Chapter 53
Chapter Fifty-Three
Trust yourself—you’re a total badass, plain and simple.
—Oooh…I’m loving Arabella’s affirmations that I found in a bathroom drawer while throwing out all her hellacious soap.
Totally stealing this one.
Sincerely, Badass Bash
Bash
Bash looked at his Audemars Piguet watch and sighed—ten minutes after seven. And three minutes from the last time he’d checked. Arabella had texted earlier to say she was running late. She had to consult on an orthopedic trauma case that had just come in via ambulance.
They hadn’t shared phone tracking, and Scrub Angel would be immersed in patient care, so Bash had to rely on the security officer assigned to her today for updates on her whereabouts. Not long ago, he’d alerted Bash it was approximately T-minus fifteen until their arrival.
In the meantime, he cast worried glances at Chicane, nervous the rambunctious bunny would manage to untie and chew up the navy-blue bow around his neck. Shit. Maybe he hadn’t thought this through properly. Should he remove it? Figure out a different way?
No. Bash knew the second he did, he’d get a text that Arabella was approaching. And he didn’t want to ruin the moment.
Bash wiped his hands on his slacks, cringing at the damp. Not exactly titillating to sweat like a nervous teenager. Except, that’s exactly what he felt like. Nervous. Vulnerable. Exposed, but in the best way—and he was referring to his heart, not his cock.
Arabella’s beautiful authenticity stripped away all his own carefully designed artifice, revealing the true him.
The man who longed to please. Who battled focus-stealing ADHD and, at times, paralyzing imposter syndrome.
Who ached to be accepted and loved for what was below the Hollywood-glamorized surface of him.
He darted another glance at Chicane, playing in the digging box. “You good, Little Prince? Now don’t go chewing up—and definitely no swallowing—mommy’s surprise. You hear me?”
Bash swore Chicane understood. The bunny hopped forward, chittering and chirruping. “Good. Remember, we have an understanding. You do your part, and I’ll feed you some of the extra fancy pellets I bought you. These are gourmet, furry one. Keep your eyes on the prize.”
Satisfied they were on the same page, he spun in a slow circle, assessing the space.
Candles flickered on every surface, bathing the room in romantic light.
Soft jazz played from a speaker. In the oven, he had dinner warming—stuffed shells, which she’d revealed to be her favorite one night a couple weeks ago.
He’d reached out to Enzo from La Capaninna—the restaurant where he and Arabella had negotiated their deal.
They didn’t do takeout, but Enzo made an exception for him.
Celebrity might have its drawbacks, but it also had its privileges.
He sighed at the closed shutters, wishing he could let in the soft light of the late May evening.
But they’d learned the hard way that open shutters led to invasive photos from long-range lenses.
Paps—and zealous fans for that matter—were adroit at avoiding security, scurrying around like rodents in a subway tunnel.
The hum of the garage door propelled his heart to racing cadence.
“Show time, Chicane.”
“Hey, Sebastian. Sorry I’m late—” Arabella froze, eyes moving around the room and landing on Sebastian in the middle. “What’s all this?” Her brow crinkled adorably.
Bash took her in—every glorious bit. Hair pulled back in a serviceable ponytail, silky wisps escaping the confines around her face.
Dark blue eyes lit up in curiosity, but he could see the exhaustion of the day bleeding through.
She wore Red Bull Racing leggings and an athletic zip up—given to her in Miami by a PR rep from the team.
The formfitting jacket hugged the curves of her succulent breasts.
He flashed to an image, the memory of her dusky rose tips, glistening and hard from his mouth and tongue. If Bash played his cards right, he could repeat that scenario—maybe even one-up it—within the hour.
His cock thickened in anticipation. Ok. Forty-five minutes. Max.
Focus.
Realizing he hadn’t answered her question, Bash cleared his throat, temporarily banishing thoughts of her nipples in his mouth to the back burner. “I thought we’d have a romantic meal before I head out to Manhattan.” He held out a hand. “Come here and take a load off. You had a long day.”
Stepping toward him, she allowed Bash to gently tug her to the couch, which she dropped onto with a massive sigh, closing her eyes. “Thank you,” she breathed out. “Very romantic. And it smells amazing. What is it?”
