Page 90 of Late Harvest

Chapter Forty-Eight

Why did the Star Wars movies come out in the order

four, five, six, one, two, three?

In charge of the sequence, Yoda was.

—From Bash’s dad joke collection

Bash

Asweet smile of relief emerged, lighting up Arabella’s eyes. “The autobiography of Sebastian Judah Wheatley—an eponymous one-man show performed in the privacy of my living room? Hang on, let me get my phone. I can make millions off this.” She winked at him and offered a tiny smile, though grief remained etched on her face.

“I’m already giving you tens of those millions, my queen,” he teased, then sobered as her face fell. “Arabella, I was just kidding. I’m sorry.”

“It’s ok,” she whispered. “I know you were. I was, as well. I’m sorry. I’m feeling a bit…raw…right now, and my filter is a bit wonky. Regardless, I shouldn’t have joked about violating your privacy.”

He ran a fingertip across the back of her hand, tracing the veins that carried her precious blood. “And I shouldn’t have joked about my donation. It’s an important cause, and one I’m honored to support—not only for the good work, but for the woman who’s agreed to grace my life.”

Pausing to assess her and their current situation, he decided to deploy some comic relief—for both their sakes. “The gorgeous, wily surgeon has fallen into my mastermind’s trap, muahahahaha!” He rubbed his hands together like an evil villain before theatrically exclaiming, “Now she shall be mine…muahahahaha!”

Arabella tucked her chin to her chest, another tiny smile playing on her lips. Then she raised her eyes to him, something pure and resilient shining through. “I love your sense of humor, Sebastian Wheatley.”

“Why, thank you. I love making you laugh.” Bash returned her smile, only wider. “In fact, my first role ever was a clown.”

She cocked her head and he reached over to smooth the hair that was mussed from dragging her hand through it. When Arabella leaned slightly into the small embrace, happiness and a sense of rightness had his heart dancing a joy jig.

“I love clowns,” she offered quietly, pulling away and watching him a bit shyly from under sooty black lashes—which she’d apparently inherited from an asshole of a human.

He fought the desire to rage, forcing himself to focus on the moment and not on how much he longed for time travel so he could visit her parents—and he used that term under protest—and tear them to shreds, before whisking his queen away.

Focus, focus, be present, he admonished himself—not for the first time, and quite possibly for the millionth in his life.

He nodded toward the figurine on her mantle, a cheery clown with a bright smile holding balloons. “That’s actually the only clown I’ve seen that isn’t creepy.”

“Be nice.” She flicked his leg playfully, Chicane chattering in agreement from his perch between her legs. Truth be told, the horny part of Bash resented their little prince a teensy bit—ok, a lot—for usurping the spot he wanted between Arabella’s legs.

Hop off that runaway train of thought, Bash, unless you want to pop a poorly timed boner.

“But why clowns? They’re pretty much universally reviled.”

“Exactly.” She pointed a finger at him. “That’s why I love them. Think about a clown’s purpose⁠—”

“To freak people out?” he supplied, grinning.

“To make people laugh,” she returned, eyes flashing with passion. “To make them happy. Bring joy. Entertain. And somewhere along the way, they’ve been twisted into creatures of horror. Misunderstood. It’s so sad to me.” She shook her head. “Did you know clowns can be traced back to ancient Egypt—more than two thousand years before the common era? And you can find them in indigenous American cultures, in classic Greek theater. The list goes on.”

“And did you know, my queen, Shakespeare used the clown—the jester—to great effect?” Bash added, charmed by Arabella’s unexpected soft spot.

Arabella nodded. Of course she knew. His woman was brilliant. The fact that she’d accomplished all she did with her itinerant childhood and disjointed primary and secondary education—never mind the terror realm of abuse she’d suffered through—made her accomplishments even more impressive.

“Tell me about your clown role?” Remy rose to put Chicane in his play area, returning to the couch and facing him.

He reached for her feet and pulled them onto his lap, rubbing them to the tune of tiny, gratifying sounds from his queen. “My first major speaking role was Feste, the clever clown in Twelfth Night. He has some of the best lines, and plays a pivotal role in bringing two stubborn, misguided couples together.”

“How old were you?”

“Eighteen. At what was then my parents’ newly established playhouse in the Cotswolds.” He smiled, remembering those early days fondly. “Jock and Clem Wheatley were very reluctant to let either of their children act. They wanted to be sure Honor and I pursued it for the right reasons and didn’t feel pressured to join the family business, so to speak. But,” he lifted his shoulders, “it’s in the blood. I harangued them until they caved. Feste was a role that spoke to me, and I was determined.” He rotated an ankle and she groaned again, sinking further into the couch. Good. He loved to spoil her. “A little Bash Wheatley fun fact—I was named after one of the main characters in that play. It was the role my romantic of a father was playing when he met my mother.”