Sparking the Fire (41 page)

But I have a right to a private life and so do the people I care about. I have a right to go about my regular day unmolested. And I have a right not to have nude photos of myself posted and shared for your jerking-off pleasure. Come the revolution, the person responsible will get his, and I'll be offering him a blindfold and a last cigarette. Because I'm classy like that.

To the people who viewed, I don't blame you. But to those of you who decided to body-shame me with opinions on my size, shape, and general unworthiness to be a deposit in your boyfriend's spank bank, think on this. There are a lot of photos of me out there in Dior and Givenchy, in yoga pants and sweats, in bikinis and perfectly draped bed linens. I get it. That's part of the territory. I wear clothes for my job, for photo shoots, and so I don't break public indecency laws when I step outside my door. Guess what? I'm naked underneath all those clothes. Does it surprise you that I don't have green scales? That my nipples are a particular shade of dusty pink? That I probably should implement a more regular bikini wax cycle? Well, it shouldn't. I am possessed of a woman's body with human imperfections. Why the obsession with this body, these breasts, this ass? When it's a man with his jiggly bits out for all the world to see, no one blinks an eye except to compliment him on the size of his equipment. The rules are different for us humans with vaginas. The consequences certainly are.

Do you think you can shame me into silence? Do you think I'll slink away like the good little woman, having learned my lesson not to indulge in a little consensual, in-the-privacy-of-my-own-home naughtiness?

Think again!

This body is strong and beautiful and so damn sexy that strangers think it's worth jerking off to. And while those pictures might belong to the world, my body belongs to me. Don't ever forget that.

If you've read this far, I thank you. Now you have a choice, or perhaps you're one of the people who have already made it, like a kid going straight for the present instead of doing the polite thing and opening the birthday card first. (That's okay, I was that kid, too.) There's a link following this letter that will take you to a Molly Cade–approved glamour shot. If you're the kind of person who reads
Playboy
for the articles, then it might not interest you. I don't mind if you click, don't mind if you don't. That's not the point. The take-home here is that I, Molly Cade, chose to share
this
photo on the Internet. That choice was denied me before.

Enjoy this titty pic, world!

With love from my warrior heart,

Molly Cade

Click here

Holy. Hell.

Stunned, Wyatt waited for the rest of them to catch up. For his brain to untangle. A good thirty seconds of ominous quiet passed, except for the distant whack of golf balls and the thud of Wyatt's overfull heart.

Eli broke the silence. “I've just made it back into the master bedroom. Why do I feel like my fiancée is testing me?”

“Yep,” Luke said. “My better half has sent me an article where another woman has given me permission to look at her naked. Am I supposed to accept that at face value or do I risk the eternal wrath of my wife?”

“Not just your wife,” Wyatt muttered. If one of them so much as dared to click that link in his presence, they would have a death-by-golf-club situation on their hands.

Needing a moment, he stood and walked to the edge of the hitting area. Butterflies dive-bombed in his belly, his hands tingled with the effort to keep them from shaking. His visceral reaction made no sense. Her curves were as well known to him as the lines on his face. He could trace them from memory, had mapped every intimate corner with his tongue, and yet the thought of this photo out in the ether terrified him.

Anyone could see her.
Everyone
could see her.

But this was her body. Her choice to share with the world. And he respected the hell out of that.

He took a breath and clicked the link.

There she was. Beautiful, brave, and grinning, as if to say,
The joke's on you, suckers.
Taken in profile, it was one of those in-the-mirror selfies with her arm banded across her gorgeous breasts, but not so much that a peek of nipple couldn't be seen. More tantalizing and sexy than a total reveal. A skimpy thong prevented full-frontal nudity, but she had twisted and tilted her ass at a jaunty angle so your eyes couldn't help but be drawn to those lush curves—and the message branded on them.

Tattooed across the ass that dethroned JLo was the rather cheeky declaration:

CUBS SUCK

Oh no, you didn't.

The laugh he loosed lifted the weight from his chest. With love from her warrior heart, indeed.

