Sparking the Fire (26 page)

The curve of his mouth against her temple brought out her own smile. “Funny you remember that.”

How could she forget the sexy Marine spouting the Bard? “If I hadn't already been doing you, that would have tipped you over into the win column. So are you still the shy, retiring one in the family?”

“Wouldn't say that.” His grin was half wicked, half cocky. All sexy. “But I'm not one for drawing attention to myself. What you do, forever front and center, takes real guts, Molly.”

Her warm fuzzies were replaced by panic. “You're taking a risk with me. If someone from the press saw us together—”

“I can handle that, Molly. I knew what I was getting into when I took on this job.”

“I'm still a job?”

“Yeah, you're quite the chore, Cade.” He kissed her shoulder and worked up the curve of her neck. “But I've always loved my work.”

And then he proceeded to show her just how much.

 CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“H
ow do you know if it's no good?”

Molly looked up to find Roni in her usual misunderstood-teen uniform of combat boots, leggings, and long-sleeved black tee with manga characters blinking big, expressive eyes. In one hand was her phone, in the other one of the comics she was never seen without. But today revealed an unexpected plot turn—her face was open and curious.

She sat down beside Molly on the patio sofa. “The script. How do you know if it's terrible?”

Like the junk Molly was reading right now? She really needed to employ a script reader, but she was having a hard time surrendering control. What if she missed the next big thing?

“It has to have three checks in its favor. An interesting conflict, the ability to surprise me, and my balls in a vise by page ten. Most scripts are about a hundred pages, so it's got ten percent to prove it's worth my time. Very few make it.” She cast a dismissive glance at the pile of rejects. “I'm reading scripts by women or with strong female protagonists first.”

“Sounds sexist.”

“It's my production company, so I can be as sexist as I want. It also has to pass the Bechdel test.”

Roni looked blank.

“There has to be at least one conversation between two women that's not about a man.” She eyed the obviously interested teen. “What kind of movies or TV do you like?”

“Superheroes. Jessica Jones. Black Widow. Wonder Woman as long as she's not getting rescued by stupid Batman or Superman.”

“Sometimes even tough girls need a little help.”

Roni delivered her patented look of
Don't try to connect with me.
So fickle. “Must be handy having an ex-marine around to fight your battles.”

“It's former marine, and I'm glad he was there.”

On a desultory sniff, Roni turned to her comic. The cover portrayed a spiky-haired girl in an all-white clingy one-piece suit, silhouetted against a futuristic landscape. The title
Rocker Girl
blared in blocky letters.

“Who's Rocker Girl?”

“She's a teen cop.” Roni looked up. “In the future,” she added, explaining the obvious.

“Would you go see a movie about her?”

“You'd screw it up, so don't even try.”

Next.
Molly rifled nimble fingers through the scripts. “Could you do me a favor?”

Roni eyed the script in Molly's hand. Briefly, her eyes lit up with interest before dimming. Molly waited for the next predictable plot turn . . .
Bored shrug.

“I have a script, but I don't know much about the source material. It's something about a group of girls who can change into creatures.
X-Men: First Class
meets
Twilight
.”

“Like shifters?” Suspicious curiosity brightened her voice.

“Right.” She supposed. “They're immortal and have to fight these beings that enter from other dimensions—”

“Sounds like
Animaux
.” She leaned in, her body language completely transformed. Molly could sense her excitement, and it made Molly not a little excited, as well. “You have a chance to make a movie of
Animaux
?”

Molly acted her most blasé. “Is that a comic?”

“It's not really big,” Roni said. “If they make a movie of it, it'll get bigger.”

“That's a bad thing?”

“The worst.” She motioned for the script and Molly handed it over. “I'll give it ten percent.” She flipped to the first page, head already dipped so she never saw the smile that lifted Molly's lips.

W
yatt held up his set pass and a cop waved him through the barricade fifty feet from the entrance to Engine 6. Today's schedule featured location shooting, and his firehouse had been chosen for the exterior and bay shots. (
We decided it months ago,
Molly had insisted.) Over his shoulder, a mob of bystanders stood with phones at the ready, eager for a glimpse of Molly Cade.

“How long have they been here?” he asked the officer on duty. His badge said Ramirez.

“I came on shift two hours ago and most of them were already here.” He gave a smartass smirk. “All they have to do is Google her name and they'll find all the pictures they want.”

Wyatt balled his fists and counted to ten. Was this how it would always be whenever those photos were mentioned around him?

Officer Ramirez shifted his flat feet, probably wondering why he was getting the
I'm gonna kill you
stare-down. “Hey, don't you play hockey in the league?” he asked into the ever-lengthening silence.

“Yeah.” Wyatt walked away, and Ramirez got to live another day.

Wyatt had been back to the house a couple of times to pick up paperwork for his leave but today's energy was different. Walking in, he breathed deep the scent of rubber, motor oil, and—sniff—last night's chicken cacciatore à la Gage. Cameras were already in position and the place was a flurry of activity; it hadn't seen this much action since that charity calendar was shot here over a year ago. Luke making a fool of himself while making eyes at Kinsey. Good times.

Wyatt stepped over cables, nodded at a few of the film crew, and headed to the lounge to say hello to any of his rubbernecking platoon who might have stuck around. Undoubtedly, Venti was practicing his intro to Molly in the latrine's mirror this very minute.

On turning a corner, he halted in surprise. His niece stood at the Wall of the Fallen, staring at a picture of her dad, and in that moment, a terrifying conclusion hit him with all the force of a 400 psi hose:

She could have died and he might never have met her.

