Page 21 of Late Harvest

Her husband, Xander, swatted her subtly on the rear as he passed. The knowing grin they exchanged stirred a twinge of envy in his gut.

Honor and Brinder. Tiercy and Cole—who reminded him of a dark-haired version of his fellow Marvel buddy, Chris. The irrepressible Ross and Xander. Gaby and Ted.

They’d all found the elusive “it.” Even after having a front row seat to his parents’ devotion to each other, Bash had never been certain true, lifelong love existed.

Or, more accurately, maybe it existed for others.

But not for him.

Oh, he’d tried. He’d been in more relationships than he cared to admit. But none of them ever touched, much less filled, that empty place in his heart. The women in his life had warmed his bed. They’d traversed red carpets with him. Sunned topless on yachts in the Med under his appreciative gaze. Dined next to him at the best restaurants.

But they’d all failed to do the one thing he’d always craved—open his eyes and his heart to a true and beautiful love.

And, now, his poor taste in romantic partners, coupled with a frustrating inability to fall in love—and stay in love—might just cost him the role of a lifetime.

Blissful peace had descended. Two babysitters had relocated the kids to Ross and Xander’s farmhouse with promises of movies and popcorn. Two of the younger children had already been put down for naps, carefully watched on a video monitor, with only little Leah Grace—the image of her mother—refusing to sleep. Instead, she was in Xander’s lap, currently playing with a large set of blocks on the round table where they all sat.

“How you doing, dearest darling brother?” Honor dropped to the chair next to him, passing a sound-asleep Jude into his arms. “Better now that the littles are occupied elsewhere?”

“The decibel level in here certainly has dropped.” He used his free hand to dramatically rub a forefinger against his outer ear. “But, honestly, it wasn’t that bad. They’re good kids. I like that little spitfire Jemma. I’d like to see her put Petey and Nick in their places in about fifteen years.”

“We’ve had similar conversations. Somehow Jemma manages to channel her Aunt Ross, even though there’s no shared blood. I feel sorry for future Tiercy and Cole. She’s going to give them a run for their money.” Honor released a carefree laugh. “A barbecue in a restored farmhouse barn. Not how you usually spend your Saturdays, hmm?” Honor grinned, the dimple in her cheek popping.

“It’s good to see you so happy, HonBon,” he said, invoking his childhood nickname for her.

“God, you haven’t called me that in ages.” Honor rested her head on his shoulder. “I’m glad you’re here, BashBash.”

He chuckled at Honor’s parallel use of her old nickname for him, and then glanced down at Jude, who hadn’t stirred.

“Oh, don’t worry about him. He’s in a milk coma.”

Bash rolled his eyes and grimaced theatrically. “Honor, I love you. But can you not bring up your”—he motioned in the direction of her chest—“milk, please.”

“My bad.” Honor sat up and shrugged, smirking at him.

He dropped a gentle kiss on Jude’s downy forehead and smiled at his sister, flashing to that scary time right after she’d been born. He was only ten, and had been chagrined about having a baby sister. She would be just one more thing to distract his parents’ attention. His parents were amazing—Bash knew he was more fortunate than most, experiencing true unconditional parental love—but he didn’t relish sharing the spotlight. No pun intended.

Needless to say, when Honor was born with Tetralogy of Fallot, a serious congenital heart defect, he transformed from grumpy older sibling to devoted, protective big brother. At least until he went off to NYU. And even then, he visited her as much as he was able.

And now look at her. From a deathly sick infant to a wildly successful and respected industry powerhouse. His sister truly was a force, and to say he was proud would be an understatement for the ages.

Bash stroked Jude’s dimpled hand.

“I know what you’re thinking about.” Honor’s eyes were fixed to Jude’s hand, regret and sadness painted on features that were famous to the world, but simply beloved by him.

“I can still picture the blue of your tiny baby fingernails. And Mom’s worried face as she held you. She never wanted the nurses to take you for tests because she was so worried it would be the last time—” Bash halted, choking up.

“It’s ok, BashBash,” Honor offered in her comforting way. His sister had a lot of practice calming the nerves of her loved ones—a sad skill many critically ill people developed. “It all worked out for me. Look at me now. Happily married, a mom to the world’s most perfect baby, and now a screenplay writer and producer.”

She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek and then sat back, assessing. “How about you, Bash? You doing alright?” Her large brown eyes, just like his, and which they’d inherited from their maternal grandmother, darted around, examining his face like they were one of Brinder’s X-ray machines.

“Never better,” he lied, unsure why he didn’t want to tell her what was really going on. Everyone else was deep in conversation, so why not now?

Except, he just…didn’t think he was ready to verbalize everything that had been going on in his mind and heart.

“I can read you like a book, Sebastian Judah Wheatley.” Honor smiled sadly. “I can tell something is eating at you. You might feel better if you got it off your chest.”

Bash snorted a small laugh. “Debatable.”