Page 22 of Late Harvest

Honor’s brown eyes danced. “Does this have something to do with a certain orthopedic surgeon?”

Bash startled, this time disturbing his sleeping nephew, who began emitting whimpering noises, though his eyes were still closed. “Sorry, Judie-patootie,” he whispered, rocking back and forth.

“Sssh, baby,” Honor crooned, stroking her son’s head. Like magic, Jude quieted into peaceful slumber.

“Ok, that’s pretty fucking impressive, sis.”

“I know, right?” He and Honor wore matching smiles.

“Well, if you want my advice, you’re probably punching above your weight class with Remy,” Honor said, not unkindly.

Bash frowned. “I figured that out pretty quickly yesterday.” But that didn’t mean he wasn’t still low-key obsessed with his Scrub Angel.

“That came out wrong. Not above your weight class…maybe just the wrong ring. Oh, phooey. For a screenwriter, I’m mucking this up horribly. I just mean…” Honor looked up, searching for the words. “You’re a catch, brother. But Remy’s a complicated woman. Brinder’s always gotten the sense she’s been hurt. Badly. Maybe she wouldn’t be the best playground for you right now.”

Bash pictured Remy. She was stunning. But he had stunning women at his fingertips. There was something more there. What was it about Arabella Remington that connected with some previously untouched part of his heart?

Several female voices drifted from across the barn. Honor turned toward her friends, who’d summoned her. “I need to chat with my ladies for a minute.”

“Of course,” Bash responded drily. “Because you clearly never get the chance to.”

“Sarcasm doesn’t become you, BashBash,” Honor snarked back jokingly, sucking in her cheeks in fake consternation.

“Once again…debatable.” He winked at her and she rolled her eyes.

“Incorrigible.”

“Yep.” He pressed another kiss to Jude’s forehead. “You want Baby Bash back?”

Honor’s eyes flared and she snorted a laugh. “That is so not his name.”

“Yes, I noticed. And had I not been able to deliver my thoughts in person, I planned to write you a strongly worded email about you naming him after our father and grandfather instead of your dearly devoted BashBash.” He feigned umbrage.

“He has your middle name, too, you whiner. Now give me my kid back before you corrupt him.” Honor laughed, wrapping her arms around him in a fierce hug before gently tucking her son into her arms. “Love you, big brother.”

“Love you too, baby sister.”

Affection washed through him as she walked away, nuzzling her baby. His sister had her life together. Maybe it was time for him to do the same.

But the one woman who captured his attention, who provided the sheer impetus to actually pull his shit together, displayed zero reciprocity.

Swirling his whiskey, Bash couldn’t help but release a big sigh of frustration. He was an idiot to be pining after a woman who clearly wasn’t interested in giving him the time of day. His DMs were filled with willing women. And men, to be honest—not that he was interested in that form of a relationship, but it was still flattering.

Now he was sitting in his own thoughts once again, preoccupied with his Scrub Angel when what he really needed to do was figure out a plan to convince a certain producer, one Walter Pennyrose, that despite Bash’s status as a notorious bachelor, he was the best person for the male lead in his upcoming film. Bash’s dream role.

The harsh truth was he had slim-to-no chance of convincing Walter to sign him for the role. Why? It was depressingly common industry knowledge—and Bash’s own lived experience—that he wasn’t seen as a ‘serious’ actor. From his first film role at twenty-two, fresh out of the NYU Tisch School of the Arts, he’d been typecast in one of two roles—the charming romcom boyfriend or the action hero.

The more dramatic roles always slipped through his fingers. His friend and longtime agent, Guinn Nelson Randell—or Slash, as he was commonly known because of his GNR initials—had encouraged him over and over to stick with his wheelhouse. And in the beginning of his career, that advice suited him just fine. The roles were fun and easy to come by. Plus, they quickly landed him on the highest-paid actors list, funding a lifestyle that appealed to him, and resulting in the women of his choice in his bed. Sometimes a few at a time.

But in the last year, something had shifted in him.

Maybe it was seeing his baby sister win her second Oscar—accepting her gold statue while massively pregnant with Jude. Or his mother’s Tony for her lead role in an adaptation of The Lion in Winter. Or maybe his dad’s sixth BAFTA. Or the Razzie Bash himself ‘won’ for an embarrassment of a role in the worst, cheesiest movie he’d ever been associated with.

Oh, Slash had loved it. Had browbeaten Bash until he’d finally accepted the part, hoping his own acting skills would elevate the cringe-worthy screenplay. His earnings, even though the movie bombed at the box office, were enormous. Meaning Slash’s ten percent commission was more money than the average person made in a decade.

Or…maybe he was just fucking sick of being a punchline. The ‘Weak Branch of the Illustrious Wheatley Family Acting Tree’ was how Variety had phrased it recently.

He had to get this part. He needed it. Not for the money. He had more than he could ever spend in twenty lifetimes. Not even for the prestige.