Roni's mom had shown him photos of Wyatt's bald and beautiful niece, taken as she battled leukemia six years ago. In every picture, bruised, weakened, and hairless, her eyes loomed large, like a message from her dad to take care of his girl. Guilt that he had deprived his family of her company for so long gnawed at him. Had he played it right? Should he have pushed Jen harder? He had no freakin' clue. What he did know was that he would do everything in his power to ensure nothing—whether it was a human enemy or the kind that tries to extinguish life from the inside—would ever hurt her again.

He stepped back, intending to give her space, but she'd already seen him. The vulnerable expression on her face gave way to her bored-teen mask. All she was missing were earbuds, a bubblegum snap, and a flip of the bird.

“Didn't know you were coming here today. I could have given you a ride.”

“Aunt Alex brought me. She thought it would be fun to see where she works and visit a movie set at the same time.”

He noticed she had a visitor's pass, probably set up by Molly. He also noticed that she had said where Alex works, not Wyatt. He pretended not to notice how his heart panged at that.

“Your dad was a big deal around here.”

“People usually get a pass when they croak.”

Harsh, but not wrong. If Logan were here, though, he'd be loving the hell out of her. Surely she knew that. If she'd learned a single thing about this family, it was that when they loved, they went all in.

“You already get the tour?”

“Yeah.” She looked over her shoulder. “I'm going to find Uncle Gage. He's still trying to work his way into the movie.”

“God help us.”

She laughed, and immediately clammed up when she realized her mistake.

“I'm not the enemy, Roni.”

“No, you just look like him.” She turned heel and left him standing there, astonished.

Was this the source of his niece's animosity? Sure, he and Logan resembled each other if you looked hard enough, but that's where it ended. If anything, Wyatt had been the dark angel to Logan's sunny nature. Apparently the blood connection that should have bound them closer was enough to put him on his niece's shit list, when all Dempseys not named Wyatt were making the fucking grade.

What did you expect, Fox?
Every single one of them was a magnet, sucking the world into their bright orbits. Not good enough for Billy Fox. Not good enough to be Dempsey.

INTERIOR FIREHOUSE NO. 77, CHICAGO'S NORTH SIDE

Chase Macklin jumps off the fire truck, furious. Kelly Flynn follows him to the back of the engine.

KELLY

Chase, you need to calm down. There's nothing you could have done.

CHASE

(loud)

Not helpin', Flynn.

KELLY

(soothing)

Sometimes the runs turn to crap. We can't save 'em all.

Chase turns and grabs Kelly by the shoulders, pushes her against the fire truck, and kisses her.

“Cut!”

Mother of God.

Molly's costar had actually torn his lips away from hers and called time on the scene.

“Gideon, mate,” Mick called softly from the director's chair. “My job.”

“What the hell was that, Molly?” Gideon spat out. “You're kissing me like a wet fish.”

Mick loped over. “What's the problem here?”

Molly could feel the back of her neck redden with humiliation. No one appreciated their kissing technique being likened to a wet fish, especially while the crew looked on, projecting bored. But she knew better. They were filing it away for some later tell-all that would be attributed to an “inside source” on the set.

“Sorry, guys,” Molly said. “Just nerves.”

“Of course, darling. We all get them.” He glared at Gideon, clearly not appreciating his unprofessional attitude in kiss-shaming his costar in front of the crew. “Perhaps you and Gideon could take a moment to discuss the blocking.”

Blocking wasn't the problem, unless you counted her psychological block. Bottom line: Molly hated kissing and despised love scenes. Not only because it was embarrassing to have your bits flapping about while thirty blasé crew members watched or because you'd just had mac and cheese with your costar at craft services, and a pasta shell had somehow landed in his hair and fell onto your boob during filming (true story). For Molly, it ran deeper. A love scene had always meant that Ryan would go into one of his jealous rages.

Following the release of her last rom-com, before she was elevated to bubonic plague threat level by the studios, she'd received a few less-than-glowing reviews about her on-screen chemistry with her costar. Essentially, she had been conditioned by her ex-husband to
in no way, don't even think about it
look like she might be enjoying a kiss with a fellow actor. The ones that were required by the script.

Ryan had always assumed she was banging everyone on the set.

So when it came to intimate scenes, she would go as stiff as a clapboard. Which meant there were several retakes and an ever-spiraling sense of failure in that aspect of her craft.

Today's scene was supposed to take place after a particularly tough run. Adrenaline high, spirits low, let's get it on.

And Wyatt was here.

She hadn't expected that. There wasn't anything scheduled that required a CFD consult, but it was his firehouse, so she supposed he had every right to be present. But now all she could think of was a jealous lover. Ryan questioning her when she got home about whom she had kissed that day on the set. He'd known everyone's schedule, had all the call sheets from her movies.

“Mind if we take five?” Molly asked Mick.

“No probs, darling.”

She needed a moment to breathe, to think about how to play it, how to loosen her lips and her inhibitions. She looked around, and seeing no sign of Wyatt, insisted that disappointment felt close to relief. At least he hadn't witnessed her humiliation. The firehouse was empty, taken out of dispatch rotation for the shoot, so she walked through the unoccupied corridors, talking to herself and gathering her wits.

Possibly mutually exclusive endeavors.

A door opened and Wyatt stepped out. She tried to ignore the sunbeams of joy that burst in her chest. Failed spectacularly. “Hi—”