Sparking the Fire (27 page)

He grabbed her hand, walked her a few feet, and sexily manhandled her behind another door. It was a large walk-in closet smelling of rubber and testosterone, and filled with bunker gear and one verra sexy man.

“Babe.”

“Wyatt, I have to get back. I'm supposed to be taking just five.”

“Yeah, I saw it didn't go so well.”

She groaned her embarrassment.

“I'm gonna pretend it's because the thought of kissing anyone but me turns your stomach.”

“Well . . .”

“Have pity on my ego, Hollywood.”

Laughing, she wrapped her arms around his solid trunk. He was so hard and strong and safe, and she'd give anything to stay inside this room. Inside all the bubbles he had created for her. Her home for the summer, the backseat of his Camaro, this world made for two.

“Don't like how he talked to you.” He brushed his lips along the top of her head. “Made me want to talk to him.”

“That's not necessary. I can handle it.” By ignoring it.
Minimize, de-escalate, move on.
“I've been having problems with my love scenes for a while. I just get all wound up thinking about my ex.”

She felt him stiffen. “What about him?”

“He assumed there was always something going on with my costars. He'd accuse me of ridiculous things.”

Wyatt rubbed tight, soothing circles on her back. “Like what?”

“It was a lot of little stuff over the years. Small cuts that opened into bigger wounds. Petty jealousies that blossomed into divo rages. Instead of celebrating my success, he related everything to his own failures. We could never be up at the same time. He wanted an extension of himself, a trophy he could control, someone who fed into his image of superstar. Even the spooning was tyrannical.”

The soothing back rub stopped. “Tyrannical spooning?”

“I hate spooning in bed. I get too hot and sweaty and uncomfortable, but Ryan insisted on it. He said it was a sign of our closeness and his need to protect me. You know, the strong, manly big spoon has to take care of the fragile, lady little spoon. The whole setup is riddled with patriarchal overtones.”

Molly Cade, you have officially lost it.

Peeking up, she expected to find Wyatt mentally planning his getaway from the crazy lady in the firehouse. This is what she was like, a self-absorbed Hollywood nut job with so much baggage she needed a Sherpa to carry it around.

He wore an expression of tremendous gravity. Shocker. “I promise never to oppress you with spooning.”

She laughed, feeling inordinately silly and completely seen.

“This guy of yours didn't trust you. You. The best thing to ever happen to him,” Wyatt said, his gaze intent and true. “Idiot shouldn't have hooked up with an actor, then. He's not here, Molly. Your ex has no power over you anymore.”

Oh, really? Those damn pictures said different. She wouldn't be surprised if Ryan encouraged his ex-agent to pass on the information about the leak to Cal. He'd have known how much it would throw her off her game. A year later, and he still had his claws in her.

“It's this Pavlovian thing. Lights, camera, kiss—and I turn into a statue.”

Wyatt held her gaze, considering. She loved watching him work problems out.

“So, having been an enthusiastic participant in your original role-playing shenanigans, I happen to know you lead a vivid fantasy life.”

Not what she expected, but okay.

“And you're an Oscar-nominated actor at the top of your game.”

“I'll stipulate to that, Counselor.”

“Close your eyes and think of me.”

Say what, now?
“You're recommending I fantasize about you while I kiss another man?”

“Better that than the other way around. This is work for you. I know that. Sure, maybe you have chemistry with some of your costars, but hell if I can see a spark of anything between you and Giddy-Up.”

“Giddy-Up?”

“So christened by Gage. I know kissing that shithead is a chore, so I'm giving you permission to use all your hot fantasies about me to get it done.”

She drew back and pressed a hand to her chest, endeavoring to cover her sudden tenderness for him with snark. “You'd do that for me?”

“For your art, babe. Now, how about somethin' to inspire you?” He captured her mouth with a slow, sultry Wyatt kiss. She had no other way to describe it. All him, focused on all her.

A minute later, she was a puddle of feeling in his arms, and still he continued. She felt him hard, pulsing against her belly, but he took it no further. Just made love to her mouth with deep, unhurried kisses. Hello-to-the-sun kisses. Her legs swayed like reeds but he was there with a hand on her butt, the other curled around her neck holding her in place for their mutual pleasure.

Normally, she'd be trying to move things along, restlessly rubbing her body to hint at her impatience, but with Wyatt, she let herself relax and enjoy the sensations exulting through her. He was swift when necessary in protecting her, but deliberate when it came to everything else. Clearly a proponent of the Slow Sex Movement.

She was fast becoming a big fan.

Several minutes passed in the solace of the bunker room, the only sounds their breathy sighs and whimpers of encouragement. Those soft lips framed by his beard hunted for the pulse at her throat and licked it. He roved over the curve of her neck, the line of her jaw, her beyond-sensitive earlobes. Kissing, biting, sucking.

Healing.

The heart that had hurt so much in the last year pried open, just a sliver.
There is a crack, a crack in everything. That's how the light gets in.
Leonard Cohen knew the score, and when you started quoting LC, you were in deep shit.

Spooked, she pulled away. “I—I should go.”

He loosened his grip but still held her, giving her the choice to lengthen the distance. When it came time to end whatever was happening between them, she would be the one to leave. But not yet. She stepped away, meaning to go,
needing
to, and found herself back in his arms, sinking into his strength. Unable to get enough of this drug tearing through her veins.

Unable to get enough of Wyatt Fox.

 CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

M
olly pushed the buzzer for Darcy and Beck's condo in Andersonville, clutched tighter her copy of a
New York Times
best-seller billed as “the next
Girl on the Train
” along with a bottle of Cab Sauv—not too expensive so she wouldn't look showy—and waited to be admitted to the inner sanctum.

