Page 25 of Late Harvest

In his entire life, even when his sister was critically ill twice, Bash wasn’t sure he’d ever experienced this sensation of deadness in his chest. At least with Honor’s illness, there had been hope, support. Now, sadness suffused his veins. Oppressive pressure weighted his body to the ground as if his limbs were made of lead, and telltale prickling behind his eyes signaled an oncoming rush of tears.

“Ok, then. Well, thank you for the opportunity to be considered, Walter,” he managed.

“Wait just a moment, please.”

Bash closed his eyes and shook his head. This was probably where Walt would tell him no hard feelings, he was still the dominant actor of his generation. Blah blah blah. He’d heard it all before. Empty fucking words when you’ve just seen your dream disintegrate.

“You still there, Bash?”

“Yes, sir,” he rasped, fighting for air and to hold back the tears that needed to come.

“Bash,” Walter began again, his voice kind but firm. “I just signed the principal female lead. The casting of Bram is the last piece of this puzzle.”

“I wish you the best of luck, sir.” Why the fuck won’t he wrap this call so I can cry like a baby and scream like a banshee already?

“I don’t need luck, Bash. I need you.”

“I’m sorry?” Bash’s twice-pierced eardrum was clearly malfunctioning.

“Bash, you’re my first choice for the role. No one else even comes close. I want you to play Bram.”

Bash gave a small shake to his head, confused, sucking in shaking breaths at the olive branch of hope that was being dangled. When he could finally speak, he was gratified to hear a steadiness that in no way matched his current emotional state. “I’m sorry, Walt. I’m not following. I’m going to need you to just say what you want.”

“What I want, Bash, is for you to grow up. I want you to lean into who you truly are instead of playing a role in real life. I want you to give yourself the chance to live like the man I know you are rather than the happy-go-lucky playboy who, if he keeps this up, is doomed to end up alone like his grandfather.”

Ok. That fucking stung.

“I’m not my grandfather,” he responded through clenched teeth, his jaw popping. He resented the implication that his five-times divorced grandfather and he in any way resembled each other beyond some physical attributes.

Jud Wheatley had been a serial husband, on par with Elizabeth Taylor. In the end, after his twenty-five-years-younger wife divorced him, Jud died alone at age fifty in an LA hospital. Bash’s parents had been on their honeymoon in Kenya and learned about it from a member of their safari crew. Heartbreaking.

Bash would not repeat Jud’s mistakes. If anything, his paternal grandfather, though he was an amazing actor, was the compelling impetus for Bash’s strong aversion to marriage. Hollywood was full of people like Poet Walsh, who traded marriage for status. Just like four of his grandfather’s five wives. Only Bash’s paternal grandmother had been a love match for Jud, and she’d died young. Jud then spent the rest of life marrying for all the wrong reasons. Bash would not do the same. Marriage wasn’t a trading card. Unless he found the right person, he’d go it alone.

“I’m not my grandfather,” he said again, this time with heat.

“No, you aren’t. And I’m sorry if I overstepped. It’s just that I’ve always thought it appeared you were only scratching the surface of life. And you have so much to add—blowing past all the comparisons to Jud that have followed you for your entire career.” Walter’s voice was matter of fact, with a hint of conciliation. “You’re smarter than he was, a far finer actor than I believe you ever get credit for, and you have a better head on your shoulders and heart in your chest. I’ve got two months to make a decision before we head to Austin to film. And I need some kind of rock-solid assurance that you won’t be engaging in frivolous flings and Poet-style public meltdowns that overshadow this film, Bash. If you can do that,” Walt paused, clearly having absorbed by osmosis the impact of a dramatic beat, “the role is yours.”

Bash’s mind was running hundreds of miles per hour. A Formula 1 racer wouldn’t have been able to keep up with the speed of his mind.

Formula 1.

Inspiration struck, and Bash’s jaw dropped at its perfection.

No, no, no. That wouldn’t work. She’d never go for it. It was outlandish. She’d barely given him the time of day yesterday, her only glances at him indifferent at best and fully uninterested at worst.

And yet…

Bash had to try. This was his dream at stake. He had to go balls-to-the-wall on this. No influencers and young starlets. He needed a mature, smart, stable partner—and the one he had in mind also happened to be irresistible as hell.

So what if she’d written him off with casual disdain. He’d shoot his shot with Arabella Remington. And if she balked? He’d just make it worth her while somehow.

He was fucking doing this. Paradise and Bram McLaughlin, buckle in, because here comes Bash Wheatley.

Bash gave himself an internal high-five and supportive thumbs up before opening his mouth. Here goes everything. “Well, Walt, I have some breaking news that I think will make you very happy, though I’d appreciate if you can keep this between us for now.” After a very dramatic pause to build the slightest element of anticipation, Bash confided, “I’ve recently entered into a new relationship. We’ve been keeping it quiet because she doesn’t like the spotlight.”

Silence greeted him. Then, “You’re in a relationship with a woman who doesn’t like the spotlight?” Skepticism bled through Walt’s words.

You’re an actor. Sell it.