Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
How do birds say ‘I miss you’?
Tweet, tweet, tweet.
—From Bash’s dad joke collection
Bash
Six days later.
It had been a surprisingly grueling week.
Bash had never done a voiceover for a film, and it was significantly more complicated than the simple voiceover commercials he’d done as spokesman for a premium watch brand.
Long hours in the recording studio were followed by a handful of media interviews Melody had arranged to feed the beast—during which he steadfastly refused to address any rumors about Arabella, including confirming her name.
And then, finally, a productive meeting with Slash to review upcoming non-film projects that was, much to his relief, blessedly tension-free.
By the time his Signature private flight—courtesy of the studio backing his upcoming release—landed at the tiny airport outside of Charlottesville on Sunday afternoon, he was drained.
Despite that, he hummed with excitement to see his queen.
They’d exchanged texts during the week, but given her OR and clinic schedules and his seventeen-hour days, those brief missives were few and far between.
They were also simple and businesslike—mostly quick notes to confirm some aspect of his premiere and Arabella’s brief updates on the security features installed by the employees of the private security company his sister used.
Unlike Honor, he’d never hired personal security, relying on the studios to provide that service as part of his contract.
Now that he was essentially finished with his most recent role, and with Walter Pennyrose’s studio not in a financial position to offer that service—and Slash under his firm instructions not to ask for it should he actually land this role—he needed to invest in personal security. For Arabella’s sake more than his.
Arabella wasn’t expecting him until tomorrow, but eager to see her, he’d hopped a flight at the ungodly hour of four in the morning Pacific time.
At his request, the studio had agreed to longer recording sessions so he could truncate his stay in LA by a day.
Bash knew from his texts with Brinder—where he grilled his sister’s husband for as much information as possible about his Scrub Angel—that Mondays were usually Remy’s longest OR days, along with Fridays.
She saw patients in clinic Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays.
He didn’t want to wait until Arabella returned home tomorrow evening, exhausted from a long day in the OR, to see her.
And he wanted as full a day as possible before she disappeared into the bowels of Evangelist for another work week, leaving him and Chicane to miss her.
A private car and driver had picked him up at a little after twelve thirty Eastern—he’d have to see about obtaining a car. Or bringing one of his from the garage where he kept them.
“Something good on the other end of this trip, sir?” his driver, Lana, asked—not nosily, but more in the professionally courteous chitchat to which he was accustomed with this level of private car driver.
“You could say that, Lana.” Bash couldn’t help the beaming grin on his face.
He’d been stupefied, and oddly gratified, to realize how much he freaking pined for Arabella Remington.
He’d barely known her for a week and she already preoccupied his thoughts.
He lived for her texts and consumed all the updates from his assistant like a ravening beast. For a man who’d never experienced anything more than insta-lust that sometimes turned into infatuation, his rapidly developing feelings for Arabella were welcome.
Maybe, if he was a lucky bastard, he would finally find out what it felt like to be in love.
Unfortunately, he was terrified he might then eventually fall out of love—if love even bloomed from the precious little seed. Worse? What if he fell in love for good…but Arabella didn’t reciprocate? At least he’d get a nice run out of it before they returned to their pre-each other lives.
Bash pressed his hand against the discomfort in his chest at the thought of not being in Arabella’s life. Or her not in his.
Think happy thoughts, he commanded himself—immediately flashing to what he hoped would be pleasant surprise on Arabella’s stunning face when he showed up a day early.
Bash fidgeted in the back seat for the relatively quick drive, glancing at his watch over and over. Finally, the sleek black town car was pulling into her driveway. His driveway?
Their driveway.
“You’re the best, Lana! Thanks for getting me here so speedily.
” Bash hurriedly expressed his gratitude—secure in the knowledge his assistant, Jared, had already tipped her generously—and practically launched himself out of the town car.
He strode up the driveway, his luggage feeling light as a feather, his racing heart undeniable evidence of his eagerness.
At her door, he paused to smooth his hair and catch his breath, doing some yoga breathing. Just as he’d realized he didn’t have a key and he’d have to knock, the door flew open and Arabella stood framed in the entryway just as she had one week prior.
Only this time? He was fucking home.
Not thinking, he dropped his suitcase and swept her into his arms, spinning her around. “Surprise, my queen! Did you miss me?”
“What are you doing here?” Arabella laughed, pushing against him. “Put me down, you silly clown.”
Bash complied, his mood and his heart sparkling with happiness.
He was worried there might be some awkwardness—they were still getting to know each other.
But, to his delight, they seemed to be sliding right back into easy, relaxed ways between them.
Like they’d always known each other. Or… had been destined to know each other.
Bash loved the notion of fated mates. It appealed to his romanticism. And it explained why he’d never married. His fated mate didn’t exist.
Or did she and he’d only just met her?
Bash bounced on his toes. “So did you?”
“Miss you?” She cocked a brow, those beautiful lips pursed theatrically. “Hmmm…a little, but not as much as Chicane. I swear, he’s been pouting the whole time you were gone. Even Truly commented on it.”
“Awwww,” he sighed. “My little prince missed his daddy.”
Arabella’s eyes flared. “His daddy?”
“Well, of course, my queen. If I’m your prince consort, then he becomes our little prince—oooh, great book! Have you ever read it?”
Arabella threw up her hands in amusement. “You sure know how to make an appearance. I thought you weren’t coming back until tomorrow.”
“Change of plans,” he announced, tucking her hand into his free arm as he grabbed his abandoned luggage and stepped through the entryway toward the great room.
Bash paused a moment to take Arabella in. Her hair was pulled up in a high, messy ponytail, shorter pieces brushing her irresistible neck. Bright orange leggings were topped with a fitted, navy, long-sleeved, performance-blend shirt with two charging red bulls squaring off in front of a yellow sun.
The loud, vibrating sound of engines came from the great room.
Her head whipped toward the sound. “Oh, shit. It’s starting. Max has pole and I don’t want to miss the formation lap.” And then she disappeared into the great room, leaving him standing there alone with his suitcase.
“I missed you, too, my queen,” he whispered, smiling broadly.