Page 100 of Late Harvest

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.