At First Touch
Tamara Sneed

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To the Creators, Actors and Supporters of “Soap Operas”

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 1

Judging from the heavy pounding on the front door of the Granger Funeral Home, Wyatt Granger figured either the defensive line of the Oakland Raiders had come to pay a visit or someone had died. Since Wyatt did own and operate a funeral home—and the average member of the Oakland Raiders, along with most other people in California, had no idea that Sibleyville existed—that left the latter proposition. Wyatt’s luck had run out, and someone was dead.

Wyatt cursed and slowly set down the newspaper on the nearby coffee table. It appeared that his late evening ritual of reading the paper was not going to happen tonight. He suspected that most funeral directors did not curse when they were faced with the prospect of potential customers. But, then again, Wyatt was not like most funeral directors.

Unfortunately for Wyatt though, he was the last Granger left in Sibleyville and by default that left him to answer the door and pretend to be like most funeral directors. After all, the Granger Funeral Home motto was not Burying Your Dead Since 1919 for nothing.

Wyatt forced himself to stand from his father’s favorite easy chair and walked through the foyer to the front door. He took a deep breath and stood frozen at the front door. He cursed at himself again. He needed to stop acting like a wuss and open the door.

Wyatt pasted his best funeral director smile on his face and opened the door. He was immediately blinded by a bright white light and the sound of applause. He shielded his eyes with a hand and squinted into the light. At least ten people stood crowded on the covered front porch. There were two cameras, one man holding the blinding light overhead and another guy holding a large microphone. And in front of the entire circus stood Quinn Sibley.

Wyatt felt the sudden urge to vomit. It was the same reaction every time he saw her. Like a sledgehammer in his gut. She was too beautiful, too perfect. And entirely too much out of his league.

His gaze drifted from her perfectly formed, heart-shaped lips to the deep V of the skintight dark green halter dress that skimmed every famous and well-photographed curve of her body. Her brown hair held hints of dark blond and honey and hung like a curtain of silk down her back. Her honey-brown skin was flawless, and her hazel eyes flashed more green one moment, then more brown another. He would have sworn they were contacts if he hadn’t spent so much time studying her to know they were 100% real. And then there were her breasts.

Men could spend hours writing poems to her breasts. Wyatt had spent enough time staring at them over the last year to know every curve by heart. They were a little too perky and round and perfect to be God-given, but they were absolutely perfect. Any man who turned up his nose at them was either blind or a complete fool.

And with all things that came in a package that promised to be too good to be true, Wyatt had stayed far away from her. No, sir. Not him. Besides, he had other plans for himself this holiday season, like getting to know Dorrie Diamond better. Dorrie was petite, cute and most importantly, one of the only single women in town under the age of sixty and over the age of eighteen. Not to mention that she was black, this was even rarer in Sibleyville. She was 28 years old and Wyatt had decided that she was perfect for his plan. He wanted to start a family and judging from the longing he saw in her eyes when she saw babies, so did she. Quinn Sibley was nowhere in that plan. Not one beautiful inch of her.

“Wyatt!” Quinn exclaimed, as if he were a long lost friend.

When Wyatt only gaped in response, Quinn threw her arms around him and squeezed her ample breasts against his chest and, God help him, Wyatt moved closer to her, allowing himself for a moment to accept that this was not a fantasy.

Ever since he had first met Quinn Sibley in Sibleyville last year, she had been the name in lights in his daydreams and fantasies. She and her two sisters had come to Sibleyville to live in their grandfather’s boyhood home for a few weeks in hopes of inheriting Max Sibley’s considerable fortune. There had been no fortune, but the women had left a mark on Sibleyville. Quinn’s sister, Charlie, had married Wyatt’s best friend, Graham, and the two had spent the last year essentially disgusting everyone with their lovesick, puppy-dog looks and cuddly exchanges. Thankfully, Charlie and Graham spent most of their time in Los Angeles.

The few times Wyatt had seen Quinn since she and her sisters had left town had been just enough to let him know that it hadn’t been a joke: this woman had a hold on him. She knew it, which probably explained why she treated him like snail dung on the bottom of her shoe. And glutton for punishment that he was, Wyatt still could not stop thinking about her. Or her body and those lips, to put it more accurately. It was pure lust, and lust could be controlled. Or so Wyatt had heard.

“You’re looking good, Wyatt,” Quinn gushed, as she not so subtly positioned him so that they both faced the camera. “What has it been? Five, six months? Too long, right? We’re practically family. We shouldn’t wait this long to see each other.”

It took him a while because he did have the most perfect pair of breasts pressed against him a few seconds ago, but Wyatt finally realized that it was not an accident that Quinn and a camera crew were hogging his porch.

“Quinn,” he finally said.

He glanced at the cameras and the men in flannel shirts and khaki shirts standing around the porch, watching the scene with bored expressions. One man blew a bubble, then popped it and continued to chew like a cow.

Wyatt stepped closer to her and turned his back to the cameras. He asked, flatly, “What is going on?”

“I’ve got a chance of a lifetime for you, Wyatt,” Quinn continued excitedly, ignoring his question. She flashed a smile at the camera, then turned back to Wyatt, “I’m documenting one of the most exciting moments of my life—my homecoming to Sibleyville—”

“Homecoming?” he repeated, blankly. “You’re not from—”

She squeezed his arm—hard—and continued to smile at the camera. “I have been picked to star in a Helmut Ledenhault movie. Yes, that’s right, Wyatt, the Helmut Ledenhault. And, even more, exciting, Helmut has chosen to film the movie here in Sibleyville. Our little town. And here is the really best part, Wyatt. Are you ready for this?”

“No.”

Like a runaway train, she ignored his distinct lack of enthusiasm and plodded on. “We want to film the movie here in the Granger Funeral Home!” Wyatt shook his head in disbelief, and this time she pinched him on the back of his arm. He flinched in surprise. Her camera-worthy smile never faltered. “Two weeks, at the most, Wyatt. What do you stay? Are you ready to be a star?”

Wyatt stared at her uncomprehendingly for a moment. For the first time, her bright smile faltered for a second as she nervously glanced at the camera and then back to him.

Wyatt cleared his throat, then said to the crew, “Can you guys give us a minute?”

“Cut, cut, cut!” roared an irritated male voice.

Wyatt squinted against the lights as a man walked up the porch steps from the darkness of the front lawn. The man stood no taller than Quinn’s shoulder, and while Quinn wasn’t a short woman at close to five-foot-eight, that meant the man wasn’t exactly tall. He had a bad hairpiece that sat askew atop his head, and thick black-rimmed eyeglasses covered beady blue eyes that were perched above a beady nose and a beady mouth, if a mouth could be beady. He was dressed in an all-khaki outfit for a day on safari—or at least how movie stars in the 1940s dressed for a day on safari—with the white scarf tied around his neck.

“Quinn, what the hell is going on here?” the man shouted in a thick German accent, jabbing his hands on his hips. “You said that this wouldn’t be a problem. That this was all just a formality. That you had this cowboy wrapped around your little finger. It doesn’t look like he’s wrapped around your little finger. In fact, it looks to me like he’s on the verge of saying no, and he cannot be saying no when we need to start filming this movie in one week.”

Wyatt stepped in between Quinn and the fuming man. Wyatt kept his voice even as he pinned the man with a hard glare and said, “I don’t know where exactly you’re from, little man, and I don’t care, but around here we don’t talk to ladies like that. Comprende?”

Some of the anger drained from the man’s expression as he shot an uncertain glance over his shoulder at the camera crew.

“Were you filming that? I said to cut. Don’t you idiots know the meaning of the word? I’ll put it more simple for the un-evolved around us. Turn! Off! The! Cameras!” Helmut screamed at the crew, since he realized that screaming at Quinn was no longer an option.

The other men did a poor show of hiding their smiles and nods of appreciation at Wyatt. The lights and cameras went out.

