Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Do you believe in love at first sight, or should I walk by again?
—From Bash’s dad joke collection
Bash
Bash had no memory of going back into the barn.
And judging by how out of breath he was, he’d clearly been in a hurry to get there.
One moment he was a hundred yards away, kissing his dream goodbye.
The next? He was back in the still-blessedly peaceful barn, in shock at the audacious curveball he’d thrown himself.
Seeing his sister, he opened his mouth to talk, and couldn’t seem to find the words.
“Shiitake, Bash, what’s going on? Is something wrong with Mom or Dad?” Honor’s skin blanched with worry and Brinder stood, wrapping a protective arm around his wife, concern etched between his brows.
Bash was so discombobulated, all he could focus on was the significant height difference between his sister and brother-in-law.
Honor had inherited the short stature of both their parents and the Wheatley side.
Bash must have snagged in utero the gene for height that came from his maternal grandfather’s hearty Midwest stock.
It always amused him how two people with the same parents could be so incredibly different.
Genetics were a funny, random thing. He wondered, for just a moment, what—
“Bash?” Honor’s voice cut through his mental gymnastics, pulling him back to the pressing matter of sorting through how he’d transform the surreal fake relationship he’d embroidered…into reality.
Fuck. What have you done?
Closing his eyes, Bash grabbed the back of his neck and filled his lungs with a deep breath from his diaphragm. Released it. Inhaled again. And released slowly. You can do this, Bash.
“You’re scaring her, Bash,” Brinder warned.
Bash opened his eyes and took in the small crowd around him. He drew in a deep breath and announced, “I’m getting married.”
Once the eruption of confused chatter settled, Bash explained his dream role, the call, Walt’s mandate, and his impulsive declaration—leaving out his Scrub Angel’s name.
The barn’s occupants shifted into shocked silence.
The only sound came from the speakers, Honor’s favorite band, Velvet Smoke, playing in the background.
Even Ross—who, he’d quickly learned, usually had something witty or outrageous to add—was quiet as she rocked the toddler who appeared to have finally dropped into a nap.
Eventually, his sister broke the hush. “Fuck, Bash,” she breathed, her forehead creased in concern.
Bash’s eyes flared wide. “Did you just drop an eff bomb?” Yep, he was living in an alternate universe. How else to explain the bizarre nature of the past couple days?
Ross snort-laughed quietly. “Lalochezia.”
Bash instinctively reached for the box of Kleenex on the table and handed one to Ross. “Bless you.”
Now the women cracked up, minus Lila, who looked as bewildered as him.
“It means ‘cathartic release caused by using foul language,’” Honor explained, snickering. “Apparently, I’m prone to it in stressful or, uh, other situations.” His sister slid a look at Brinder and bit her lower lip with a sly smile, her cheeks and the tips of her ears turning bright pink.
Chuckles everywhere. Christ. Suddenly, he wished for a Men in Black amnesia device to flash into his eyes and forget every TMI and PDA he’d suffered through these past few days in Virginia.
“Why don’t we refocus, please,” Tiercy added in her high school teacher voice.
It wasn’t a question and everyone immediately snapped to attention—hardwired grade school muscle memory apparently kicking in for all.
Scanning the group, Tiercy gave a crisp nod of approval.
“Did you just say you’re getting married? ”
Bash nodded repeatedly. He probably looked like a possessed bobblehead. He forced himself to still his head, even as his foot rat-a-tapped on the barn’s distressed wood floor.
“Wait, wait, wait.” Brinder held up two hands. “Let me get this straight. Your dream role was in danger of being taken away by a producer and so you lied and told him you’d met someone and were in a serious relationship?”
Bash gulped down a nearby water to ease his parched mouth. Blech—he hoped that was his and not one that a rugrat had left behind with their germy backwash.
“Did you say who?”
“I—I did.” Oh, shit. Brinder was gonna blow.
One brow on his brother-in-law’s face cocked up high on his forehead. “Who?” That one word was laced with accusation.
Fire in the hole!
“Arabella Remington.”