Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
What do you call a steak that’s been knighted by a queen?
Sir Loin.
—From Bash’s dad joke collection
Bash
Bash could feel those sapphire blue eyes on him, and figured out very quickly that actually reading would be an impossible task.
Slowly, he removed his glasses and placed them on the table. “Something on your mind, my angel?”
“You’re not—” Arabella began and then closed her laptop, moving it to the table. “You’re not how I thought you’d be.”
“And how is that?”
“I don’t know,” she mused softly, scanning his face. “But not this.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“No, not at all. It’s good.” She pulled her legs away, shifting to sit crisscross as she faced him on the deep couch. “I have a question.”
“I’m an open book, since,” he waggled his brows, “I’m clearly not going to be reading mine any time soon.”
“Brat,” she whispered, her lips tilting up. “Why do you call me Scrub Angel sometimes and your queen at others?”
“Oh, that’s easy. You’re Scrub Angel when you’re working—Angel for short. But you’re my elegant queen all the time. Do you have royalty in your blood? You must.”
Arabella swallowed, shifting uncomfortably. “No, definitely not.”
“You sure?” he teased. “Maybe not British, because I see none of Charles in you. Thank God. Ooof.” He shuddered dramatically, then tapped his chin. “But maybe…a Spanish princess?”
“No. I’m pretty much a mutt. My mom was from the Midwest. I think a blend of German, Scandinavian, and Polish.”
“And your dad?”
“I don’t really refer to him as such. But he was half Latino—his dad was from Honduras. I’m not sure about his mom, but I know she was Caucasian.”
“You should do one of those spit tests. That’d be fascinating.”
Arabella made a show of removing something nonexistent from under her short, unvarnished nails.
The beds were long though, giving the appearance of longer nails, and Bash never thought he’d find plain nails so intriguing.
He wanted to suck those talented fingers in his mouth while he put his own fingers in all her tempting places.
“I don’t feel the need to learn anything more about…them…than I know.”
Interesting.
“Where are they?”
“Gone.” It was said with such stark antipathy that Bash’s heart panged. What had these people been like?
“Siblings?”
“None.” She reached for her glass of red wine and took a long sip.
Bash was more of a whiskey kind of guy, but had taken a proffered glass. It was fucking delicious.
“So your agent’s name is Slash?”
Ok. My angel wants to change the subject. I can respect that. “It’s actually Guinn Nelson Randell. He’s been my best friend since college. My buddies and I called him Slash because of his initials.”
She looked at him blankly.
“After the guitarist?”
Still nothing.
“Guns n’ Roses? GNR?”
“Ah.” Arabella took another sip.
“Ah? That’s all you have to say? Ah? Slash was a fucking eighties icon. That top hat. The Gibson Les Paul electric guitar. Dude was a fucking beast.” He stared at her, eyes wide. “Did you really not know Slash?”
“No.” She shrugged and then gave him one of her sarcastic smiles. One day he’d like to spank her sarcastic ass and make her writhe in pleasure. “Bash and Slash? Cute.”
“The college ladies thought so.”
She treated him to a smirk. “He didn’t sound pleased on the phone last week.”
Bash sighed. “He wasn’t. Not about you, though. He’s frustrated with me, and my insistence on this role.”
She sat up and scooted closer, leveling him with an intense glare.
Bash had the very distinct impression Arabella could be downright terrifying at the hospital if crossed.
In fact, he’d gotten a tiny, decadent taste of it when he’d first met her.
It was a freaking aphrodisiac for him, even when it was aimed at him and not some underperforming colleague.
“Why doesn’t he want you to do that role?”
“He just doesn’t think much of the script. Or Walter, the producer. Or the fact that I’m walking away from more than a hundred million for the comic book series.”
Arabella spluttered her wine. “Dollars? No wonder you can afford to donate twenty million to the shelter.” She wiped her chin and her chest. “Shit. That got on my lucky Red Bull shirt.”
Bash shrugged. “It’s fucking ludicrous what I get paid, meanwhile teachers and first responders need second jobs. It’s why my personal philanthropy is a priority.” He caught an odd look on Arabella’s face. “What are you thinking?”
“Are you his only client?” Her brow furrowed.
“Slash?” She nodded, her gaze on him intent. Studying. “He has a couple younger guys he represents. But, yeah, I’m his main client.”
“Hmmm.” Arabella sipped her wine, then reached for her laptop.
He lifted one leg and anchored it on the computer. “Don’t ‘hmmm’ me and then grab your emotional support laptop. What are you thinking?”
She lifted her shoulders, elegance personified. “Just seems like you’re his cash cow and he’s not happy with the milk flow.”
Bash’s jaw dropped, putting on an exaggerated shocked face like the clown he was. “Did you just call me a cow?”
He pointedly ignored her insinuation about Slash. Not only did it rankle—worse, it aligned with the disconcerting thoughts that had been plaguing him for weeks.
Arabella snickered. “I mean…”
“Arabella, cows are female. I’m a bull. Show some respect, woman.”
She released a full laugh—a rich sound that went straight to his cock.
In a different circumstance, with a different type of woman, he’d already be prowling over to her in preparation to bury himself where he needed to be.
But this woman? Everything about her was wrapped in caution tape and labeled ‘handle with care.’