“Wyatt, please,” Quinn snapped, irritated, stepping around Wyatt. She sent the man an apologetic smile. “He’s from Sibleyville, Helmut. He doesn’t know any better. He’s really sorry for threatening you.”

“I did not sign up for amateur hour,” Helmut spat at her. He waved to the enraptured camera crew. “Let’s leave this town before we start to smell like it.”

“Helmut, wait,” Quinn pleaded, running around the man to block the porch steps. “Wyatt will let us use the house, right, Wyatt?” She stared at him imploringly.

Wyatt ignored Quinn and pinned Helmut with another hard glare.

Helmut flinched, then turned to Quinn. “You need me much more than I need you, Quinn. Remember that. You have one week, and then I find a new location and a new lead actress. One week.”

“One week?” she sputtered in disbelief. “But, it’s Christmas—”

“Merry Christmas, Quinn.”

With pat of his proverbial hair, he descended the steps towards a waiting van. The camera crew mumbled amongst themselves and slowly followed. There was no sound in the neighborhood as the two minivans filled up and drove down the oak tree-lined street toward the highway.

Wyatt glanced down the dark street at the other houses. There were several other houses on the wide street, but gossip traveled around their neighborhood as if they all lived on top of each other He didn’t see any curious faces peeking out the windows, so at least none of his neighbors had seen the cameras. Wyatt did not want his mother hear about the 60 Minutes surprise show on their front yard, until he could explain. Beatrice did not handle surprises well.

Wyatt glanced at Quinn and found her staring at him. She frowned and snapped, “Thank you very much, Wyatt.” She groaned and raked hands through her hair, disturbing the carefully coifed curls. Wyatt tried not to notice that now she looked as if she had just gotten out of bed. She muttered to herself, “What am I going to do?”

“Quinn—”

She whirled around to face him. He coughed to cover the desire that slammed into his body. Quinn had never been angry with him. She had never been anything with him. As far as she was concerned, he was white paint on the wall.

Fire flashed in her hazel eyes, her cheeks flushed and her breasts heaving. If he still cared about Quinn Sibley, he would be raging hard right now because she looked like an Amazon warrior princess come to life. Well, maybe he could stop caring tomorrow because right now he was raging hard.

“You stalk me around Sibleyville and whenever you find an excuse to come to L.A. Now I give you a chance to stare at me for hours on end, without anyone stopping you, and you ruin it.”

Wyatt was jerked from whatever X-rated fantasies had been developing in his head. “I don’t stalk you, Quinn. I haven’t seen you since…I can’t remember when.”

He remembered when. Five months ago, he saw her for five minutes when he had been visiting Graham and Charlie at their home in Los Angeles. He hadn’t known that Quinn lived in their pool house until Quinn had breezed into the house, glared at Wyatt, then grabbed Charlie and walked into the kitchen. It had taken everything in Wyatt’s power not to follow her into the kitchen like a starstruck teenager.

Quinn crossed her arms over her chest and studied him, as if she knew exactly what he was thinking. And she probably did. A woman that beautiful did not spend more than a week alive without knowing how to tell when a man was bullshitting her.

“Are you going to let me use your house or not?”

“I don’t know,” he said with a shrug.

“You don’t know? You don’t know?” she repeated, growing more outraged with each word.

“I don’t know,” he confirmed.

“What is there to know?” she sputtered.

“There are things to consider—”

“What things? It’s not like you have to worry about having a funeral in a funeral home. From what Graham says, there hasn’t been a death in this town in eight months.”

Wyatt inwardly cursed his best friend. Thank you, Graham. Ever since Graham had married Charlie, Graham had been the regular New York Times. Graham couldn’t let a conversation pass without telling Wyatt about Quinn. And apparently Quinn was getting the Wyatt updates on the other end. Except Wyatt remembered that there wasn’t really much to update when his life consisted of going home and going to work.

“My mother lives in this house on the second floor,” he said calmly. “This is not just a mortuary. It’s also a family living space. I have to talk to her.”

“You better not ruin this for me,” she threatened, with glowering eyes. When he didn’t respond, she snorted in disgust, then dug a sleek, black cell phone from an oversized purse on the stairs of the porch. “Great. My reception is out again. Damn Sibleyville. But it’s not like I could call a taxi around here anyway. I need a ride back to the house.”

Without another word, she stomped toward his SUV. Because it was Sibleyville, the SUV was unlocked and she climbed inside the passenger side and slammed the door.

Wyatt stuffed his hands in his jeans pocket and watched her, fuming, as she sat in the SUV with her arms crossed. Wyatt was tempted to walk back inside his house, close the door and turn off the front porch light. He was in the middle of a tempting crossword puzzle in the newspaper. And he did have big plans for Dorrie Diamond and white picket fences and minivans. He stared at Quinn again.

Despite his better judgment, he made his way toward the SUV before Quinn changed her mind and walked the several miles back to her home. In her stilettos, no less. He wouldn’t put anything past this woman.

Chapter 2

Quinn knew when a man wanted her. It was the way he looked at her, followed her with his eyes, stared at her breasts and her mouth when he thought she wasn’t looking. Quinn knew how to handle men like that. Either she ignored them completely until they got the hint, or she flirted mercilessly until they gave her exactly what she wanted. But only with Wyatt Granger did she turn into a surly teenager who snarled and rolled her eyes just because he looked at her.

She had tried to be nice to him. She really had. But, for some reason, she just could not be nice to Wyatt. And she had had more than enough chances. She had seen Wyatt several times over the last year, ever since her sister had married Wyatt’s best friend, and each time, she forgot her vow to be nice to him and instead snarled and snapped. It was surprising since she could fake liking even the most vile creatures. She had gone on a date with L.A. actors, after all.

Quinn didn’t bother to hide her scrutiny of Wyatt as he directed his SUV down the dark, deserted highway that led from town, where the funeral home was located, to the Sibley house on the outskirts of the town limits.

It was not as if he were ugly. In fact, if she thought about it for too long, she would admit that he was handsome…in that Sibleyville cowboy way. Long, lean and confident. He had honey-brown skin, dark curly black hair that he kept a tad too long and intense dark brown eyes that she always found looking at her, whenever she was within ten feet of him.

She had only ever seen him in jeans and a button-down shirt, or a T-shirt. And she found herself thinking about that sight when she least expected it. Like sitting in the beauty salon, or in the middle of shopping, or when she had spent the entire four-hour drive from Los Angeles to Sibleyville preparing to see Wyatt, instead of preparing to meet with the director who could change her life.

Quinn shook her head to erase thoughts of Wyatt in snug jeans and instead glared at him. Now she remembered why he annoyed her. He never spoke. He just stared and watched.

She gritted her teeth and quickly rolled down the passenger window. It was much colder in Sibleyville than it had been in Los Angeles. She frowned as she thought of Los Angeles, or more accurately, her movie career. Leave it to Sibleyville. She had been in the dump of a town less than three hours, just enough time to ruin her career again.

Quinn shifted in the seat and glanced at Wyatt. Aside from being a mute, he was so damn nice. He opened doors, said “please” and “thank you,” and probably helped little old ladies cross the street in his spare time. Only her sister and her sister’s too-perfect husband would know someone like Wyatt. No one in Hollywood would believe that someone like him existed. Quinn barely believed it herself.

“Do you ever talk?” she abruptly demanded, angry at him for being so damn quiet and angry at herself for caring.

Silence followed. Quinn sighed again and raked a hand through her hair, then quickly moved her hair back in place to cover her too large ears. Only one other person brought out this visceral reaction in her. Her oldest sister, Kendra.

There was a long silence before he said evenly, “How are Graham and Charlie?”

“It took you a long time to come up with that one, didn’t it?” she said, with a short laugh. When more silence followed, she added, “They’re fine. Still in domestic wedded bliss. In other words, as sickening as always.”

“So, tell me about this movie. Why is it so important to you?”

“Who said it was important to me?” she shot back.

“The fact that you would willingly talk to me tells me how important it is to you.”

