Chapter 48
Chapter Forty-Eight
Why did the Star Wars movies come out in the order
four, five, six, one, two, three?
In charge of the sequence, Yoda was.
—From Bash’s dad joke collection
Bash
Asweet smile of relief emerged, lighting up Arabella’s eyes.
“The autobiography of Sebastian Judah Wheatley—an eponymous one-man show performed in the privacy of my living room? Hang on, let me get my phone. I can make millions off this.” She winked at him and offered a tiny smile, though grief remained etched on her face.
“I’m already giving you tens of those millions, my queen,” he teased, then sobered as her face fell. “Arabella, I was just kidding. I’m sorry.”
“It’s ok,” she whispered. “I know you were. I was, as well. I’m sorry. I’m feeling a bit…raw…right now, and my filter is a bit wonky. Regardless, I shouldn’t have joked about violating your privacy.”
He ran a fingertip across the back of her hand, tracing the veins that carried her precious blood. “And I shouldn’t have joked about my donation. It’s an important cause, and one I’m honored to support—not only for the good work, but for the woman who’s agreed to grace my life.”
Pausing to assess her and their current situation, he decided to deploy some comic relief—for both their sakes.
“The gorgeous, wily surgeon has fallen into my mastermind’s trap, muahahahaha!
” He rubbed his hands together like an evil villain before theatrically exclaiming, “Now she shall be mine…muahahahaha!”
Arabella tucked her chin to her chest, another tiny smile playing on her lips. Then she raised her eyes to him, something pure and resilient shining through. “I love your sense of humor, Sebastian Wheatley.”
“Why, thank you. I love making you laugh.” Bash returned her smile, only wider. “In fact, my first role ever was a clown.”
She cocked her head and he reached over to smooth the hair that was mussed from dragging her hand through it. When Arabella leaned slightly into the small embrace, happiness and a sense of rightness had his heart dancing a joy jig.
“I love clowns,” she offered quietly, pulling away and watching him a bit shyly from under sooty black lashes—which she’d apparently inherited from an asshole of a human.
He fought the desire to rage, forcing himself to focus on the moment and not on how much he longed for time travel so he could visit her parents—and he used that term under protest—and tear them to shreds, before whisking his queen away.
Focus, focus, be present, he admonished himself—not for the first time, and quite possibly for the millionth in his life.
He nodded toward the figurine on her mantle, a cheery clown with a bright smile holding balloons. “That’s actually the only clown I’ve seen that isn’t creepy.”
“Be nice.” She flicked his leg playfully, Chicane chattering in agreement from his perch between her legs. Truth be told, the horny part of Bash resented their little prince a teensy bit—ok, a lot—for usurping the spot he wanted between Arabella’s legs.
Hop off that runaway train of thought, Bash, unless you want to pop a poorly timed boner.
“But why clowns? They’re pretty much universally reviled.”
“Exactly.” She pointed a finger at him. “That’s why I love them. Think about a clown’s purpose—”
“To freak people out?” he supplied, grinning.
“To make people laugh,” she returned, eyes flashing with passion.
“To make them happy. Bring joy. Entertain. And somewhere along the way, they’ve been twisted into creatures of horror.
Misunderstood. It’s so sad to me.” She shook her head.
“Did you know clowns can be traced back to ancient Egypt—more than two thousand years before the common era? And you can find them in indigenous American cultures, in classic Greek theater. The list goes on.”
“And did you know, my queen, Shakespeare used the clown—the jester—to great effect?” Bash added, charmed by Arabella’s unexpected soft spot.
Arabella nodded. Of course she knew. His woman was brilliant. The fact that she’d accomplished all she did with her itinerant childhood and disjointed primary and secondary education—never mind the terror realm of abuse she’d suffered through—made her accomplishments even more impressive.
“Tell me about your clown role?” Remy rose to put Chicane in his play area, returning to the couch and facing him.
He reached for her feet and pulled them onto his lap, rubbing them to the tune of tiny, gratifying sounds from his queen.
“My first major speaking role was Feste, the clever clown in Twelfth Night. He has some of the best lines, and plays a pivotal role in bringing two stubborn, misguided couples together.”
“How old were you?”
“Eighteen. At what was then my parents’ newly established playhouse in the Cotswolds.