The guys watched as he passed the phone back to Beck, who eyed him expectantly. Only when Wyatt nodded his permission did he look down at the screen. A blinding grin broke out on his brother's face.

“Now, that's what I'd call a big gesture.”

Cosigned. Molly Cade had just won the Internet.

“I
wish you were here,” Molly said into her phone as she adjusted the strap on her Louboutins. Red with a heart-shaped rhinestone buckle.

Cal chuckled softly. “I can see the headline now: ‘Molly Cade Driven to Lesbianism at Charity Gala—Again!' You can walk down a red carpet by yourself, hon.”

“If these shoes don't send me crashing.”

“It's my first date in over a year,” Cal said, for the tenth time today. Molly would never begrudge her friend a chance at actual, in-person nookie, so it was really bad form to make it all about her.

“I know, sorry. Just being a diva bitch.”

The background noise on Cal's phone had picked up. It sounded like the restaurant she was in was crowded. “Hey, no one's more thrilled than me that the diva bitch is back. Oh, here's my date. Wonder if I should tell her that she's getting lucky no matter what?”

Molly giggled. “Sure, who needs all that awkward flirting and will-she-won't-she crap?”

“Exactly. Night, Mol, and good luck.”

“Night, Cal.”

Her phone's subsequent silence taunted her, though it had been ringing nonstop since the letter had posted to the
Vanity Fair
website yesterday afternoon. Just not with a call from the one person whose voice she needed to hear. Had he read it? Had he seen her warrior heart beating on the screen, her apology shining off her ass? A smile tugged at her lips as she recalled the body artist's expression on hearing her requirements.

The smile vanished. It had made no difference. Her message's intended target never responded, the blow she'd dealt him apparently too painful to overcome.

The limo stopped outside the Wilshire Ebell Theatre, where Molly would present an award at the LGBT Youth in Crisis gala. She practiced her game face in her compact because, even with her recent bout of honesty still buzzing through the press outlets and every five-star restaurant in LA, there was only so much shooting from the hip Hollywood could handle.

An usher opened the limo door and the noisy cheers burst her bubble of quiet. The mere thought of that word—
bubble
—ripped her brain open, as she thought of all the bubbles he had created for her. How he had made her feel safe and wanted and loved.

Archive, Molly.
Shove it into the file cabinet of Wyatt Fox memories that would eventually acquire dust.

Extending one golden leg, underscored by the sexy thigh-high slit of her white Alexander McQueen dress, she took the usher's outstretched hand.

And almost fainted clean away.

A zing of recognition had sizzled up her arm, forcing her to stare at her hand and the one that dwarfed it. She knew it well. It had pleasured and protected her. It could fell paparazzi like bowling pins.

And knock the heels off one jaded farm girl from Missouri.

“Evenin', Hollywood.”

She raised her eyes to meet the stark, relentless, so—damn—blue gaze of Lieutenant Wyatt Fox.

Who had shaved.

And was wearing a suit.

A
suit
.

How fine he looked in black, as handsome as Lucifer, the clean lines of Tom Ford struggling to contain his blatant masculinity. Forget the shoes as her demise; her jellied legs would surely give out any second.

Gently, he took charge, pulling her forward and closing the door to allow the limo to move on because her shocked standstill was holding up the next arrival.

“Ready?” he asked, as if that were a perfectly normal question. As if his presence here should pass without comment or meltdown. He held her hand and repositioned it, subtly measuring his large hand against her small one, another thing he'd done that always made her feel sheltered and loved.

“Security at this event is really slipping,” she murmured.

The quirk of that carnal mouth was easier to see now that he was beard-free. “Work now, banter later.”

The red gauntlet was a blur as she walked it, stopping on occasion to sign autographs and take selfies with the fans. She had to let Wyatt's hand go for some of that, but ever protective, he still found a way to stay connected to her. A hand on her back, his fingers light but unyielding on her waist. By the time they reached the press line, the phony-bright smile she usually kept fixed in place for such occasions had transformed into something joyfully genuine.