She rolled her eyes, but felt a small stab of guilt. She acted like a shrew around this man. And he was nothing but nice and polite to her. Sure, he watched her with those unsettling eyes, but when she thought about the type of fan mail she had received from men in prison—and a few women—when she had been at the height of her popularity on the daytime drama Diamond Valley, then Wyatt really wasn’t so bad.

She reluctantly answered, “I haven’t worked since I left Diamond Valley.”

“Diamond Valley?” he repeated, curious.

“The soap opera I reigned over as the character Sephora Burston for the last ten years before I was carelessly tossed aside like a bag of outdated wigs,” she snapped, more annoyed than she wanted to admit that Wyatt had no idea about the name of her show. She had been on the cover of Us Weekly magazine six times. She didn’t count the Us Weekly cover that came out when she had been kicked off the show.

“Oh, yes, I remember now. Graham mentioned that you had been fired.”

“I wasn’t fired. My contract was not renewed,” she corrected through clenched teeth. “Anyway, it’s been one year and…. this movie is my only shot.”

“Shot for what?”

Quinn hesitated. She hadn’t even told her sisters about her fears of never working again, of being ordinary. But she had the sudden urge to tell Wyatt. It was something about how quiet both he and of the SUV were. She almost felt as if she could tell him anything, and he would just nod. No judgment.

“I haven’t worked in a year. That’s a lifetime in the entertainment business. I’m 28 years old, in another couple of years, it’ll be too late for me to even make it. On top of the age and the forced semiretirement, I’m trying to switch from television, daytime television, to movies. Do you know how difficult that is?”

“Why do you want to switch from television to movies?”

“I can’t stay a soap actress all of my life, Wyatt,” she said, attempting to sound patient. “The next logical step is movies. Movie stars are the cream of the A-List crop. All of the tabloid covers, the covers of magazines, the features. When you’re a movie star, you can pick your own projects. And possibly start a perfume line or a clothing line.”

He didn’t respond but continued to stare down the dark road as he carefully drove the SUV within the speed limit.

“Helmut was the first director to even consider me for a part that did not involve my breasts as the second and third characters on screen. But I had to sweeten the pot.”

He actually took his eyes off the road to shoot her a look. He asked, carefully, “What does that mean?”

“I don’t sleep with men for roles,” she snapped, annoyed, and then added with a shrug, “Not anymore.”

“So how exactly are you planning to sweeten the pot?”

“Helmut is a brilliant director, but, as you probably noticed, he’s not a…a people person. He’s difficult. And so insistent on having total creative control of his projects that he can rarely get in the door at the big studios. So he has to make this film, On Livermore Road, on the lower end of the average Hollywood film budget.”

“How much on the lower end?”

“Enough where Helmut is considering filming in this town.”

Wyatt stared at her for a moment and then asked with a sigh, “So this guy is a jerk, no one in Hollywood likes him and he has no money to make his movie. Why do you want to be in this movie again?”

“Helmut is also a star-maker. If you survive a movie with him, any director or agent in town will take your calls because everyone knows that Helmut does not work with talentless hacks. And this film has a great role for me. Do you know how hard it is to find a dramatic role as a black actress in this town? But, this role has my name written all over it. Every black actress in Hollywood wanted it, but I got it. Or, I will have it. I needed to get Helmut’s attention. And great locations that cost next to nothing are all you need to grab any independent director’s attention. Your house, this town. It’s perfect.”

“Use your house,” Wyatt suggested.

Quinn rolled her eyes in annoyance. “Helmut said my house looked like…what were his exact words…Oh, yes, a ‘gingerbread house on crack.’ Your house is bigger, more creepy…er, I mean, it has more character.”

“Have you talked to Boyd?”

Quinn inwardly shivered at the mention of the mayor’s name. The man was ex-military, mean and old. He also didn’t crack a smile for anyone but his wife, Alma. In other words, she had no idea how to deal with him.

At her answering silence, Wyatt said, “You can’t have a film crew traipsing through town without getting approval from the mayor or the city council.”

Quinn narrowed her eyes at him. “My grandfather was the only man I ever allowed to lecture me, and he’s dead.”

“It wasn’t a lecture, Quinn,” he said evenly. “Just an observation.”

She thought she saw the flash of a smile, but if there was a smile, it faded as quickly as it appeared. “I don’t need your observations, either.”

Through the darkness of the highway, Quinn spotted the porch lights she had left on at the Sibley house and sighed in relief. The house had not been much when she and her two sisters had first moved in, but with the work and love that Charlie and Graham had put into the house over the last few months, it now felt like a home. Or as much as a place without a fitness center, valet service and a sauna could feel like home. In fact, Quinn was somewhat surprised by her sense of attachment to the little house because regardless of what it looked like, it was hers. She owned it. Or, at least, she owned one third of it.

Wyatt parked the SUV in front of the house and turned off the engine. The sudden quiet surprised her. The house, set back from the road, was surrounded by dirt and grass-covered hills rolling like waves behind it. Their closest neighbor was miles away. If she closed her eyes, it would almost seem as if she were alone in the world, which was either good or bad, depending on how many agents had rejected her that day.

Wyatt turned to her and asked in a deep, too-calm voice, “Why do you dislike me so much?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she lied. His gaze was unwavering, and Quinn had a sinking sensation that she could not lie to this man. She averted her gaze and muttered, “I don’t know. I guess…I don’t like how you stare at me.”

“A lot of men stare at you, Quinn,” he reminded her in an almost gentle tone.

“Not like you.”

He didn’t just look at her. He studied her. Watched her. Made her think of all the things he wanted to do to her, with her, inside her. And sometimes when she wasn’t careful, she found herself wanting the same things, which was very wrong. Wyatt Granger was not her type. He was only three years older than her, he didn’t have a private plan and, most important, he was a mortician. Definitely not her type.

“I am attracted to you,” he said softly, staring at her. Drinking her in. “I’d be blind not to be. But I’ll never act on it.”

“Why?” she blurted out, before she could remind herself to feel relieved.

“Does it matter?” he said with a small shrug.

“Not really, but I want to know. I mean, if it’s because I’m an actress and you’re a nobody…I totally understand that. It’s an insurmountable hurdle that few men can get past. But for the sake of argument, I should note that a lot of nobodies marry women like me. Look at Julia Roberts and her husband, what’s-his-name. And then there’s…”

He stared at her again, and Quinn’s voice trailed off as his gaze dropped to her mouth. She had to clear her suddenly dry throat as one corner of his mouth lifted in a mysterious smile that she hadn’t thought a boring man like Wyatt capable of.

Wow. She had finally seen his smile, and she had to admit that she wanted to see it again.

“That’s not it, Quinn,” he finally said, leaning back in the leather seat and looking entirely too comfortable for a spurned suitor.

His scent began to wrap around her. Fresh soap that smelled like the ocean or the grass-covered hills behind the house after a hard rain. Quinn once more cleared her throat. “Then what is it?”

Wyatt studied the house for a moment and then admitted, “My biological clock is ticking.”

Quinn had been expecting many things—maybe he was gay, or celibate, or asexual—but that his biological clock was ticking?

“I don’t understand.”

He smiled. A small, awkward one, but it was there. Dimples on both cheeks flashed. Quinn gripped the armrests as something akin to all-out lust spread in her body and caused her thighs to clench. Where had he been hiding that smile?

“I want a family. I want kids. I’m ready for that,” he explained.

“But, you’re a man.”

“I’m glad you finally noticed.” Before she could retort, he quickly said, “I don’t know how it started or why it started, but over the last three years, all I think about is having children. I see other men with their children and I feel resentful. When my friends complain about their wives, in ways that you know it’s not really a complaint, but a small prayer that they have a wife to complain about, I get jealous. I want a daughter to spoil and a son to play football with. I want the whole package—diapers, a dog, temper tantrums. The warmth of waking up at night and knowing that no matter what else is going on in the world, for that one moment, it’s okay because my family is safe and warm. I know it’s strange, but…. At some point, most men feel this way, they just don’t tell beautiful women.”

