Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
What do you call a fake noodle?
An impasta.
—From Bash’s dad joke collection
Bash
Enzo had rushed out of the kitchen, practically apoplectic at the scare.
He fussed over Arabella and hugged her at least four times.
His queen hugged the man back with awkward pats that would have been amusing if his mind weren’t still flashing to the memory of her choking.
After the brouhaha settled, lunch patrons still subtly and not-so-subtly holding up their phones, Bash decided it was better to get their meals wrapped and finish eating in the privacy of Remy’s—and now his, he guessed—home.
Arabella insisted she was fine, refusing to let him drive like the stubborn queen she was.
He acquiesced, but watched her like a hawk the entire ride back.
Once, clearly disconcerted by his unwavering attention, she’d sniped weakly at him to ‘take a picture, it’ll last longer.
’ But he simply smiled benignly and continued his hypervigilant observation.
Certainly, he loved cataloging her features. She was a stunning woman. But, more than that, her choking incident had scared the shit out of him. One minute they were talking and negotiating, and the next, she’d stood up, fear written on her face as she fought to get air in her lungs.
Muscle memory had kicked in, and he hadn’t hesitated, rushing behind her to perform a maneuver he’d only playacted on screen, praying it would work.
As they’d returned to her car, she’d calmly told him that the chances of laryngospasm or aspiration were minute.
Instead of easing his worries, he freaked out silently inside—torn between Googling symptoms of those and watching her.
He’d opted for the latter, needing to visually verify she was ok, his eyes homing in on her throat as if he were a human MRI machine capable of seeing inside to confirm proper safe functioning of her body.
Add to that the visceral guilt pounding through him. It was his fault she’d choked. He was the one who’d brought up her initiating sexual contact, egging her on.
Holy shit. If anything had happened to her…
“Hey?” This time when Arabella interrupted his mind-meandering, her voice was soft. He refocused his eyes on her. “How was Bash Wool-gathering Land?”
Bash blinked twice and looked around, realizing they’d pulled into her driveway. “Honestly? Horrific,” he responded, embarrassed at the tears building in his eyes.
Bash was not an emotion-prude. Perhaps it was the range of feelings he had to tap as an actor, or maybe the therapy his parents had insisted on to support him both as a child in the parental spotlight and the sibling of a sister who’d stared down death twice.
Regardless of the why, tears came easily to Bash, as did laughter—and sometimes anger.
He was in touch with his emotions and proud of it.
Still, he’d barely known his Scrub Angel for two days.
She didn’t need to see him blubbering—especially when it was she who’d had the scare and he who caused it.
Bash forced oxygen into his lungs, blinking back the tears.
“Sebastian. Are you ok?” She fidgeted with the seat belt with her distractingly capable, healing fingers.
“Just…that was a lot. I think I’m just having a delayed reaction to the whole you trying to shove your entire meal down your throat at once thing.” He managed a teasing wink and she shook her head, a tiny, amused smile lifting her lips.
The fact was, Arabella was so damn appealing to him. Like the angels partnered to convince God to send him the perfect woman. And for some unknown reason—because heaven knew he didn’t deserve it—God listened.
And now? He just wanted to hold her. Assure himself that she was ok. That fresh air poured, unobstructed, into her lungs. “I—may I hold you? Just to make myself feel better?”
One eyebrow arced high. “You want to hug it out?”
Bash dropped his head and chuckled, then caught her eyes and held them. Such a gorgeous navy-blue color. He tamped down inconvenient nerves, summoning his inner clown. “Think of it as a kindness to the knight who saved you so valiantly.”
She gave an adorable laugh.
“I really want to know what it feels like to have you in my arms. And I maybe have a tiny bit of PTSD from your episode. Only a hug can save me.”
Something unreadable flashed across her face, but she quickly smoothed whatever it was away. “I know a bit about PTSD.” Her voice wavered a little. “Hugs aren’t the usual prescription.”
“In this case, I feel certain it’s the only thing that can help,” Bash insisted. And he wasn’t lying—he ached to hold her.
Arabella studied him silently, and Bash imagined a tiny war going on in her head. Or her heart. Or both. With a barely visible nod—as if affirming her internal decision—Arabella unbuckled her seat belt, shifting toward him.
He did the same, enfolding her in his arms and dropping his head into the sacred, heavenly place between her shoulder and her beautiful, brilliant head.
The soft strands of her hair brushed his cheek.
It was damned uncomfortable in her sporty car, but he didn’t give a flying fuck.
She was in his arms, and he wasn’t letting go until he had to.
At first, she was rigid, her arms fastened down at her sides. Bash remained still, allowing her to grow accustomed to the embrace.
Was she unused to physical affection? Bash and his people were high-octane huggers. Bring on the hugs. All of them.
Arabella was like a skittish animal, fearful of touch. And, yet, patience often carried the day in those situations. Gently, he rubbed small circles on her back.
Bash felt the moment her body began to soften in infinitesimal degrees. Then, in a perfect moment he was sure would be carved into his memories for eternity, she melted into him with a soft exhalation.
Bash smiled. His heaven-sent Scrub Angel. His queen. He lost himself in the soothing cadence of her breathing.
Then… His fucking ADHD brain flashed to the choking episode, his heartrate ticking up at the scary memory.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, the apology muffled by his mouth pressed into her hair as he brushed a small kiss there. Maybe that was too familiar, too…husbandly. But so be it. And she hadn’t pulled away.
“Why are you apologizing? You’re the one who saved me.” Always so pragmatic, his queen.
“But you wouldn’t have choked if I hadn’t been teasing you. You almost died—on our anniversary.”
A small sound that suspiciously resembled a laugh squeaked out of Arabella.
Leaning away from him, extricating herself a bit from his tight hold, she reached out to him, then paused, her hand frozen between them, indecision written on her face.
