Page 45 of Late Harvest

An impasta.

—From Bash’s dad joke collection

Bash

Enzo had rushed out of the kitchen, practically apoplectic at the scare. He fussed over Arabella and hugged her at least four times. His queen hugged the man back with awkward pats that would have been amusing if his mind weren’t still flashing to the memory of her choking. After the brouhaha settled, lunch patrons still subtly and not-so-subtly holding up their phones, Bash decided it was better to get their meals wrapped and finish eating in the privacy of Remy’s—and now his, he guessed—home.

Arabella insisted she was fine, refusing to let him drive like the stubborn queen she was. He acquiesced, but watched her like a hawk the entire ride back. Once, clearly disconcerted by his unwavering attention, she’d sniped weakly at him to ‘take a picture, it’ll last longer.’ But he simply smiled benignly and continued his hypervigilant observation.

Certainly, he loved cataloging her features. She was a stunning woman. But, more than that, her choking incident had scared the shit out of him. One minute they were talking and negotiating, and the next, she’d stood up, fear written on her face as she fought to get air in her lungs.

Muscle memory had kicked in, and he hadn’t hesitated, rushing behind her to perform a maneuver he’d only playacted on screen, praying it would work.

As they’d returned to her car, she’d calmly told him that the chances of laryngospasm or aspiration were minute. Instead of easing his worries, he freaked out silently inside—torn between Googling symptoms of those and watching her. He’d opted for the latter, needing to visually verify she was ok, his eyes homing in on her throat as if he were a human MRI machine capable of seeing inside to confirm proper safe functioning of her body.

Add to that the visceral guilt pounding through him. It was his fault she’d choked. He was the one who’d brought up her initiating sexual contact, egging her on.

Holy shit. If anything had happened to her…

“Hey?” This time when Arabella interrupted his mind-meandering, her voice was soft. He refocused his eyes on her. “How was Bash Wool-gathering Land?”

Bash blinked twice and looked around, realizing they’d pulled into her driveway. “Honestly? Horrific,” he responded, embarrassed at the tears building in his eyes.

Bash was not an emotion-prude. Perhaps it was the range of feelings he had to tap as an actor, or maybe the therapy his parents had insisted on to support him both as a child in the parental spotlight and the sibling of a sister who’d stared down death twice. Regardless of the why, tears came easily to Bash, as did laughter—and sometimes anger. He was in touch with his emotions and proud of it. Still, he’d barely known his Scrub Angel for two days. She didn’t need to see him blubbering—especially when it was she who’d had the scare and he who caused it.

Bash forced oxygen into his lungs, blinking back the tears.

“Sebastian. Are you ok?” She fidgeted with the seat belt with her distractingly capable, healing fingers.

“Just…that was a lot. I think I’m just having a delayed reaction to the whole you trying to shove your entire meal down your throat at once thing.” He managed a teasing wink and she shook her head, a tiny, amused smile lifting her lips.

The fact was, Arabella was so damn appealing to him. Like the angels partnered to convince God to send him the perfect woman. And for some unknown reason—because heaven knew he didn’t deserve it—God listened.

And now? He just wanted to hold her. Assure himself that she was ok. That fresh air poured, unobstructed, into her lungs. “I—may I hold you? Just to make myself feel better?”

One eyebrow arced high. “You want to hug it out?”

Bash dropped his head and chuckled, then caught her eyes and held them. Such a gorgeous navy-blue color. He tamped down inconvenient nerves, summoning his inner clown. “Think of it as a kindness to the knight who saved you so valiantly.”

She gave an adorable laugh.

“I really want to know what it feels like to have you in my arms. And I maybe have a tiny bit of PTSD from your episode. Only a hug can save me.”

Something unreadable flashed across her face, but she quickly smoothed whatever it was away. “I know a bit about PTSD.” Her voice wavered a little. “Hugs aren’t the usual prescription.”

“In this case, I feel certain it’s the only thing that can help,” Bash insisted. And he wasn’t lying—he ached to hold her.

Arabella studied him silently, and Bash imagined a tiny war going on in her head. Or her heart. Or both. With a barely visible nod—as if affirming her internal decision—Arabella unbuckled her seat belt, shifting toward him.

He did the same, enfolding her in his arms and dropping his head into the sacred, heavenly place between her shoulder and her beautiful, brilliant head. The soft strands of her hair brushed his cheek. It was damned uncomfortable in her sporty car, but he didn’t give a flying fuck. She was in his arms, and he wasn’t letting go until he had to.

At first, she was rigid, her arms fastened down at her sides. Bash remained still, allowing her to grow accustomed to the embrace.

Was she unused to physical affection? Bash and his people were high-octane huggers. Bring on the hugs. All of them.

Arabella was like a skittish animal, fearful of touch. And, yet, patience often carried the day in those situations. Gently, he rubbed small circles on her back.

Bash felt the moment her body began to soften in infinitesimal degrees. Then, in a perfect moment he was sure would be carved into his memories for eternity, she melted into him with a soft exhalation.