“And what does any of that have to do with your attraction to me?”

Wyatt smiled again then shook his head. “You’re a walking contradiction, Quinn. You can’t decide if you want me to want you or not.”

“Trust me, Wyatt, I don’t want you to want me,” she said quickly. “But, I find it odd that you don’t, especially since a man like you is in my core audience. Thirties, heterosexual. So I want to know why.”

“My wife will never have to worry about me running around her. I don’t even want her to think about worrying about it. It’ll be just her and me for the rest of our lives. In Sibleyville. With our children. Running the family mortuary because that’s what Grangers have done for the last three generations. I need a woman who will fit into that life, be a mortician’s wife without cringing or running away in disgust. Someone who will fit into Sibleyville.”

“And you don’t think I could be that woman,” Quinn said, understanding dawning.

“I know you can’t be that woman,” Wyatt responded simply. “And since you have no desire to be that woman, I guess it works out for everyone.”

She tried to conceal the bitterness in her voice as she asked dryly, “And where exactly do you plan to meet this paragon of virtue who will be Mrs. Wyatt Granger, town heroine, bearer of the fruit of your loins and Ms. Congeniality?”

He laughed and then said, “I know she won’t be perfect, but I’m not looking for perfect. I’m just looking for someone who will be happy to see me at the end of the day and who will be happy with what I can offer her. Maybe bake an apple pie once in a while, even if it’s awful. Sing to our children after their nightmares. Someone who can make a home anywhere, even in a drafty funeral home.”

“You’re a romantic,” she accused, smiling.

“I don’t know about that,” he said, shaking his head, amused. “But, I know what I want. And I may have found her.”

“Who?”

He sent her another smile and shook his head. Quinn forced a smile and playfully jabbed his arm. “Come on, Wyatt. We’re being honest here.”

“Her name is Dorrie Diamond.”

Quinn couldn’t stop the note of sarcasm that entered her voice as she said, “She sounds like a comic book superhero.”

“She’s an accountant. She moved here last year from Danville and opened an office on Main Street.”

“Does Miss Diamond know that she’s the future womb for your children?”

“Not yet,” he said, grinning, taking no offense at her anger. “We’ve gone on a couple of dates. Well, not dates, actually, but we’ve met for coffee. Dorrie is very shy, but my mother likes her. She’s a sweet person and I’m happy with my decision.”

“Well, that’s that,” Quinn drawled, imitating a Sibleyville slow accent. “So, tell me more about the amazing Dorrie.”

“There’s not much to tell.”

“Where did you meet?”

Wyatt studied her suspiciously. “Why?”

“Curiosity,” she said, with a shrug. “What are her hobbies? What are her likes, dislikes?”

He hesitated, then said, “She likes church.”

Quinn paused. “Church? All you know about the love of your life is that she likes church?”

“That’s important. My faith is important to me and I want it to be important to the mother of my children.”

“Hmm…Katherine also is very pious. It’s probably her biggest downfall.”

“Katherine?”

Quinn pursed her lips in irritation. “My character in On Livermore Road.”

He glanced at her uncertainly, then asked, “What type of character are you playing exactly?”

“You say that as if you expect me to be playing a hooker or something.”

“There’s nothing wrong with hookers.”

She laughed at his suddenly careful expression. “Wyatt Granger, what exactly do you know about hookers? You’re pleading the Fifth on that one,” she noted with a grin. When he still stared straight ahead, she answered, “If you must know, I am playing a housewife.”

“A housewife?” he repeated, in disbelief.

“I know that you think I could never be anything as wholesome as a housewife, but that’s why it’s called acting,” she muttered. She squared her shoulders and continued in a calmer tone, “The night of her honeymoon, where Katherine is set to lose her virginity—don’t laugh—with her husband, a man bursts into their hotel room, beats Katherine’s husband unconscious and rapes her. She becomes pregnant. They live in a small town and no one suspects that the child is not the husband’s, but Katherine and Clint know and it is slowly driving a wedge in their marriage. Five years later, Clint is driving the child home from school and there is a car accident. Their son dies. The movie follows Clint’s spiral into relief, guilt, an affair with a kindly, older waitress and ultimately salvation in his love for Katherine.”

“So it’s a comedy?”

Quinn smiled at his attempt at humor, then said, “Comedies don’t win Oscars.”

“That’s what you want? An Oscar?”

“Of course. It’s what every actor wants. It’s why you become an actor.”

“I thought you became an actor to…I don’t know, act.”

“I’m a serious actor, Wyatt,” she snapped.

“I never said you weren’t.”

“Just because I want an Oscar doesn’t mean that I’m not serious about my craft. It’s just when you’ve been…when you’ve been through what I’ve been through…it’s not enough to work again. I have to prove to everyone that they were wrong about me.” Embarrassed by her admission, she glared at him and said, “It’s a great script and it’s going to be a great movie.”

“I don’t doubt it,” he said, not sounding the least bit sarcastic. When she had no response, he reached for the key in the ignition, which was her not-so-subtle clue to get out of the car. “At any rate, I’ll stop staring at you. In fact, you won’t have to worry about me at all. I don’t have any more trips planned to L.A. for another year, and I’m assuming you’ll be leaving Sibleyville as soon as you get an answer about the house, which I’ll let you know by tomorrow when I talk to my mother. And, if things go according to plan with Dorrie, the next time you see me, I’ll be too busy changing diapers to stare at you.”

Quinn racked her brain for something to say, besides a protest that Wyatt didn’t need to marry an accountant who’s name sounded like a comic book character.

She settled on an awkward, “Good luck.”

She quickly moved from the car and slammed the door, uncertain why she had to force herself to walk to the house. Wyatt didn’t drive away until she had closed the door to the house. She leaned against the door and closed her eyes. She couldn’t wait to leave Sibleyville. This town always made her forget the important things in life. Like being on the cover of People again.

Chapter 3

Quinn was having a pleasant dream about eating a tub of rocky road ice cream without worrying about gaining weight, when an annoying shrill ring intruded. She groaned as she recognized the sound of her cell phone in her dream. She opened her eyes and squinted at the bright sunlight streaming through the windows of her designated bedroom in the Sibley house.

Graham and Charlie had barely touched her room in their home improvement stage. Everything was exactly where Quinn remembered it from her last visit during their wedding. There was a queen-sized lumpy mattress on an old-fashioned wood bedframe that squeaked and creaked when she breathed, that had been in the room on the first day she and her sisters had walked into the house, along with the matching antique dresser and chest of drawers that squeaked in dramatic protest every time Quinn tried to grab a pair of clothes. At least the windows had been replaced and the hardwood floor had been buffed and polished until it sparkled. No one had gotten around to putting curtains or blinds over the new windows, which meant Quinn was now squinting against the sunlight and her lack of sleep.

Quinn blindly reached for the cell phone on the mattress next to her and groaned again when she saw Charlie’s name flashing on the small screen. Charlie was the only person Quinn knew who would call her at seven o’clock in the morning. Actually, Charlie was the only person Quinn knew who was awake at seven o’clock in the morning.

“What?” Quinn groaned into the telephone.

“Good morning, beautiful,” Charlie sang.

Quinn rolled her eyes at Charlie’s cheerful greeting. But then again, Quinn would be that cheerful too if she went to sleep every night next to a millionaire who adored her and gave her carte blanche to his seven-figure bank account. Of course, Charlie being Charlie, the bank account meant nothing to her.

Not that Quinn begrudged Charlie’s happiness, or her obvious love with Graham. In fact, Quinn thought of all three Sibley sisters, Charlie deserved happiness the most. While Quinn and Kendra had moved away as soon as possible from under their grandfather’s authoritarian rule, Charlie had remained by Max Sibley’s side until his death two years ago. And Charlie had been the one to bring the three sisters together and to keep them together. But all the same, if Quinn didn’t love Charlie so much, she would have hated her.

