Page 10 of Late Harvest

He and Brinder had been in the café for only ten minutes, but Bash had spent nine of those signing autographs for the staff, and another minute selecting his salad with grilled chicken and some water. He’d bulked up for a recent role and had managed to maintain most of the muscle since filming and the accompanying regimen ended, only gaining back about five pounds. And those five were worth it. No one wanted to eat in such a controlled, bland way for too long. But he’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy the way the women who’d graced his bed oohed and aahed over that fucking vee he’d worked so hard with his trainer to obtain. So he’d kept the healthy habits up. Mostly.

Bash dropped onto the metal and plastic café chair, his tray rattling on the laminate tabletop. “Thanks for indulging me in lunch. I had to escape the warren of wily women.”

Brinder smirked, a knowing gleam in his eyes. “I take it Ross and Tiercy descended on the homestead?”

“Yes, plus Benny,” he added, wishing for the umpteenth time that Benny would agree to be his agent. But she insisted on all-female clientele, citing her personal mission to ensure women in the industry had strong, fair representation. There were other agents in her firm who represented men. But they couldn’t hold a candle to the indomitable Benoîte Tambeaux.

“Their loud shenanigans in the kitchen were terrifying.” He shivered dramatically, adding, “I don’t want to know what all they were talking about, but I exited stage right when I heard someone mention the massive ‘O’ they’d had that morning.”

“Had to be Ross.” Brinder laughed, scrubbing his hand down his face. Poor dude was sporting dark circles under his eyes. Baby Jude hadn’t yet figured out his days and nights.

“I don’t know her well, but it sounded like her. Thankfully it wasn’t my baby sister.”

Brinder lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “So I shouldn’t tell you about the massive O I gave her that jump-started her labor⁠—”

“Cease and desist!” Bash slapped his hands over his ears, earning more than a few curious glances. He was accustomed to the furtive, starstruck glances that came with the gig and easily ignored their audience, continuing with his dramatics. “Lalalala, I’m just sitting here thinking about Smurfs and rainbows and sparkling unicorns. Not at all hearing you. Lalalala…”

Brinder chuckled. “Uncover your ears. No details about Honor’s epic O⁠—”

“LALALA, rainbows and Smurfs, LALALA”

“Ok, ok. Sorry, mate. I’ll be good now. I promise.” Brinder laughed, holding up his hands in the universal sign of surrender.

“Crossing the sibling TMI line! Penalty! Subject change, mate.” Bash teasingly parroted him, emphasizing the last word. His brother-in-law had been in the States for decades but still retained a fair amount of his British accent. And the terminology. Bash’s strong actor gene couldn’t help but copy it. Occupational hazard. And if he could get in a friendly jab? Double win.

Focus on your Scrub Angel, jackass.

Brinder didn’t comment on Bash’s teasing, only shaking his head, lips tilted up in amusement, then smoothly continued their conversation. “Ten dollars says I know what you’re going to ask. Or, more precisely, who you’ll be grilling me about. Remy, right?”

“Holy shit, Brinder.” He paused for dramatic benefit and then stage whispered, “Yes, Remy.” A smile spread across Bash’s face. “I think I need to make an appointment to be seen by her. I’m coming down with something.”

Brinder rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “She’s an orthopedic surgeon. Not a primary care doc.”

“Ok. I’ll be right back. Just need to figure out how to tear my ACL real fast.” Bash pretended to get up, relishing the laugh that burst from Brinder. Clowns loved to generate good, honest laughter.

“Tell me everything about her. I have”—Bash grabbed his chest with one hand and fake swooned—“fallen in deepest infatuation at first sight.”

Brinder swallowed his bite, pointing his fork at Bash. “No. No no no. Absolutely not.”

“What?” Bash was all innocence.

“Don’t ‘what’ me, Bash Wheatley. I live with your sister, who can match you acting for acting, and I’m not falling for it.”

Technically, he was outmatched by his sister. At least, according to the members of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, who had awarded her two acting Oscars before the age of forty. Versus his zero Oscars.

But Bash had his golden popcorn from MTV. And a Nickelodeon Kids’ Choice Award for his rousing work in a blockbuster superhero movie.

Brinder fixed him with a firm stare that likely had cowed many over the years. “I am not doing anything to encourage you to add Arabella Remington to your list of conquests.”

Bash’s heart gave a little flop. “Arabella? That’s her first name?” He tried it out a few more times. “Mellifluous. It makes me want to say it over and over. Ideally in bed. I think she was intrigued by me. What do you think?”

Brinder snorted. “‘Happy surgerying,’” he parroted Bash in a falsetto voice.

“Hey!” Bash pointed his own fork. “Not nice.”

“No,” Brinder chuckled, “but bloody fucking hilarious.”

“’Bloody fucking hilarious,’” Bash grumbled, mimicking Brinder’s faded British accent. “It wasn’t my best moment⁠—”