boy—who belonged to Ross, her sister, Gaby, and her best friend, Tiercy.
Apparently Honor and Brinder were close to those three women and their spouses, though during his now-weeklong visit, Bash hadn’t met Gaby and her firefighter husband, Ted, until today.
Bash sighed longingly, imagining his quiet New York penthouse condo or the newly renovated, luxurious Hollywood Hills home that once belonged to his grandfather, Hollywood heyday legend Jud Wheatley.
Bash was forty-nine. At least a decade older than everyone else present.
And he was feeling it. Fuck. He was getting old.
All he wanted was to kiss his sister and baby nephew goodbye, shake Brinder’s hand—maybe even a bro hug—and fly home to relative peace.
And maybe a few rounds of scorching sex.
That reminded him of his recent break up with Poet Walsh—a twenty-seven-year-old, wickedly hot but rather flaky influencer who was good for steamy sex-perimentation and great photo ops, and not much more.
Bash traced circles on the plastic tablecloth—which had already proven its value after at least three spills that he’d counted—lost in thought.
As with all his relationships, Poet had been shiny and enticing at the start.
Initially, their pairing—orhcestrated by their respective agents—worked.
She wanted visibility to raise her profile.
Being on his arm achieved that. As for him? He wanted…
Fuck. Bash didn’t even know what he wanted.
Not anymore. Before? Maybe just something easy and fun.
Some sizzling sex. Eventually it would fizzle out—usually a few months—and then he’d move on to the next casual relationship.
That’s how it always went, because in the shallow waters of the entertainment industry, depth was rare.
As expected, over time, the gold plating on his relationship with Poet chipped and faded. She wanted to get married. Have children. They fought. A lot. And then she cheated on him. Quite publicly and spectacularly.
He winced at the memory of the hordes of paparazzi vultures circling him in the aftermath. She’d called him not long after, tearfully begging him to reconsider their break-up. Take her back. But Bash would categorically not marry anyone unless he loved her, and—
“Watch out, Unc!” One of the bigger kids leapt over the chair next to him, catching a nerf football that apparently had been headed his way, in a feat of athleticism that was actually quite impressive.
“Not in the barn!” two parents yelled in unison. Ross and Xander.
“Petey, you almost hurt Mr. Wheatley,” Ross admonished.
The kid’s face fell. “Sorry, sir.”
Hell and damnation. Being called ‘sir,’ and not by a woman voluntarily tied up in ropes on his bed… At this point, just get him a fucking walker and call it a day.
Feeling more sorry for the kid than himself, Bash recovered his wits and grinned down at the crestfallen boy, who was clearly one of the leaders of this semi-feral pack.
“Nope. No ‘sirs’ or ‘misters.’ Just call me Bash. I’m not that decrepit yet. Nice leap, by the way, Petey.” The boy’s eyes lifted to his, lighting up. “Hey, I may just be an unc, but that move was worthy of any stuntman I’ve worked with. In fact, that’s what I’m going to call you. Stuntman.”
Now the boy grinned, his huge smile showing adult front teeth his face hadn’t yet grown into. “Did you hear that, Nick?” he called out to a slightly older boy who apparently belonged to Gaby and Ted.
Bash had always been good with names—it was no different than memorizing his lines—but figuring out the connections had been…
a lot. The one that had initially eluded him was Lila.
Eventually he somehow pieced together that she was the sister of Tiercy’s late first husband, Luke. And Luke and Brinder had been friends.
He’d need an org chart if one more person came by.
“Oh good lord. Don’t give him any ideas,” Ross chimed in, bestowing a doting smile on her bonus son.
Bash assessed her as she turned away, snagging a small girl who was hollering at the top of her lungs about Cheetos, and spinning her into gales of contagious laughter.
Bash couldn’t help but chuckle. He was pretty sure that was Gaby and Ted’s daughter, Tara, her arms and legs locked tight around her Aunt Ross.
As she spun her niece in circles, he contemplated Ross, who managed to stand out in a crowd that included two famous actors.
Dark brown hair—which he was newly appreciative of, though hers wasn’t as dark and silky straight as Scrub Angel’s.
Toned legs. Stunning green eyes. Charismatic personality.
Put Ross Beaufort-Grace in Hollywood with the right stylist and representation, and she’d give anyone a run for their money.
Her husband, Xander, swatted her subtly on the rear as he passed. The knowing grin they exchanged stirred a twinge of envy in his gut.
Honor and Brinder. Tiercy and Cole—who reminded him of a dark-haired version of his fellow Marvel buddy, Chris. The irrepressible Ross and Xander. Gaby and Ted.
They’d all found the elusive “it.” Even after having a front row seat to his parents’ devotion to each other, Bash had never been certain true, lifelong love existed.
Or, more accurately, maybe it existed for others.
But not for him.
Oh, he’d tried. He’d been in more relationships than he cared to admit.
But none of them ever touched, much less filled, that empty place in his heart.
The women in his life had warmed his bed.
They’d traversed red carpets with him. Sunned topless on yachts in the Med under his appreciative gaze.
Dined next to him at the best restaurants.
But they’d all failed to do the one thing he’d always craved—open his eyes and his heart to a true and beautiful love.
And, now, his poor taste in romantic partners, coupled with a frustrating inability to fall in love—and stay in love—might just cost him the role of a lifetime.