“I haven’t had caffeine in twenty-four hours. Be very careful,” she muttered in greeting.

“How did it go with Wyatt? Did he say yes?”

Quinn came wide awake at the mention of Wyatt. When she hadn’t been dreaming about guilt-free, calorie-free ice cream, she had been dreaming about Wyatt and that smile. The snug-fitting jean-encased body. Even now, her stomach did a little flip. Although it could have been hunger, since Sibleyville’s local cuisine—beef, beef and more beef—was not exactly in her diet.

“You never told me he was a momma’s boy on top of being a creepy mortician. He has to talk to Mommy Dearest before he’ll let me know the final answer.”

“How did Helmut like Sibleyville?”

Quinn thought about Helmut placing a handkerchief over his mouth the moment he got out the minivan in Sibleyville. “He loved it,” she lied brightly.

“And how do you feel about Sibleyville?”

“Is that a trick question?”

“You know, Quinn, I think you’d actually like Sibleyville. I’ve spent a lot of time there with Graham over the last year, and there’s something about the place. It grows on you-”

“Like a bad rash.”

Charlie ignored Quinn’s dry remark. “If I didn’t have the museum and Graham didn’t have his business here, we’d move to Sibleyville permanently.”

“Of course you would,” she muttered sarcastically. “Because then you’d have your perfect husband with your perfect relationship in the perfect town.”

She realized that she sounded more bitter than she intended and silently cursed. Sometimes she forgot that Charlie was not Kendra. Kendra did not take insults personally because Kendra was made of Teflon or some equally indestructible material that had been found in space. Charlie took everything personally.

“Graham is not perfect and our relationship is not perfect. We have our ups and downs, just like every couple,” Charlie said, sounding hurt.

“I know, Charlie,” Quinn said immediately. “I’m sorry. I warned you that I hadn’t had my coffee yet.”

“Quinn—”

Quinn groaned loudly, hearing the concern in Charlie’s voice. “It’s too early in the morning for a heart-to-heart talk, Charlie.”

“I’m not trying to have a heart-to-heart talk. I just want to talk to you. Some families actually do that every once in a while.”

“Can we talk later?”

“Quinn—”

“I have to figure out where to hunt and kill breakfast in this hick town and then I have to intimidate Wyatt and his mother into doing what I want them to do so I can get out of here and back to civilization. I expect to be eating dinner tonight at my favorite sushi restaurant on Sunset. Whenever I step foot in this town, I immediately start craving fish.”

“I wish you would stay an extra day. Graham and I will be there tomorrow. We’re going to spend Christmas in Sibleyville.”

“I know. You’ve told me that a million times.”

“There’s no reason for you to drive all the way back to Los Angeles just to turn around in a few days to come back.”

“There is one reason that you’re forgetting. I won’t be in Sibleyville.”

Charlie laughed, then said, “Call me when you’re on the road and drive safely.”

Quinn pressed the Disconnect button, then stared at the ceiling. She didn’t want to get out of the bed and face this horrid town, where everyone stared at her as if she were a freak. She was used to being stared at, but not as if she were the town harlot who needed to be run out of town. And these people didn’t know half of the things she had done.

But no matter how miserable she was this morning, at least she could make Wyatt more miserable. That prospect actually made her smile and get out of bed. She even whistled a little on her way to the shower.

“Good morning, Mom,” Wyatt greeted as he walked into her kitchen.

Beatrice Granger looked up from the stove and angled her face for a kiss. Wyatt smiled and pressed a kiss against her smooth peanut butter-colored cheek. His mother patted his cheek and went back to scrambling eggs.

The bottom floor of the Granger Funeral Home was comprised of several viewing rooms of various sizes, a reception area and a small office. The back of the house and the second level were the family’s living quarters. Most people had thought it was strange for Wyatt to grow up in the mortuary, but to him, it had just been the way it was. He would come home from soccer practice to find the county coroner dropping off body bags, his dad in a smock covered with blood and his mother holding a tray of oatmeal cookies. Just another day in the Granger Funeral Home.

During Wyatt’s last year in college, his father had died. The usually unflappable Beatrice had been inconsolable, and had fallen into a depression that had scared Wyatt into moving back home into the small apartment over the garage in the back of the house.

The move was supposed to be temporary, but someone had to keep the family tradition alive and his mother needed him. So here he was, years later, still living over the garage.

“I’m going to string up the Christmas lights this morning,” he said as he sat at kitchen counter where his mother had set a table setting for him.

Even though Wyatt was thirty-two years old and didn’t technically live in the house with his mother, Beatrice still made him breakfast every morning. Wyatt could just imagine Quinn’s reaction to that little tidbit about the exciting life of Wyatt Granger.

He grimaced and drained the glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice on the counter. But it was too late. He was thinking about Quinn now. Damn it. He had been dreading asking his mother about the film all morning. Beatrice did not like change, and she definitely did not like change that would involve Quinn Sibley. Beatrice had seen Quinn dancing with a groomsman at Charlie and Graham’s wedding in a tangle of arms and legs that had not been fit for public viewing, and she had gone on for two weeks about the spectacle Quinn had made. Wyatt had been more pissed about the display than his mother, especially since Quinn had kept giving him smug smiles while she twisted in the other man’s arms, but Wyatt had kept that to himself.

“Do you want bacon?” Beatrice asked.

“Don’t I always want bacon?”

Beatrice smiled in response and placed a plate of steaming food in front of him. Wyatt grinned and dug in.

“I spoke to Dorrie this morning,” Beatrice said in a casual tone that was anything but casual. “She was telling me that her kitchen sink is clogged. I told her that you’d come take a look at it this afternoon.”

Wyatt tried to keep his tone level, “You just happened to speak to Dorrie this morning?”

At least Beatrice had the decency to look ashamed. “She called me, Wyatt.”

“Returning your call, no doubt.”

“She’s a polite girl. I called her about the quilting circle. We’re looking for another member, and I suggested her.”

Wyatt rolled his eyes and groaned. “How in the world did you talk your friends into letting Dorrie into the quilting circle? You all haven’t allowed any new members since the Lyndon administration.”

“Well, I haven’t exactly gotten the group’s approval,” Beatrice admitted reluctantly, then added with a smile, “But, I don’t anticipate any problems. We need some new blood and Dorrie is a wonderful person. Sweet, kind, respectful—”

“I get it, Mom. You like her,” he said tiredly. His mother wasn’t exactly a subtle person, and she had not been subtle in the least over the last few months about how much she liked Dorrie. “I like her, too. But as much as you and I both like her, I don’t need you setting up dates for me. I am a grown man.”

“I know you’re a grown man, sweetie. Do you need me to butter your toast?”

Wyatt shook his head in surrender as his mother began to busily spread butter on a slice of toast for him.

“So, what time should I tell Dorrie you’re coming over?”

“Mom—”

“Well, are you not going to go just because I arranged it? She’s in need. I raised you better.”

“Mom…”

Beatrice sighed heavily and set the plate of toast in front of him. “I know you like Dorrie. Dorrie knows that you like that Dorrie. The whole town knows that you like Dorrie. What’s taking you so long? Just ask her out for a real date. We don’t get young single women in this town. This may be your last chance. And if you don’t claim her, I hear that Miles Logan has been sniffing around her office, claiming to need help on his finances when we all know the man has an MBA from Harvard. Susan Logan certainly bragged about it enough.”

“Mom…”

Beatrice signed heavily then said, “Fine, have it your way. I’ll just tell her that you’re not coming over—”

“Tell her I’ll be there at eleven,” Wyatt groaned.

His mother’s smug silence almost made him change his mind, but she was right. He had to make his move sooner rather than later, especially if Miles Logan was “sniffing around.” Dorrie was the type who might actually care about a Harvard MBA even though watching paint dry was more fun than talking to Miles.

Both Wyatt and Beatrice startled at a sudden knock on the front door. Beatrice looked wide-eyed at Wyatt. Some morticians’ wives learned to live with the job; Beatrice was not one of those women.

