Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Do you have a bandage? Because I just scraped my knee falling for you.
—From Bash’s dad joke collection
Bash
Bash wiped his sweaty palms on his pants, his nerves racing along with his heartbeat. This was it. It was curtains up on his relationship with Arabella, which meant he was one day closer to landing the role that should’ve been his without needing to fake a marriage.
Even if that marriage was with the woman who had claimed his thoughts, pushing all other meaningless musings to the wayside. Even if…he might not totally be faking.
Bash knew truly loving someone didn’t happen at first sight.
It couldn’t, because achieving the depth of that emotion required getting to know a person’s soul.
Their core. Likes. Dislikes. Fears. Aversions.
Dreams. The ugly side everyone had. And the gifts that made them shine.
He’d never experienced it himself, but he’d witnessed it. Longed for it.
And while he firmly believed love didn’t happen at first sight, Bash knew the seed of it could absolutely plant with that first glance. Nestle into the fiber of a person like a tiny kernel of possibility.
How did he know this? It was his lived experience with Arabella Remington.
Somewhere deep inside him, in a place never before breached, a tiny seed had settled. All he had to do now was nurture it and hope it grew.
The door flew open, startling him. “Why are you just loitering on my porch instead of ringing the bell?”
For several beats of his heart, Bash was breathless. Standing before him, like the magnificent queen she was, was his Scrub Angel. Only, this was a different version of her.
Instead of scrubs, she had on faded blue jeans that hugged her lean body in all the right places.
A pale peach boatneck top brought out the stunning deep blue of her eyes.
Instead of the clogs she’d worn at the hospital, she’d donned what looked like heeled boots.
And her hair hung down to the top of her shoulders in an elegant long bob that was as sharp as her tongue.
It shone in the sunlight pouring into her home from behind him.
Bash had to forcibly stop himself from reaching out and rubbing one of the locks between his fingers.
“Bash meet the doorbell. Doorbell, Bash.”
He couldn’t help the grin that erupted on his face. She was gorgeous and acerbic and witty and just fucking…magnificent. And she was going to be his wife.
“Good morning, Arabella, my queen.” He sketched a small bow.
She sucked in her cheeks and narrowed her eyes. “One, laying it on kinda thick, aren’t you, with that whole ‘my queen’ thing? And, two, I still haven’t given you permission to call me Arabella. No one does.”
“Well, it seems that’s false. Because I call you that. And since I’m your husband—”
“Not yet.”
“—I get special privileges,” he continued smoothly as if she hadn’t spoken, ignoring both his unusual nerves and the kick his horny cock made at the mention of husbandly privileges.
He’d lain awake all last night imagining how he’d woo her, carefully and patiently dismantling her prickly walls so he didn’t impale himself on the massive thorns.
He’d envisioned the simple pleasures of sharing a household.
Watching her head out for work. Did she wear her scrubs?
And, of course, not just sharing the household, but maybe—if he was lucky enough, persuasive enough—sharing her bed and her luscious body.
“Have you lost the power of speech? That might be a problem with your career.”
Bash let her sarcasm roll off him, fighting to maintain his positivity in the face of Arabella’s clear disregard for him. Surely there were other, more amenable women to help him achieve his objective. The problem was, he didn’t want them. He wanted his prickly Scrub Angel.
He’d had enough therapy to recognize Arabella likely used sarcasm as a shielding mechanism when she was feeling off-kilter. The ice queen shall melteth. And he’d enjoy every moment of it.
He made a second, more elaborate courtly bow, learned decades ago at his parents’ famous playhouse in the Cotswolds. “You do render me speechless, Arabella, in the best possible way.”
She exhaled a small, frustrated breath, muttering, “Are you ever serious?”
“When I need to be,” he parried, ignoring the sting of her jab. The problem with being a joker was that when you did decide to be serious, no one believed you.
“Well, do me a favor and turn that switch on. I was awake all last night thinking this through—”
“Me too.”
“—and we’re not going to get anywhere if you just linger on my doorstep spewing your special brand of claptrap flattery.” She turned and walked into her home. “Well, are you coming?”
“Apparently not anytime soon,” he whispered.
“I heard that,” she threw over her shoulder.
“I meant you to,” he sang. She might make it hard—ha, that’s what he said—but the most formidable challenges always made for the most gratifying successes. And succeed he would. His dream role depended on it.
“Just make yourself at home…since it will be your home, I’m assuming.
I just need to grab my wallet,” Arabella called out as she headed down a hallway toward what was likely the primary bedroom.
He’d spent a few minutes studying her house while he worked up the courage to open his car door.
The one-story Cape Cod’s off-white vertical siding gave it an almost modern farmhouse vibe.
Navy blue shutters framed large, multi-pane windows, and a covered porch ran the length of the house, ending at what looked like a two-car garage.
Now that he was inside, he realized the decorative dormers he’d observed from the outside infused natural light into the entryway, as well as the great room and kitchen off to his right.
The house was a decent size. He guessed maybe two thousand or so square feet.
Perfect for a single person…or a single person and her husband.
Bash couldn’t help but wonder what her bedroom looked like. Hopefully he’d find out some day.
Overall, it was homey, if sparsely decorated. He himself loved a good knick-knack—things he’d picked up on film locations and other travels. Bash lived a transient life, so when he was staying at one of his homes, he liked to have all the familiar trappings.
As he scanned the room, three things caught his attention. A clown figurine on her mantle, next to that, a picture of an attractive Black woman and young woman who had to be her daughter. And tucked along the wall, a large, two-story house that resembled a fancy dollhouse.