What was it about the Dempsey women that tied her knickers in knots? They had been nothing but pleasant so far, though she wondered if that would still be the case if they knew she was sneaking around for regular Camaro nookie with their brother. They were so crazily protective of each other; finding out about her past connection to Wyatt might draw accusations of using him for that Dempsey stamp of approval. And while it might have started out that way, now there were sultry kisses. Mind-melting orgasms.

The beard.

Darcy opened the door, her mom-to-be glow and vibrantly inked arms blinding. “Hey!”

“Hi,” Molly said, suddenly shy. She held the wine aloft. “I know you can't imbibe, but I figure you can put it in your stash for when you can. And I also brought . . .” She rummaged in her Kate Spade tote and extracted edamame from Trader Joe's and salted caramels from Vosges. “Didn't know if you're feeling sweet or salty today.”

“A bit of both,” Darcy said, ushering her in. “Look, everyone, it's Molly. She brought much-needed supplies.”

“And the book,” Alex noted with a raised eyebrow. Her tee read: “You're sweet, but . . . No, I don't need help off the firetruck.”

Molly hadn't enjoyed the book all that much, had only skimmed it, really. She'd always assumed reading was a cover for the real point of book club: massive alcohol consumption. “Was I not supposed to bring the book?”

Kinsey jumped up from the sofa and took the wine from Molly. “Love that tote, by the way, and yes, you were supposed to bring the book, though it's rare we actually get to discuss it. Usually, I'm the only person who's read it.”

“I'm too busy kicking ass, saving lives, and having awesome sex fests to find time for reading,” Alex commented, dry as sand.

Kinsey snorted. “And what's your excuse, D?”

“Ditto except replace ‘saving lives' with ‘making babies and creating artistic masterpieces.' If the demon kicks a lot while I'm reading, I take it as a sign that book's not for me. It was a freakin' earthquake down there when I read
Gone Girl
.”

Everyone laughed.

“So, Molly, tell us to shut the hell up here, but . . .” Darcy threw a shifty look at the others. “We'd love to ask some questions about certain Hollywood personages. Is it completely basic to want all the down 'n' dirty details?”

“Completely.” Molly sat on the sofa. “I'll need wine first.”

An hour later, she'd wowed the girls and left them seriously agog at some of the gossip she'd shared.

“I can't believe they're able to keep that stuff out of the press,” Darcy said, grabbing another salted caramel. “If one of Hollywood's finest is strung out on meth and chasing a Vietnamese pot-bellied pig down a Beverly Hills street, you'd think it might merit a mention on Page Six.”

“When you're a double Oscar winner,” Molly said, “you have great PR people.”

“And I can't believe a certain notorious man whore is gay,” Kinsey said. “Gage totally called that and I said he had to be wrong.”

“Gage is never wrong about that,” Alex said. “His dick is like a gaydar divining rod.”

More giggles.

More wine.

More edamame, salted caramels, and cheesy-toasty things (scientific name, per Alex) that so hit the spot.

No book discussion.

Not that Molly minded. She was enjoying herself far too much. Kinsey was now trying to interpret her latest encounter with the bro code, but as she was on her third glass of Malbec, she was having problems nailing it down.

“I can understand the basics. If you borrow something gas-powered from a bro, it must be returned with the same amount of gas.”

“Or full,” Alex clarified.

“Or full,” Kinsey agreed. “And if a bro helps you move, intergalactic bro law says you have to recip . . . recip . . .” She dismissed with a wave her inability to shape that tongue twister. “Do the same for him.”

Molly raised a hand to make a point of order. “Unless Moving Bro has not packed up his stuff before Helping Bro gets there.”

Shouts of agreement greeted that. Bro code failure.

“But the groceries,” Kinsey slurred.

Around her chewing of a caramel, possibly three, Darcy asked, “Wharaboudem?”

“All groceries go from the car to the house in one trip,” Kinsey said in a deep baritone that Molly assumed was an impression of Luke. She counted off on her fingers. “It does not matter how many bags there are. It does not matter how heavy said bags are. It does not matter that you might dislocate something trying to carry them in.”

Alex nodded in recognition. “Eli says that the sensation of losing all circulation in your thumb just as you reach the front door is the feeling of success.”

Kinsey stood and pumped her fist. “Exactly!”

“Look, my brothers are the worst,” Alex said. “And it amazes me how much Eli devolves every moment he's with them because he was a total fucking caveman before. I thought finding the loves of their lives would soften them up.”

“Eli still sleeping in the guest room, then?” Kinsey asked with a grin.

“I let him in to sex me up, then send him on his way. The dog stays.”

“The macho thing gets worse every day,” Darcy said. “It's like they've acquired more territory, so they have to plant their flag. In everything.” She rubbed her belly at that, drawing drunken giggles from the crowd.

Alex turned to Molly. “You'd think Wyatt would be the exception. He's usually so live-and-let-live, each to his own, but since he met you, he's no better than the rest of them. The chest-beating protectiveness, shadowing you everywhere.”

“Well, he's always been a bossy guy,” Molly said, then abruptly stopped talking because,
oops
. Cheeks flushing faster than she could blink, she looked down at her drink and damned it to hell.

“Always?” Darcy asked sweetly.

“Right. Since I met him.”
Nicely covered,
tipsy Molly cheered. But
un
tipsy Molly, or the part of her brain that insisted she was not smashed, made a rookie mistake: unnecessary embellishment. “You know, a few weeks ago.”

“Versus?” Kinsey, who was no longer slurring in the slightest, the trickster.

“I knew it!” Alex's green eyes glittered. “There was just something really familiar about how he was acting around you at the cookout, so not like our Wy at all. Did you know him . . . before?”