Wyatt tried to keep his expression calm for his mother. Twice in two days. This couldn’t be a false alarm.

“Do you think…” Beatrice’s voice trailed off as she looked toward the hallway that led to the front door.

“I’ll get it,” Wyatt said, mentally congratulating himself on how calm he sounded.

Wyatt ignored his mother’s worried gaze and walked through the highly polished and spotless family living area and into the mortuary’s reception area to the front door. He sighed, relieved when he saw Quinn’s silhouette through the stained glass in the front door. Then he frowned. The chances of Quinn knocking on his door twice in two days were about as likely as the Oakland Raiders making their appearance.

Quinn pounded on the door again and Wyatt quickly opened it before she knocked the door off its hinges. For a small woman, she sure could knock.

A blast of cold air rushed into the warm house as Quinn stood on the porch, looking more beautiful than she had last night and even more pissed. He silently cursed. He had lied last night. He would never be able to ignore her when she was near. The world became Technicolor, Dolby Surround sound. How could he ignore that?

“Quinn,” he greeted calmly.

She pushed designer sunglasses to the top of her head, then quickly took them off to brush her hair into perfect waves again. “So?”

“So…what?”

“So, can we use your house or not?” she demanded, crossing her arms over her chest, which drew his gaze to the cleavage. He suddenly felt a little sweat bead on his forehead. Quinn’s honey-brown cleavage could do that to a man. “I have places to be, things to do. I need a decision.”

Wyatt stared at her for a moment, then leaned against the door frame. She returned his stare with a lift of her chin. And a small part of him wanted to take her up on it. To just lose his nice-guy, patient image and to just grab her around the waist and…Wyatt shook his head at his thoughts. He wouldn’t be touching Quinn Sibley. No matter what. He should just turn and walk away. Ignore her. Leave her alone.

“I told you that I’d let you know as soon as I knew.”

“Have you even asked your mother yet?”

“I can’t just spring something like this on my mother. She is very set in her ways, and she’s very traditional. It’ll take some gentle persuasion, but she’ll come around. Hopefully. I’ll let you know as soon as she does.”

“That’s not good enough, Wyatt. I have a whole production waiting on this. I told you what’s at stake. I need to know now.”

“I’m doing the best I can,” he said, with a shrug. When she only glared at him, he moved to close the door.

She placed a hand on the door, stopping him. If possible, laser beams shot from her eyes and bored into his brain. “We’re not done here, Wyatt,” she said huskily.

Wyatt told himself to remain calm. He knew Quinn liked to pout and shout and act like a brat. Hell, half of him liked for her to pout and shout and act like a brat. But the other half of him wanted her to respect him and treat him like a man.

He closed the distance between them until he could feel the heat from her body stroke his. She craned her neck to look at him. She no longer looked defiant and angry. Now there was a question in her eyes. Maybe even nerves. Something male and powerful snaked around Wyatt’s heart.

He kept his voice low and even as he said, “We’re done when I say we’re done, Quinn. And, trust me, we’re done.”

He actually heard her gulp. The tip of her pink tongue nervously wet her bottom lip, and her bright eyes darted from his eyes to his mouth. Her gaze finally lingered on his mouth. Wyatt’s body tightened in response as if it knew something that he didn’t. As if it felt that maybe—just maybe—Quinn was beginning to feel that something Wyatt always felt around her.

Of course, Beatrice picked that moment to stand beside Wyatt. Quinn instantly averted her gaze, and Wyatt coughed to cover the desire clogging his throat.

Beatrice’s gaze hardened as she pointedly stared from Quinn’s tight sweater and blinged-out gold bomber jacket to the skintight expensive jeans and stiletto heels. Beatrice’s mouth narrowed, and Wyatt silently cursed. That expression from his mother was not a good thing.

Quinn turned her sweet smile on Beatrice, which prompted Beatrice’s eyes to narrow even more. Wyatt thought about warning Quinn because he could tell she was going to bring up the movie, but what good would that do? All the warnings in the world would not help Quinn now.

“May I help you?” Beatrice asked, as if she had no idea who Quinn was.

“I’m Quinn Sibley,” Quinn said brightly. “I don’t believe we’ve met—”

“We met at your sister’s wedding,” Beatrice replied in a stiff tone that told them both that Beatrice had not considered it a pleasant experience. Her eyes once more traveled over Quinn’s outfit.

Quinn soldiered on. “We did? I’m sure I would have remembered a woman as beautiful as you. Are you Wyatt’s sister?”

Beatrice did not crack a smile at the lame attempt at sucking up. Wyatt told himself to remain silent, but then he saw the brief flash of discomfort across Quinn’s face before she could hide it. And since he was a genuine sucker for Quinn, he couldn’t just stand by while his mother pulverized her.

“Quinn, this is my mother, Beatrice Granger,” Wyatt quickly covered the awkward silence. “Quinn was actually just leaving—”

“Since I’m here, Mrs. Granger, we may as well talk,” Quinn interrupted Wyatt, her gaze flickering to him in annoyance before she turned that smile back on Beatrice. “You may have heard that I’m planning to film a movie right here in our very own Sibleyville. We had the pick of places in town, but we’ve chosen your beautiful home as our prime location for filming. This house is such a testament to this town and there’s obviously so much love and time put into each and every room in this house. We would pay for your inconvenience, of course, and even paint and—”

“No,” Beatrice said, flatly. “We’re a funeral home, not a movie studio. Your father would roll over in his grave if he saw movie cameras traipsing around his home.”

Wyatt was surprised by his mother’s flat refusal and her open hostility to Quinn. Beatrice was not the friendliest person, but she also didn’t usually express her dislike so openly. Well, maybe she did, but Wyatt couldn’t really recall ever seeing it.

Beatrice effectively dismissed Quinn and said to Wyatt, “Close the door. You’re letting all the heat out. And remember Dorrie is waiting for you. You should try to get over there soon. She wants to take you to lunch to repay you, but I think she wants to just spend some time with you.”

Quinn watched in disbelief as Beatrice walked back into the house, without another glance in Quinn’s direction. Wyatt sighed in relief. That could have gone much worse.

Chapter 4

Quinn was an actress. A black actress, no less. She was used to rejection. The last few months, she had taken two steps into audition rooms and been told, “Thanks, but no thanks,” before she even had opened her mouth. But, Beatrice Granger could give Hollywood casting agents a run for their money. In just a few short words, she had made Quinn feel really small.

Quinn turned to Wyatt. The sympathy in his eyes actually made her want to crawl into his arms and just be near his warmth.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Quinn’s world collapsed to Wyatt’s mouth as cold sweat broke out between her shoulder blades. “So that’s it?” she asked, hoarsely.

“I told you to let me handle it. I told you that she needed some time to get used to the idea,” he said quietly.

She clutched his arm and tried to keep the desperation out of her voice, as she said, “I need this, Wyatt.”

He looked uncomfortable. “I don’t know what to tell you. Mom says no.”

“Who’s house is this? Hers or yours?”

His discomfort magnified. “Both of ours.”

Quinn didn’t realize that she was squeezing his arm until she saw a wince cross his face. “Then tell her that you want me to use it. You have to tell her.”

He gently disengaged himself from her grasp and still did not meet her eyes. “I’m sorry, Quinn. I really am.”

Quinn’s mouth flapped open in disbelief. And then the anger started. “You’re doing this on purpose,” she accused in an angry whisper. “You knew She-Dragon would say no, and you’re doing this to punish me.”

His eyes widened in surprise as he finally looked at her. “Punish you?”

“For not wanting you as much as you’ve wanted me all this time.”

He actually looked amused as he said, “That’s not what’s happening. Trust me.”

She squared her shoulders and said in her best Sephora voice of promise of retribution, “This is not over, Wyatt.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to tell your mother that you want the movie to be filmed here.”

He released an impatient sigh. “Quinn, I told you to wait. You didn’t listen to me. It would have taken a while but I could have talked her into it. Now her position is set. She’s not going to budge.”