Then her eyes softened and she finished the movement.
Placing a hand on his cheek, Arabella rubbed it along the scruff.
“I’m fine, Sebastian. I promise. And it wasn’t your fault.
It was random. But what wasn’t random was the way you saved my life.
” Her eyes danced between his, then crinkled in the corners as she broke into a smile that illuminated his very soul.
“And on our anniversary. How will I ever top that gift?”
Bash didn’t know whether to howl with laughter at her wit, tug her back into the world’s most epic hug…or something else.
He chose something else.
Bash removed Arabella’s hand from his face, kissing her palm and each graceful finger. In addition to her scrubs, he’d developed a kink for her surgeon’s hands. Their competent warmth on his face had been intoxicating.
“Arabella,” he whispered. “I know the best anniversary present you can give me.” Here goes everything. “You can kiss me.”
Instead of hauling off and smacking him, she surprised the hell out of him. A frown creased her forehead and she shook her head sadly. “I mean, I feel terrible for how belated my gift will be.”
Then she fucking winked at him.
He smiled so hard his cheeks hurt. His queen had acting chops!
“I forgive you,” he intoned, playing along while his heart just about burst in his chest out of sheer anticipation and adrenaline. She was going to kiss him. He was more anxious and more excited than a teenager about to French kiss for the first time. “Just make it worth the wait.”
She scanned his face, blue eyes dancing. Then she leaned forward and gently pressed her lips to his, exhaling a small shaky breath as she did, the air they breathed commingling.
He was utterly destroyed and rebuilt.
Bash couldn’t help it. He took over the kiss.
Arabella’s lips were like satin, and incredibly soft—so regular and natural compared to the over-injected lips he usually kissed. He brushed his mouth back and forth against them. The top one. The bottom. Both.
He could hear the frenetic beat of his heart racing in his ears.
Gently, he traced the seam of her plush lips with his tongue and she opened for him, touching the tip of his tongue with hers.
Bash sipped small kisses against her lips, brief tastes where their tongues would tease and then part. Over and over. He cradled her head, threading his hands into her satiny tresses.
Just as he’d imagined, they were a sensory treasure, gliding between his fingers. A tiny whimper from her ignited the flame higher and he tipped her head to the side, sliding his tongue into her mouth and deepening the kiss.
Their tongues tangled and played. Touching and twisting until he wasn’t sure where he ended and she began.
Arabella’s hands gripped his shirt, tugging him closer, and she’d somehow managed to twist her entire upper body toward him.
He pulled her tighter, almost groaning at the sensation of her breasts on his chest as their torsos melded.
He was quite sure theirs was the most divine first kiss ever to happen.
Bash sucked her lower lip into his mouth, gently torturing it with his teeth and soothing it with his tongue. Her moans went straight to his cock, which strained against the confining fabric of his jeans.
“Inside, Sebastian. Take me inside,” she murmured against his lips.
Her words brought Bash out of the deep, drugging paradise of their kisses and back to reality. He became conscious of the spring afternoon sun beaming into the panoramic sunroof. She hadn’t pulled in the garage.
Ice went down his veins.
Not good.
“Angel,” he whispered against her lips, fighting the pull to get lost in her again.
“Mmm.” Arabella pulled him closer, sucking his tongue into her mouth.
Oh, god. He knew the right thing to do here, but he also never, ever wanted to stop kissing her. He’d have to quit acting and she’d stop practicing medicine, because his lips would be attached to hers until the end of time.
The loud crack of a branch brought him back. He reluctantly broke off the kiss but kept his lips rested against the decadent pillow of hers. “Arabella, Angel, we have to stop,” he murmured.
“No,” she moaned against him, redoubling her efforts.
He wished there was an award for maximal self-sacrifice, because he’d surely win that statue. “Dr. Remington,” he said, sensing using her work title would cut through the sexual haze they both had gotten lost in. “We have to stop.”
Arabella clearly registered the use of her honorific, pulling back suddenly, eyes flared wide.
Oh, just kill him now. RIP Bash Wheatley.
Cause of death? Kissing his Scrub Angel.
Her lips were puffy and red from his ministrations, her glorious hair askew, chest heaving in that simple but enticing peach top that hugged her breasts so perfectly.
It took every. Fucking. Ounce of his willpower not to dive back in, fuck the paparazzi.
Paparazzi.
The word in his head was like a bucket of ice water dumped over him. As was the look of shock on Remy’s face.
“I—we—we shouldn’t have—I can’t,” she sputtered. Her hand gripped the handle behind her and she pressed herself against the door.
“Easy, Angel. There’ll be time enough for you to freak out about what we just did in a minute” he soothed.
Lord, his future wife was a skittish one.
He lowered his voice to the calming tone he used whenever temperamental actors were melting down on set.
“Arabella, I loved kissing you. And I didn’t want to stop. But I’m pretty sure we have company.”
She frowned, her head turning rapidly side to side as she quickly scanned around them.
Arabella spotted him just after Bash did. Jerome. Tucked in behind the boxwoods that separated Remy’s driveway from her neighbor’s yard, the flash of his camera visible even in the bright sunlight.
“Fuck,” he breathed.
Arabella turned to him, her face pale, the small pulse at the hollow of her neck fluttering behind the E. “What do we do?”
“Just open your garage door and pull inside. I’ll call my publicist.”
His heart settling into a more natural rhythm, Bash switched by rote into professional mode.
And he hated it. Normally he loved his work.
Accepted—and sometimes even welcomed—the accompanying celebrity…
even notoriety, as long as it served his purposes.
But today, with the most magnificent woman he’d ever known snuggled in his arms and kissing him like he’d never kissed before, he resented their intrusion and the interruption it caused. Deeply, grudgingly resented it.