Page 56 of Late Harvest

What do you get when dinosaur drivers crash their cars?

Tyrannosaurus wrecks.

—From Bash’s dad joke collection

Bash

“Ihad no idea Formula 1 was that exciting. I always thought it was zoomie cars only turning left and driving in circles.” Bash stood and stretched, amped from the race and the sheer joy of watching Arabella’s delight with the race and the outcome—not to mention her intoxicating presence.

So many times he almost leaned over and kissed her, but he didn’t want to disrupt her pleasure in her happy place. More than that, despite the passion she’d displayed a week ago in the driveway, Bash wasn’t sure how she’d respond to any advances he might make. He was slowly learning this complicated woman, but she was essentially still a stranger to him. And vice versa. He also got the distinct sense something god-awful had happened to her to force the creation of those formidable walls.

He wanted time to figure out how to bring them down, not sabotage his own efforts by acting too fast and inadvertently causing her to put up another one

From her perch on the couch, Arabella’s eyes strayed to his exposed lower abs and then darted back up. She played unaffected, but he could see the rate of her breathing increase. Testing a theory, he stretched again, twisting his torso side to side, his athletic pants slipping just a bit further down to reveal more of his hard-earned Adonis belt.

Bash swallowed a victorious smile at the burning of her gaze exactly where he’d wanted it. “Right, Arabella?”

“Oh, uh, yeah. Zoomie cars in circles.”

Arabella blinked rapidly and shook out her hands, fanning her face for a moment, then laced them again. Her cheeks had flushed a becoming shade of pink, trailing down her neck and under what he’d quickly deduced was a Red Bull Racing-branded performance shirt. She couldn’t meet his eyes, looking everywhere but at him. Bash wondered if he got close enough, would he scent the glorious aroma of arousal? Eau de Arabella…

“You’re thinking of NASCAR.” She coughed and cleared her throat. “And actually, that’s a fallacy. The original stock racing was on horse racing tracks, which were counterclockwise. Hence the”—she waved her hand in a circular motion—“prominence of left turns. But now there are a few road course races, therefore more variation in layouts, including left and right turns. But I still prefer the experience of Formula 1. So, uh, yeah,” she finished awkwardly, tucking her hair behind a delicate ear.

Bash grinned. Was his queen nervous? Maybe even a bit hot and bothered?

“Ok, yep. So give me a second, ok? Be right back.” Arabella darted toward the kitchen.

“Cool. Mind if I use your bathroom?”

“There’s a powder room just off the hall,” she called over her shoulder.

Bash took care of business and washed his hands. Arabella’s soap was boring—no scent, and sort of medicinal. He made a mental note to have Jared order some of the apple spice scented, foaming kind he liked. When he returned to the living room, movement caught his eye in the kitchen.

Remy whipped around to face him, slamming the freezer closed in the process.

His lips tilted up. “Did you just…have your head in the freezer?”

Arabella’s cheeks remained flushed and it didn’t seem to be from embarrassment. Or—unfortunately—from arousal.

Was she having one of those flash thingies? He’d never seen one in action. All the women he’d dated were too young for that particular affliction. But a co-star had once overshared about his wife’s symptoms. Bash was still scarred from the idea of a dried-out pussy. He shuddered.

Arabella hadn’t moved from her spot in front of the large, stainless-steel appliance. She frowned at him, clearly clocking his reaction to the memory. He watched in fascination as she assumed the mantle of warrior queen, which he recognized from his first sight of her as she firmly castigated her wayward resident. “If you must know, I was having a hot flash.”

Hot flash. That was the name. Bash nodded, trying to nonverbally convey that his shudder wasn’t directed at her.

“I don’t have them frequently anymore. But when I do, sometimes it helps to have the freezing cold on my skin. I haven’t had one in a while, but when they hit me, it’s like being boiled from the inside out. I must have gotten too worked up from the—from the race. Too much excitement…” she trailed, gamely trying to keep her regal bearing.

Bash’s heart softened into a pile of mushy, besotted goo in his chest. How hard must her life have been that her default stance was coolly defensive? Those were some wicked shields. What his almost-bride needed was a healthy dose of TLC. But would she accept it?

Oh fuck it.

He strode across the room into the kitchen and straight toward her.

Arabella backed up until she was pressed against the appliance, her chin lifted. And trembled.

Not taking a moment to second-guess himself or talk himself out of it, Bash reached a hand up and cradled her cheek. Tucking a sweat-dampened tendril at her temple behind the shell of her ear with his other hand, he then rested it gently along her neck. The frantic tattoo of her pulse battered against his fingers.

Slowly, he lowered his face to hers, pausing just before his lips reached hers, carefully telegraphing his intentions in case this wasn’t what she wanted. Consent mattered, and he braced for a push away, all the while lying to himself that he’d be ok with the rejection.