She narrowed her eyes and said threateningly, “I will make your life hell until this is resolved, Wyatt.”

He stared at her for a moment and then smiled. She resented him even more for making her stomach strangely clench. It was that damn smile. He was much too sexy when he flashed that smile. And because he did it so rarely, the smile and her reaction to it always took her by surprise.

“What are you going to do, Quinn? Toilet paper the house?”

“I hadn’t thought of that, but thanks for the idea.”

He rolled his eyes in frustration. “Mother doesn’t change her mind.”

“Neither do I. This is not over, Wyatt. You may as well surrender now because a Sibley always gets what she wants.” She flipped hair over her shoulder and stalked to her car.

She turned back to yell at him again and was rendered breathless when she realized that he had been staring at her ass as if he could find the answers to life. He didn’t even seem embarrassed when she caught him.

Normally, such blatant male hunger would have annoyed her, at the least pissed her off. But for some reason she became nervous. There was something about the frank male appreciation in his eyes that made her uncertain. As if no man had ever stared at her ass before.

As he stared at her expectantly, Quinn realized that she couldn’t speak. Her throat was clogged with nerves. She sat in her Mercedes convertible and jerked the door shut angrily. Her tires squealed as she stomped down on the gas pedal. She really needed to get the hell out of this town if Wyatt Granger was making her speechless.

Ten minutes later, Quinn stormed into her house and slammed the front door. She kicked off her heels and smiled in satisfaction as they flew across the room into a wall. She paced the length of the living room. She couldn’t return to L.A. without the location. Helmut had made that clear. And Helmut had only given her a week. It would take longer than a week to convince Beatrice Granger that Quinn was not the devil; it would probably take about a century.

Not that Quinn blamed her. Quinn had never been very good with mothers. It was something about the miniskirts and halter tops. Most moms didn’t like a woman like her around their precious sons.

Quinn rolled her eyes in annoyance. Beatrice Granger was not standing in the way of her career comeback. She needed a plan, and she needed a plan fast. Quinn suddenly smiled. Only one person she knew was evil enough and brave enough to take on the likes of Beatrice Granger. Kendra. Beatrice was no match for Kendra. Hell, a Roman legion would have been no match for Kendra.

Quinn plopped onto the sofa in the living room and grabbed the telephone. She dialed her sister’s telephone number in New York.

“Hello,” Kendra mumbled into the telephone.

Quinn glanced at the clock on the VCR. It was nearly one o’clock in the afternoon, which meant that it was nearly four o’clock in the afternoon in New York. She had never known Kendra to sleep past six o’clock in the morning or to take naps. Something had to be wrong.

“Are you asleep?”

“I was,” Kendra snapped, sounding like her usual annoyed self.

Quinn instantly dismissed her worries. “I need your help, Kendra.”

“What? Why?” Kendra asked, suddenly sounding wide awake and concerned. “Are you hurt? I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Thank God. I’m in Sibleyville.” There was a long pause on the phone line. “Kendra? Are you still there?”

“Are any limbs broken?” Kendra demanded.

“No.”

“Are you in jail?”

“Of course not.”

“Are you pregnant?”

“Kendra—”

“Then I’m not coming to Sibleyville and I have to go—”

“Kendra, wait,” Quinn ordered. “I need you.”

“What in the world do you possibly need from me that involves me traveling from New York to that hellhole?”

“It’s almost Christmas, and Charlie and I will be here for Christmas. You can’t spend Christmas alone.”

“I won’t be alone. There are almost three million people in Manhattan, and I’m sure there are one or two of them who hate the holidays almost as much as I do. If I hear ‘We Wish You a Merry Christmas’ one more time, I will not be responsible for my actions.”

“Kendra, I need you here by tomorrow.”

Kendra sighed. “I know that you wouldn’t be in Sibleyville unless your life depended on it, and since your life is solely focused on acting, I’m going to assume that all of this has something to do with that movie you’ve been talking about nonstop for the last few weeks.”

“Not just a movie, but the movie. My come-back movie. All I have to do is convince this town and Wyatt Granger to go along with it.”

“Quinn, quit the dramatics and give me the short version,” Kendra snapped.

“I finally got Helmut Ledenhault to let me audition for his movie. It’s a great role. The character is—”

“You’re giving me the short version, remember?”

“I’m trying. After reading the script for On Livermore Road, I knew that Sibleyville would be perfect for it. I talked Helmut into driving to Sibleyville because he needs a cheap location. Anyways, Helmut saw the town, fell in love with the price and in particular fell in love with the Granger Funeral Home. He’s given me one week to get the approval and permits, and I have one huge, unsightly obstacle blocking my way to future Oscar renown. Wyatt Granger.”

“I’m not sure what I’m having more trouble understanding. The fact that you’re actually acting again, or the fact that someone believes that Sibleyville is good for something.”

“Kendra, this is serious,” Quinn snapped.

“I’m still not sure how I fit into all of this.”

“Wyatt wants to give me the house, but his mother doesn’t. I need some way to force Wyatt to make his mother agree.”

“Just bat your fake eyelashes and wiggle your fake breasts at him. Doesn’t that usually do the trick?”

“Wyatt is different from most men,” Quinn said, frustrated. “He doesn’t want me. He’s convinced that he wants to marry some Pollyanna here in town, and he plans to be married to her and popping out little Sibley-villians—if that’s a word—by next year. I have no practice in convincing a man who doesn’t like me to do something I want, so I need your help. I’m sure you’ve found yourself in this situation numerous times.”

“If you’re trying to sweet-talk me, it’s not working,” Kendra replied dryly.

Quinn ignored her sister’s sarcastic tone. “What should I do, Kendra? The director won’t make this movie without Wyatt’s house, and Wyatt refuses to talk his mother into doing it.”

“As you remind me every five minutes, you’re Quinn Sibley. Daytime Emmy winner and one of People’s 50 Most Beautiful People three years in a row. You can convince a man to do anything, Pollyanna or not.”

“Usually, that’s right, but Wyatt…he’s not exactly normal. He’s a funeral director.”

“You have a point,” Kendra agreed, which instantly annoyed Quinn. There was nothing per se wrong with being a funeral director. Quinn would put Wyatt up against any of those suit-wearing losers that Kendra used and abused and dumped climbing up her corporate ladder.

“Regardless of Wyatt’s supposed Pollyanna fixation, he’s obsessed with you. He’ll do whatever you want,” Kendra said firmly.

“You think so?” she asked uncertainly.

“Put on a tight dress, shake your ass and your breasts that you’ve certainly paid enough for, and get that house.”

“It’s not that simple, Kendra.”

“Of course, it is. Or, maybe, you need to go about it another way,” Kendra said with a short burst of laughter.

“What do you mean?”

“Are Wyatt and his Pollyanna actually dating?”

“Not yet.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t think about this. What did Sephora do when her sister—the nun, not the ex-secret agent—met that rebel in the Colombian jungle?”

“She came on to the priest whenever Elizabeth was around because she knew it would make Elizabeth jealous and hate the rebel, and then Elizabeth would return back to the convent and Sephora could take over the family business—”

“Precisely. Sephora drove a wedge straight between the couple, even though she and the rebel never even touched. But the sister wouldn’t believe him, and he got angry that she wouldn’t believe him and went back to the Colombian jungle where he was eaten by a crocodile.”

“It was an anaconda, and his death led Elizabeth to leave the convent and to move back to town, where she locked Sephora in the dungeon built behind the wine cellar of the family mansion for a month. That was such a horrible time. I had to wear the same hideous fuchsia dress for four months—”

“Quinn, focus.”

Quinn was silent as she squeezed the telephone receiver. She suddenly grinned. “Kendra, you’re a genius. Or, more accurately, the writers of Diamond Valley are geniuses.”