” He smiled, remembering those early days fondly.
“Jock and Clem Wheatley were very reluctant to let either of their children act. They wanted to be sure Honor and I pursued it for the right reasons and didn’t feel pressured to join the family business, so to speak.
But,” he lifted his shoulders, “it’s in the blood.
I harangued them until they caved. Feste was a role that spoke to me, and I was determined.
” He rotated an ankle and she groaned again, sinking further into the couch.
Good. He loved to spoil her. “A little Bash Wheatley fun fact—I was named after one of the main characters in that play. It was the role my romantic of a father was playing when he met my mother.”
“I thought you were named after the crab in The Little Mermaid.” Her delivery was so perfectly deadpan it took him a moment to absorb the roast. Then he burst into laughter.
“Brat!” He tugged on a toe that bore chipped, pale pink varnish from the in-suite couples pedicure Jared had arranged for the morning of the race. He was relieved to see the laughing smile on her face at her joke. “I was born in 1977, I’ll have you know. More than a decade before that movie.”
“Eh, details,” she teased, throwing her head back and laughing at the fake scowl on his face. “Keep talking, old man.”
“Anyhooo,” he continued, as if oblivious to her burn, but secretly loving it, “it was the official start of my career. I went to NYU that fall, studied my craft, did some plays with my parents over my summer breaks. Just…soaked it all in.
“After I graduated, I shifted into movies full time. Most of my roles were intentionally smaller. I wanted to show my chops. Being a Wheatley, all you hear about is nepotism. And I was determined to prove otherwise.”
He paused, an old, familiar frustration building within. “My dad is known as the quintessential Shakespearean and dramatic actor. Mom and Aunt Meryl are in a class of their own—”
“Wait—whoa there. Tell me you don’t refer to Meryl freaking Streep as Aunt Meryl?!”
Bash wanted to kiss that charmingly incredulous face until she melted in his arms. Instead, he kept going, quite certain his angel needed the ongoing distraction.
“She’s like family.” He shrugged. After all, Aunt Meryl put on her pants one leg at a time, just like everyone else.
She just did it with any perfect accent she wanted and in a way that was unique and compelling.
“Anyhoo, back to the story. Focus, my queen.” He winked.
“When I was twenty-eight, Honor rebelled—magnificently I might add—and ran off to take the role that won her an Oscar right out of the chutes.” He smiled fondly.
“I never saw that movie.” Arabella’s quiet comment interrupted his wool-gathering.
“I feel like you’re the only person in the world then. It was—she was incredible. A star-making role for sure.”
“I’m pretty sure I was deeply immersed in my medical training at that point. Not a lot of time for going to the movies.”
She watched him closely, and they held gazes for a powerful beat—like she knew he needed a second. Arabella moved her feet off him and motioned for him to place his feet in her lap.
Those talented, dexterous fingers got to work immediately, and Bash almost groaned aloud at the sensual pleasure of her hands. He rested his head against the cushion, smiling at the sound of Chicane dashing around.
Hearing it too, Arabella chuckled softly. “Tell me about her debut role?”
“Honor played the teenage daughter of missionaries who are abducted. Instead of falling apart, she helps the SEAL team find them with her knowledge of the country and culture. Badass. And a big difference in a first role from a clown.”
“Sebastian…” Arabella sighed. “That’s not fair. You said yourself you loved the role. I recently heard someone say that you’ll always fall short when you compare yourself to anyone else. Because you can only be yourself, and your journey is uniquely your own,” she added, with a satisfied smile.
“What’s that cute little look for?”
“I just paraphrased my—someone who is in sort of a—a club with me and another woman from work. She’s passionate about leaning into your true self. Nell. You met her at the shelter.”
“Curvy woman? Bombshell copper hair?”
Arabella raised a brow.
“I didn’t check her out, my queen. But I do recall thinking she looked like a woman in a Titian painting. Also…what club are you in? Color me intrigued.”
“Eh.” Arabella waved a hand. “Later. More about you, please.” She batted her eyelashes at him and he barked a laugh, echoed by Chicane’s chittering in the pen—which then got Arabella going.
How was it he had never experienced the simple pleasure of basking in unmasked laughter with a stunning woman?
So many wasted years.
Except…it was hard to consider them a waste if they were the steps that led him to Arabella.