Page 23 of Late Harvest

No, what he really wanted was to rediscover the joy in acting that had suffused his veins since he made his first appearance at his parents’ theatre in Twelfth Night. The heady sensation of the script between his fingers as he memorized his lines. Stepping boldly out onto the stage like a homecoming. The warmth of the klieg lights bathing his face. The laughter of the audience. The beaming approval of his parents.

When truth settles into your veins, it’s undeniable.

And the truth was, Bash Wheatley had always loved acting. Loved the art of it. Loved the long, sometimes grueling days on set. The rush of a premiere, fans screaming his name as he traversed the red carpet, his blood humming in anticipation. Even loved—most of the time—the press junkets, when he answered the same questions over and over.

If he never made another penny for a role, he knew in his bones he’d always be an actor. It was what he was born to do. Bring characters to life. Provide his audience the gift of blissful escapism for a couple hours.

Lately, however, everything had fallen flat. Much to Slash’s ire, he’d turned down action flick after action flick. Romcom after romcom. A part of him felt disingenuous playing the love interest to women half his age—even if that did mirror his personal life. He was weary of fluffy romcoms and plot-thin action-adventures.

He wanted more. He was finally ready for more.

He just needed Walter Pennyrose to believe in him.

Chapter Ten

How many actors does it take to change a lightbulb?

One—the actor holds the bulb and the world revolves around him.

—From Bash’s dad joke collection

Bash

Bash listened to the idle chatter and laughter around him, envious of the relaxed normalcy of this tableau, so opposite the candy-coated fakery and masked venom of Hollywood. His motto—‘to thine own self be true’—revealed the harsh reality that he was beyond jealous of the love and companionship each couple seemed to exude. At least Lila Somerville was in the same boat—an odd person out.

He took a moment to subtly examine her, wishing she did it for him. Lila was adorable—though she likely hated it when people used that word. But, she was. Blonde curly hair fell to the middle of her back. Her hazel eyes were expressive and framed in gorgeous thick lashes his practiced eye could tell were real. She wasn’t rail thin, but her ass was spectacular. Bash was a connoisseur of spectacular asses, so he knew what he was talking about. She was also witty and emanated a warmth that made him want to beg her to be one of his best friends. In a perfect world, she’d rev his engines and he’d take her back to her place and bring them both some sexual bliss.

But…she didn’t. Oh, she was definitely attractive. It was just that a certain brunette who wore her icy reserve like a queen’s mantle was preoccupying his mind non-fucking-stop. It was like his brain was dedicated to two things and two things only—Arabella Remington and this fucking elusive role.

As Bash reached for his whiskey—Xander had finally come through with that—his phone buzzed in his pocket. Glancing at it, the blood drained from his head.

Walter Pennyrose.

“I need to take this,” Bash called out to no one in particular. His sister frowned after him, clearly reading the stress on his face.

“You ok?” she mouthed.

He nodded, striding from the barn to seek privacy.

Please. Please, God. I know I only seem to pray when I want something. Like when Honor was sick. But if You help me here, I promise I’ll do better. I’ll donate more to charity. I’ll do shifts at the food pantry. Whatever You want. Just…please.

Bash interrupted his mental bargaining with whatever supreme being he hoped was listening to tap the green button with shaking fingers, accepting the call he hoped would change his life.

“Bash Wheatley.” His hand shook, but thankfully his voice remained steady.

“Bash!” Walter’s deep voice boomed through the speaker.

Wincing, he pulled the phone away and rubbed his ear with one finger. Did no one respect eardrums anymore? He was already feeling old. The last thing he needed was hearing loss and those aids he’d have to stick in his ear canal.

Bash shivered at the thought and returned his focus to the call. “Walter. Good to hear from you.”

Well done. You sound relaxed, casual. Project confidence, Bash. After months of vague noncommittal back and forth between Walter and Slash, perhaps this was the door finally opening.

“I’m calling to speak with you about the lead role in Paradise.”

Walter’s tone was maddeningly neutral and Bash’s heartrate ticked up as he tried to discern whether this would be good news or not. He clenched his free hand, willing his legs to stop trembling. Please be good news. Please be good news. Don’t sound like a human golden retriever. Dial it down. “Yes, I’ve been looking forward to hearing from you.” Good, good, good. You didn’t speak with an exclamation point. Nicely done.

“Yes,” Walter paused. “Well, your agent hasn’t made it easy lately. I ended up getting your cell from your sister’s agent when Slash wasn’t returning my calls.”