Bash could read a room. So he stayed put. Even if his cock was bitterly angry at him.
“So tell me about this dream role, Sebastian Wheatley. It has to be pretty special to give up that kind of payday and saddle yourself with me for at least a year.”
Now Bash rolled his eyes. “I’m not feeling saddled at all. Far from it, Arabella. In fact, this”—he motioned around them—“is the freest I’ve felt in…I don’t know how long.”
Arabella smothered a satisfied smile, but not before Bash saw it. The tip of her iceberg was melting. And that made him worried—for her more than him—about what behemoth of emotion lay below her icy surface.
“The movie is called Paradise. It’s about an asshole of a man named Bram who finds out he’s dying.
His terminal diagnosis sends him into a tailspin and he’s terrified he’ll go to hell.
He decides to perform a series of good deeds to get into ‘paradise.’ Initially, he’s just going through the motions, hoping to atone for a lifetime of pretty shitty behavior.
He meets a down-on-her-luck single mom, who helps him perform what he hopes are redemptive good deeds for some cash.
But, along the way, those deeds become meaningful.
As does his relationship with the woman. ”
As he spoke, Arabella had shifted closer, her eyes fastened on him. “And? What happens?”
Bash mimed zipping his lips. “You’ll have to see the movie.”
“Rude!” She launched a pillow at the side of his head, her aim freakishly true.
“Whoa, whoa, tiger!” he laughed. “Simmer down there. Such violence.”
Arabella’s naturally pale skin went paler, the smile falling from her face. Bash’s stomach followed along. What just happened?
He sensed it wasn’t the time to ask. And as for Arabella, she quickly recovered, smoothing her hair.
“Sounds amazing.” Her voice wobbled a bit, but Bash heard the sincerity while he mentally bookmarked this moment for further introspection.
“I think so. There is something about Bram and his brokenness and the possibility of redemption that just speaks to me. I’ve never played a role like this.”
“I’m sure you’ll be amazing, Sebastian.” He soaked in Arabella’s soft smile. “When do you film it?”
“Assuming I get the role, everything begins in about two months. There’ll be preproduction first. Principle filming starts in August and we’ll be finished hopefully by mid-December. A bit of post-production. Right now, it’s slated to release in May of next year.”
“That long?” Arabella’s sapphire eyes were huge. He’d forgotten she didn’t know about the nuts and bolts of his business.
“These things take time.”
“So, we, um, we’ll do this”—she waved her hand vaguely around, and he clocked the subtle tremor—“for a little more than a year? I know that’s what you said when we first discussed this, but I thought it was maybe a bit of an exaggeration.
So…” she paused, coughed, and cleared her throat aggressively, “about thirteen months?”
“About.” Bash didn’t want to think about their inevitable expiration date when they were just getting started. True to form, he changed the subject. “I have a question, too, my queen. May I?”
Clearly picking up his vibe—this woman was magnificent—she nodded regally but dramatically. Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday had nothing on Arabella Remington.
“Now that we’ve said our vows and I’ve kissed the bride, I’m thinking we need to make this official. As in Instagram official. Time for the hard launch.”
“Ohhkaaay,” she drew out, that small frown back. “What does that mean?”
“I’d ask if you’re kidding, but I can tell you’re not. We need to share our relationship status with the teeming social media masses. Otherwise, Melody is going to kill me. And I’m too pretty to die young.” He gave her his trademark smolder.
“Oh. Alright. If you think that’s…” She buried her nose in the wine glass again.
Damn. That smolder was proving ineffective. Or, perhaps it was that his queen preferred authenticity to image. “Do you trust me?”
Her gaze collided with his. “Yes.” The quiet resolution in her response touched something deep in Bash.
“I’m going to snap a picture.”
Arabella immediately reached up to her hair, a panicked look on her face.
“Easy, my queen,” he soothed. “Not our faces. Just put your feet back on my lap.”
One dark brown eyebrow flew up.
“Please?”
Arabella shook her head but wordlessly complied, shifting back to her original position and stretching her shapely legs across his lap.
Bash moved his book and her laptop into the frame, along with their wine glasses.
Draping one arm ‘casually’ across her legs, he leaned back and framed it so only that tableau would be visible.
He doublechecked it and then uploaded to his public profile, adding ‘Rocket Queen’ by Guns N’ Roses with a tiny private smile.
“Oh, what’s your Instagram handle? I’ll tag you.”
“I don’t have social media.” She lifted an elegant shoulder.
“No social—what? Why? How do you keep in touch with people? Know what they had for dinner? See their ten zillion kid pictures and fancy vacations and carefully curated life photos?”
Arabella smiled, but he perceived the sadness lurking behind it like an arrow was signaling to it. “I don’t really have anyone to connect with that way.”
His heart plummeted into his stomach. “I—I’m sorry, Arabella.”
She shrugged. “It is what it is, Sebastian.”
“Well, you can scan mine anytime you want. And listen…I added ‘Rocket Queen’ to the post.” He leaned forward and showed it to her, turning up the sound.
“Never heard it before.”
“You’re killing me, Arabella. Look at me over here absolutely dying on your couch. Ok, so you don’t like one of the greatest bands of our generation. What did you listen to growing up then?”
“My father beating my mother.”