Page 115 of Late Harvest

“For what?” She matched his sotto voice.

“Loving me. Making me feel special out there. Like I’ve never experienced before.”

“Well,” she whispered, tilting her head, “Isn’t that exactly what your fated mate should do?”

Chapter Sixty-Two

Three moles were walking through a tunnel. The first said, ‘I smell sugar.’ The second said, ‘I smell honey.’ The third said, ‘I smell molasses.’

—From Bash’s dad joke collection

Bash

The ride up to the penthouse was quiet. Not because they were tired, but because Bash sensed both he and Arabella were each overwhelmed with emotions and trying hard to sort through them.

He could read her like a book, and he saw—or felt—everything going through her. Her initial awe at the controlled chaos of the red carpet. Her pride in him. Her possessiveness when confronted with Trina Elliott’s blatant flirting—which then sent a thrill of his own possessiveness through him. Her wonder at the spectacle of it all. Her pride in him. Her sheer happiness.

That was the easiest to read. She practically glowed. Even when she wasn’t smiling, her eyes were, the sapphire lighting up.

He’d been worried she’d be overwhelmed by the discordance and noise of a premiere. Instead? His queen had displayed the poise that had made her a chief resident, a leading surgeon, and now a chief of her specialty.

As for him, instead of his usual blasé, rote red carpet performance, he found himself experiencing it through her eyes and falling in love with the wonder of acting all over again. It was like she turned something on in him. Not just his cock—which was already thickening in anticipation of what he had planned—but his passion for film.

He’d been going through the motions for so long. But with the role in Paradise within reach, and his queen at his side, he relaxed. He took in all the glamour and chaos, the sophistication and spectacle, with fresh eyes.

And he was excited. And in love.

And also very much in lust.

Because good fucking God…when he’d stepped into their suite before the premier—deciding to ready himself in another room one floor below so he could enjoy the big reveal—he’d been stunned speechless.

She was a vision. An enticing, sophisticated vision, who carried herself with the grace of her years and accomplishments. A woman who was unfurling in splendor, embracing who she was and who she might become in this next season of her life. A reality where she had nothing left to prove and a world of hard-earned possibility at her fingertips.

His queen was accomplished. Self-actualized. Thoughtful. There was no artifice. Just a woman who knew what she wanted and was making it happen.

It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever witnessed. He was entranced by her.

Also, he desperately wanted to bury himself inside her. But not before he made her scream his name.

“Dollar for your thoughts?”

Arabella’s teasing question brought him back into focus. How many times had she needed to do that in their time together? Shit—had he taken his ADHD meds today? He needed a better reminder system.

“Big spender,” he parried, lacing their fingers as they entered the suite.

“Well, when in Rome,” she rejoined, motioning to the opulence around them.

Suddenly, Bash felt uncertain. Had this been too much? He always stayed here, but maybe it was too ostentatious for his Virginia surgeon from humble beginnings. “Is this ok?” He caught himself tapping his foot nervously and forced his leg to be chill, even if the rest of him wasn’t.

“Are you kidding?” One artfully sculpted eyebrow lifted high. “This is incredible. You should always have premieres.” She grinned. “I love this place.”

Relief washed through him. Of course his queen would take the penthouse of the Beverly Hills Hotel in stride.

“I only have premieres a couple times a year, max.”

“Boo,” she drawled.

“But I’ll bring you back whenever you want. Or take you to other incredible places.”