“You’ll see,” he sang.
She didn’t open her eyes, but a smile tugged the edges of her lips. He’d bet his bank account, if he kissed her, he’d taste the pink-tinted pomegranate lip balm she preferred.
Turning his back to Arabella—heart dancing a frantic tattoo—he surreptitiously tossed Chicane a couple of the gourmet pellets he’d stashed in his pocket for easy access. As expected, the bunny chirruped and skittered to the treat. He ate it and then jumped, launching into the zoomies.
Bash chuckled softly. So far his plan was working like a dream.
“What’s he doing?” Arabella murmured from the couch, her long, sooty lashes resting on those elegant high cheekbones.
Action.
“He’s just being silly. Oh—” he said again, making himself sound surprised.
Maybe even a bit concerned. “There’s something on him.
” He picked up the lop, tucking him into his arm.
Thankfully, the navy of the ribbon blended enough with Chicane’s ebony coat that she may not notice it right away. “Come look.”
Arabella hopped up, reaching for Chicane, concern etched on her face. Bash felt guilty about causing her even a moment’s worry, but thankfully she would realize quickly all was fine with her pet.
The same could not be said about his gut, which was knotted with nerves.
“What did you get into, little man?” she began, running her hands along him.
While she was momentarily preoccupied, Bash shifted behind her, silently dropping to one knee, praying no loud popping and crackling of aging joints would give him away.
“What’s this? Did Daddy dress you up?” She nuzzled Chicane. “Don’t you look spiffy. What does it say—” She froze, a tiny gasp escaping. “Bash,” she whispered, and he knew she was taking in the words ‘Will you marry me, my queen?’ embroidered on the ribbon.
Arabella spun around, shocked blue eyes landing on him as one hand floated up to cover her mouth.
Bash held up the vintage four-carat, cushion cut, sapphire ring, the main stone set off by sparkling baguettes on each side.
The platinum band was thin and simple. He’d wanted to select a larger center stone, but he knew anything too ostentatious wouldn’t be appreciated.
And when his preferred jeweler sent him an image of the vintage estate piece that matched the striking color of his queen’s eyes, clear certainty settled in his heart that this was Arabella’s ring.
He knew she’d never wear it while working, but hopefully she’d keep it on the special chain he’d bought her for such a purpose.
“Put Chicane in his digging box, ok, Angel?” Bash encouraged gently from his one-knee perch.
Not much threw Arabella Remington for a loop, and—Bash wasn’t going to lie—he was proudly enjoying the front-row seat as the architect of this rarity.
The flickering of the candlelight shimmering around her, Arabella nodded robotically, eyes still wide as she obeyed his quiet command. When she’d finished and turned back to him, she’d managed to school her features. But Bash swore he could see the pulse fluttering in her neck.
“Arabella, my queen, a little more than one month ago you made a deal with the devil. One that has upended your life. And while I’m sorry for exposing you to my Wheatley chaos, I’m not sorry at all that I’m in your life.
That you’re in mine. The last several weeks, beginning at twelve-forty-five on a fateful Friday, have been some of the best of my life.
I know we have an arrangement, and that this”—he waved the ring box—“was agreed upon to be a part of the deal. A visible sign of a temporary,” his throat caught on the bitter taste of that word, “commitment conceived to help each of us secure something we needed safeguarded.”
Arabella watched him carefully, and a smile tilted his lips as she began to cross her arms and then stopped, a matching smile turning up the corners of her mouth as she caught herself shifting into her preferred stance. The one he loved to tease her about.
“But when I saw this ring, I knew it was yours. I knew it was the symbol of my engagement with you. Because that’s what this is, Arabella Remington.
I’m fully engaged in your life. I want to stay that way for—” he halted, choosing his words carefully, “—for as long as you’ll have me.
Arabella, would you do me the honor of being engaged in my life too? Officially?”
The hand holding the box trembled, and he told himself it was fatigue from holding his arm up. But—to thine own self be true—he knew it was from nerves. Excitement at this precipice of possibility. And, most of all, fear that Arabella didn’t share the depth of his commitment.
And if that were the case? He’d dedicate his life and every atom of his being to convincing her that their true love journey was a rare and special road they’d travel together. And nothing and no one could deviate them from the path.