He was here, in the open, at her side.

How he must hate it.

How he must love her.

“Molly.” Billy Bush from
Access Hollywood
leaned in and kissed her lightly on the cheek, careful not to mess up her makeup. Though she had to wonder if the glare Wyatt was laying on him had anything to do with the barely there smooch.

After the requisite “Who are you wearing?” and “Tell us why this cause means so much to you,” Billy braved a glance at Wyatt.

“So, Wyatt, it looked like you surprised Molly back there at the bottom of the red carpet.”

Wyatt paused for a couple of seconds, an age in Hollywood time, and ignoring Billy, turned to Molly. “She didn't know I was coming. But this is an important night for her and this great cause, and I wouldn't miss it for the world.”

Oh, he was good. How did he get so good?

“And what did you think of Molly's letter in
Vanity Fair
?”

Wyatt squeezed her waist, a gesture of support that meant more than any words. Those unholy blue eyes tore her heart out and held it aloft in victory.

It was his. He owned it.

“Never been prouder, though I do have a bone to pick with her.” He raised a Wy-brow. “Can't be dissing the Cubbies, babe.”

She laughed. “I knew if the ass didn't get your attention, a direct attack on your hometown team might do the trick.”

“The ass has
always
had my attention.” And as if he knew the protocol for a red-carpet interview—keep it under two minutes, don't reveal anything you care about, leave 'em wanting more—Wyatt subtly steered her to the next vulture waiting to eviscerate her.

Stepping inside the gala venue ten minutes later, she leaned in and inhaled that heady mix of soap and pirate. “Have you been taking lessons in handling the red carpet?”

“Kinsey and Madison gave me a few pointers. And I might have spent the whole flight boning up on YouTube.”

Poor Wyatt. She smothered a giggle. How was she going to manage two hours of speeches and small talk with her fellow table guests, unable to have a real, God's-honest conversation with this man? Only then did she realize that they weren't entering the ballroom, but had turned down a corridor. One of the security personnel nodded at Wyatt—as if he knew him!—and opened a door.

“Best I could do on short notice,” Wyatt said, shutting the door behind him. Disinfectant stung her nostrils. Mops and brushes would be their witnesses.

“How did this happen?” Awareness struck. “Cal.”

“I had planned to get here earlier, but my flight was delayed. Miss Johnson arranged a car, a suit, and cleared it with security.” He sounded ever so slightly vexed.

“You think it was too easy to get by security, don't you?”

Eyebrow lift of doom. “I could've been anyone, but I'll give them a pass this once because I'm not just anyone.”

“So who are you exactly?”

She'd thrown it out there, intending it as part of their glib banter, not ready for it to get real. It emerged sharper than she'd meant it to, but as always, Wyatt took it in his stride.

“I'm the man in the shadows, Molly, who doesn't do the limelight or drama or diva shit. Who's lived his whole life on the margins because it was easier than coming in from the cold. Except . . .”

She jumped on that crumb, her hand gripping the lapel of his suit hard enough to rumple. “Except?”

“Except I'm more than that man. Sometimes I'm the guy who saves people trapped in fires or mangled wreckage or capsized boats. Sometimes I go nuts on assholes who threaten the people I love. I usually do it with a whole lot more class and efficiency than Luke, but I do it all the same. Because I've absorbed everything about being a Dempsey and learned that love requires big choices, bold moves, and on occasion, a little bit of drama.”

That—it—does.

He blew out a breath. “Don't know how Brady puts up with Gage talking this much. You sick of me yet?”

Tears pressed, but she held on by the thinnest of sniffly threads. “Never. Could listen to you all day.”

“Gonna hold you to that. Now, I know you got scared. There was a lot happening at once with Roni, Jen, the reporters, and I wasn't making it any easier getting all bossy and demanding you make a call.”

Her heart was brimming over. This man knew her intimately, down to her insecure diva toes. Trusting herself was something she'd had to relearn this past summer, and even now, she needed remedial classes. Who better a teacher than Wyatt Fox?