Page 7 of Late Harvest

Inspiration struck.

“You could join us for lunch.” Why did he sound like a desperate fourteen-year-old asking the prettiest girl in school for a date?

Again, the small frown emerged on a face he couldn’t stop drinking in. “No thank you, Mr. Wheatley. As I’ve just said, my next case starts in fewer than fifteen minutes.”

The utter absence of warmth in her voice froze his mojo. That could be the only explanation for what dribbled out of his mouth next. “I played a doctor once,” he heard himself babble to her. “In an action movie. I saved the hospital from an active shooter with a grudge. It was quite an experience—people said I did a good job playing a doctor. Very, uh, doctorly.” Abject horror coiled in his stomach at his own word vomit.

What. The. Fuck?

Innards that had never before churned with embarrassment were tying themselves in knots. Bash longed for a chance to hit rewind. To erase the mortifying words that continued to escape his traitorous mouth.

He darted a pleading look at Brinder. Save me!

His brother-in-law was no help, simply regarding him with the ghost of a smirk. The eyebrow raised high on Brinder’s forehead indicated he clearly wasn’t going to pull the Save Bash Emergency Chute.

Bastard. He might take back that expensive, peaty whiskey he’d bought Brinder as a host gift. But Honor could keep the spa gift card he’d procured for her.

With no reprieve imminent, he had no choice but to continue his babble.

Be charming. Be funny.

“Yeppers. Won a People’s Choice for that role. And, uh, an MTV award. Best performance. Got one of those golden popcorn trophies. RIP MTV, right?”

That was neither, dumbass! Shut up. Just shut the fuck up, Sebastian Judah Wheatley.

Bash wanted to claw at his own mouth to remove the extreme, not-charming grin he was quite sure had spread across his face. While he contemplated nearby tools to facilitate said clawing—Amani’s letter opener was handy—his Scrub Angel scanned him head to toe. As dispassionate an assessment as he’d ever experienced.

“Congratulations. I’m sure you did a great job pretending to be something most of us spend at least a decade learning to master.” This was all said with zero affect.

Fucking fucknuts of fuckery.

As a graduate of a ton of therapy, Bash was self-actualized enough to recognize he loved attention. Thrived on it. He lived to make people laugh—got a total rush from it. He’d tolerate annoyance, only because he could usually charm his way out. Even anger was easy enough to defuse—often catalyzed by some self-deprecating joke at his own expense.

But utter absence of emotion? That was…new. He’d effed this one up right out of the chutes. Why was he being a hyper golden retriever?

Where the hell was the smooth Hollywood leading man?

He could almost hear “Taps” playing, as a golf announcer-like voiceover commentated sotto voice, “As we all can see, Bash Wheatley has whiffed mightily. And there goes his shot with the gorgeous Scrub Angel. Will he be smart enough to shut up?”

Ignoring the inner voiceover, he focused his gaze on Remy.

Her name was as unique and lovely as she was. She’d also clearly immured herself in ice so thick, Yukon Cornelius with an ice pick would be thwarted.

Despite that, or maybe because of it, he was genuinely fascinated by Remy. By her defensive armor. By the obvious respect Brinder had for her—and Brinder didn’t suffer fools.

Except maybe Bash himself—the ultimate fool.

Tamping down his embarrassment, Bash did the only thing he could to try and salvage things.

His voice ringing with authentic sincerity, he reached a hand out toward her and then let it drop when she remained motionless. “I’m truly sorry. I didn’t mean to imply I could in any way hold a candle to your actual expertise, Rem—Dr. Remington. I am in awe of medical professionals and what you do every day. I may have worn a cape in a role—simple play acting. But you and your colleagues truly are heroes. Please accept my sincere apologies for in any way inadvertently minimizing or oversimplifying your work and your contributions to medicine.”

There. That was better. Right?

Please let it have worked.

Remy merely nodded—it was almost queenly—then turned to Amani, who had briefly disappeared into Brinder’s office and emerged with the promised protein shake. “Thank you, Amani. You’re a treasure.” Remy’s eyes smiled even if her mouth didn’t. “Now I only have”—she consulted her phone—“eight minutes until I visit my patient in pre-op and scrub in.”

His brother-in-law fake pouted. “Why is she the treasure?” He motioned to Amani. “I’m the one who offered sustenance from his own precious shake supply.”