A soft chirruping inside caught his attention. Fascinated, he dropped to his knees. “Hello, the house!” Bash crooned softly. As expected, a twitching nose and set of whiskers appeared in the top window. “And who are you?”
He once had a co-star with a rabbit and knew they could be skittish. He wondered if this fellow—or gal—was as skittish as its owner.
Wait… Scrub Angel was a bunny mom? He was going to be a bunny bonus dad!
“Who’da thunk it?” he whispered. “Hi, bunny. What’s your name?
I bet you’re a good bunny, yes you are.” The floppy-eared bunny disappeared from the window, emerging to descend a ramp.
Fanciest fucking bunny house ever. Of course, Arabella struck him as the type of person who would want the best for a pet.
Her exacting nature wouldn’t allow otherwise.
He didn’t know how he knew this, but he did.
Reading people was one of his specialties.
Spying a container on a nearby small table, he reached over and shook out some pellets. They smelled of fresh hay. “Who wants a treat? Does my new buddy want a snackie?”
He placed a few in his palm before opening the latch and carefully easing his hand through the small opening he’d created.
It wouldn’t do to have a runaway bunny—aww, great book.
He’d gotten a copy for Judie-patootie and had enjoyed reading it to him these past few days, even if his nephew was far too young to understand what he was saying.
But Jude surely could sense the warmth in his tone. The comfort of his body.
Distracted again, Bash. Back to bunny love…
The bunny moved forward, his large ears flopping endearingly. “Oh, you’re a good-looking bunny. Your fur is almost as pretty as your mommy’s. Her hair, not her fur.” The bunny moved closer and Bash gently petted his head. Silky soft. Like he’d bet Arabella’s was.
He sensed, rather than heard, when she moved behind him.
“Looks like you have the touch.” Arabella’s tone wasn’t cold. It just wasn’t warm either.
He looked up and over his shoulder and grinned at her. “Bash Wheatley, friend to animals, small children, and”—he winked—“hopefully distrusting chiefs of orthopedics.”
She shook her head, but Bash was gratified to see the corners of her mouth tip up. “You are something else, Sebastian Wheatley.”
“I’m something, Arabella Remington.” He turned back to the bunny. “What kind is he?”
“He’s a Holland lop. His name is Chicane.”
“I have no idea what that means.” He smiled at her and shrugged, continuing to gently pet the bunny, equally focused on getting both Chicane and Arabella accustomed to him.
“I named him after the series of quick, alternating sharp turns on a Formula 1 race circuit.”
“Clever. I’d heard you were a Formula 1 fan when I did my due diligence.” Bash smiled, still stroking the bunny with the back of his forefinger. “Hey, there, Chicane. I can’t wait to watch some races with you.”
“Due—? Never mind. I don’t think I want to know.” Arabella shifted so she was beside him, looking down at his bunny wooing. Her arms were folded, but he got the sense it was simply a natural stance for her. “Do you like F1?”
“I do now,” he offered with a shrug and another smile. “But I sure could use a tutorial or two while snuggled on that comfy-looking couch. Although nothing beats my brother-in-law’s couch. That thing was clearly made by benevolent fairies who just want us to be happy.”
Now Arabella smiled. Truly smiled. It was the first time he’d seen it and, in that moment, he knew his life was forever altered.
His heart stuttered as the realization slammed into him that he was in the room with his future wife. And, more inexplicably, he possibly wanted her to be in his longer-term future, not just the next year.
“You ok?” Arabella cocked her head.
“I’m fan-fucking-tastic.” And he’d never meant anything more.
Placing a finger on each side of the precious long ears, he pretend grimaced. “Ooops, mustn’t say bad words in front of the children, dear.”
Now Arabella laughed.
It was the most perfect sound. He wanted to hear it over and over for the rest of his life. He decided on the spot that he wanted it to be the last thing he heard on his deathbed as an old man, right after ‘I love you and I’ll see you soon.’
And it had to be that way, because he absolutely couldn’t allow her to predecease him. It had only been forty-eight hours, and he knew with powerful certainty that he didn’t want to live in a world without Arabella Remington in it.
It was true. He, Sebastian Judah Wheatley, had a massive crush on his future wife.
His phone chimed, breaking the moment. But that was ok, because Bash was certain there’d be many more just like it. He’d make damn sure of it.
“That’s the calendar reminder for our lunch reservations.” Bash gave one last gentle pet to the lop and reluctantly closed the hatch. “Back soon, bunny. Be good.”
As he stood, his knees popped and he groaned softly.
“Those are some sexy sounds, right? Something probably needs to be fixed in there. Any chance you know a good ortho doc?” he teased, laughing when she only shook her head, something between a smirk and a true smile playing on her lips. “Ready for lunch, my queen?”
“Where are we headed?”
“A place Brinder and Honor recommended called La Capaninna.”
“Oooh, I love it there. Brinder took me there when he recruited me to Evangelist. The portions are massive, so get ready to have leftovers.”
“Excellent. Then I’m glad I didn’t eat breakfast.”
Arabella reached for a key fob and dropped it in her purse.
“I wasn’t sure what side of your driveway to park on so I picked the furthest from the door.”
“Great—I’m in the garage on the other side.”
Bash waggled his brows. “Look at us—already aligned. Can’t wait to see how else we…mesh.”
She didn’t respond, but her shoulders visibly tensed. “I’m happy to drive,” Bash offered, beating himself up internally for pushing too hard too soon.
“Nope.” His magnificent Scrub Angel popped the p hard, striding into the garage. “I’ve got it.”
Bash gazed after her admiringly, wondering if she was aware of the aura of confident competence she exuded. It was tantalizing beyond belief. Bash grinned, smitten.
You’ve got it alright, Scrub Angel. All of it.