“You become Wyatt’s worst nightmare. You’re on him like white on rice. Flirting, laughing, whispering in his ear, wanting him like Sephora wanted that Bulgarian prince. Pollyanna will never believe Wyatt when he claims there’s nothing going on. Of course, you’ll stop the campaign of terror just before Pollyanna vows to never speak to him again if he lets you film the movie in his house. And the perfect part is that Wyatt will have no control over the situation. No one will believe that he’s not into it.”

“You’re evil, Kendra.”

“Thank you.”

Quinn laughed. “Only you would take that as a compliment.”

“Glad to help, and don’t lay it on too thick. You wouldn’t want the poor thing to self-combust. Remember this is Sibleyville.”

“So, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Kendra squeaked. “You don’t need me there. I’ve give you the perfect plan. All you have to do is execute it.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, or I’ll sic Charlie on you.”

There was a long silence on the telephone and then Kendra said flatly, “Apparently, I’m not the only evil Sibley sister. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Perfect.” Quinn pressed the Disconnect button then ran up the stairs to her room with a grin. She had to find the perfect outfit for lunch. Wyatt hadn’t said where he was taking Dorrie for lunch, but considering the options around town, Quinn had a feeling she would find them sooner or later.

Chapter 5

Wyatt smiled across the table at Dorrie. Dorrie sent him a shy smile in return, then went back to pushing her food around her plate. Wyatt went back to his own plate. He had taken his mother’s advice. He had driven to Dorrie’s small apartment above her office on Main Street and he had fixed her drain, then he had asked her to lunch. The two had walked the few short blocks from her place to Annie’s Diner, the most popular of the town’s few diners.

It had been perfect. The men they had passed on the way to the café had smiled knowingly at Wyatt, and the women had smiled excitedly at Dorrie. Obviously, Sibleyville was ready for another wedding. Although given that Quinn was still suffering repercussions from the last one, Wyatt thought maybe it was best that weddings didn’t happen that often around town.

Wyatt forcibly pushed those thoughts out of his head. Quinn was probably long gone by now, on her way back to Los Angeles, looking for another movie director to harass. And Wyatt was here with Dorrie, the woman he could build a life with. A life of complete and utter silence, because Dorrie hadn’t said more than six words since they had sat at the table.

Wyatt didn’t necessarily need to talk for the sake of talking—he was a mortician, after all—but he didn’t think that an occasional exchange of words was asking too much. He could barely get Quinn to shut up.

Wyatt glanced around the diner and noticed more than a few of the older couples at the various tables throughout the diner staring at him. Vera Spears winked at him and gave him an encouraging nod. Wyatt inwardly groaned. Sometimes, he really hated living in a small town.

Wyatt turned back to Dorrie, who was staring at him and quickly looked back down at her plate. She really was cute. She had sun-kissed golden skin, bright brown eyes and dark hair that she wore parted down the middle. She barely reached his shoulders in her sensible pumps. The word stiletto probably wasn’t even a part of her vocabulary. She was petite, sweet and soft in all the right places. Just like a wife should be.

Wyatt cleared his throat and asked, “So—you like the pot pie?”

“Yes.”

“My mom makes a great pot pie.”

Dorrie murmured in response and continued pushing around her food. Wyatt thought about banging his head on the table. Maybe that would get a reaction beyond mild politeness. Quinn probably would have gone on a ten-minute monologue about her movie character’s dining proclivities.

Wyatt felt guilty once more. He shouldn’t be thinking about Quinn, let alone comparing Dorrie to Quinn.

Dorrie suddenly looked up at him and asked hesitantly, “Your mother said that you’re interested in plants and flowers?”

“I am,” he said, trying to hide his surprise that she had asked him a personal question. “I mean, it’s just a hobby but it’s something I really enjoy. You know, dealing with flowers kind of offsets the mortuary business. We haven’t seen a lot of deaths in the last two years, but it’s always the prospect—”

“Beatrice said that you even have a little nursery behind the house,” she interjected quickly, obviously uncomfortable with the subject of death.

Wyatt tried not to take offense at the description little. Last year, he had made more money from his “little” nursery, planning and tending the town’s landscape and growing flowers for people in the area, than his father had ever made from the mortuary in a year.

“It’s a side project,” he finally said.

“What’s your favorite flower?”

“Favorite flower? I don’t know.”

“I like roses.”

Wyatt refrained from his numerous complaints about the most oversold flower in the States. “Roses are nice. I have a greenhouse behind the house. I even have a small section of orchids. They’re a very delicate plant to grow, but I portioned off a section of the greenhouse and tried to make conditions perfect. I think it’s working. I also have gardenias and hydrangeas and…”

His voice trailed off as Dorrie put her hand on his. Her smile was gentle, which made him realize that he had been blabbing. She removed her hand and said, “Maybe you can show me some time.”

“I’d like that,” he said, grinning probably wide enough for his mother to see it back at the house. Dorrie returned his smile.

Wyatt noticed a sudden shift in the air. He also noticed that no one in the diner was staring at them anymore. Instead, they were staring at the door. Wyatt followed their stares and couldn’t suppress the cough of disbelief as Quinn stood in the door frame. She didn’t just stand. She posed, as if allowing everyone to get a full look at her. And every man in the place was incredibly grateful.

She wore a teensy-weensy, barely-there black skirt, black fishnets, black pointy-toed, calf-length boots and a sweater that dipped too low to really be considered a sweater. Wyatt supposed it was Quinn’s version of a winter outfit, but he couldn’t understand how she could prance around in so few clothes when it was close to fifty degrees outside.

Quinn flipped her now straight hair over her shoulder and sauntered across the restaurant toward Wyatt. She kept her gaze on him the entire time, ignoring everyone else. She stopped in front of his table and leaned down, giving him a view of the front and everyone else in the restaurant a view of the back. His body hardened and tightened, as if it knew what was near and didn’t appreciate Wyatt not doing what his body obviously wanted to do.

“Hi, Wyatt,” she breathed, her lips so close to his ear that he could feel her breath heat the shell of his ear.

If Wyatt didn’t know better, he would think that “Hi, Wyatt,” meant “Take me back to my house and pound into me until I can’t walk anymore.” He wanted to bury his face in her hair and smell it and touch it and pull it as he entered her—

Wyatt swallowed the lump in his throat and met her gaze. Everything about her screamed sex, but the look in her eyes twinkled with something else. Mischief.

“Quinn,” Wyatt greeted carefully.

“Mind if I join you?” she purred.

Without waiting for a response, she slid into the booth next to Wyatt, her thigh pressing into his. Wyatt grimaced and moved farther over until he was pressed against the window, but she only followed him until every inch of her thigh pressed against every inch of his. Quinn had never willingly sat next to him, let alone touched him, since he had known her. Something was definitely up, and it had nothing to do with what was in his pants.

Quinn smiled at Dorrie, who looked transfixed with awe, and offered her hand. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Quinn Sibley. I hope I’m not intruding.”

Dorrie stared at Quinn for a moment, then appeared to snap out of whatever daze she was in and shook Quinn’s hand. “I know who you are. I watch Diamond Valley, or…I used to, until they killed you off.”

Quinn’s pleasure was evident as she said, “Really?” Quinn playfully jabbed Wyatt in the arm and asked, “Why didn’t you tell me you were having lunch with a woman with such good taste?” Wyatt narrowed his eyes at her, and Quinn turned to Dorrie. “Sometimes Wyatt has the worst manners. What is your name?”

“Dorrie Diamond.”

“What a beautiful name,” Quinn gushed, obviously not remembering her comic book comment from yesterday. “You stopped watching Diamond Valley because of me?”

“Of course,” Dorrie said, nodding eagerly. “Sephora was the best part of that show. The only reason to watch it.”

“I thought so, too,” Quinn agreed.

Wyatt decided that whatever game Quinn was playing had gone on long enough, especially since she had placed her elbow on the table, touching his.

He cleared his throat and said, “Quinn—”

Dorrie interrupted him, her gaze still on Quinn. “Ms. Sibley—”

“Please call me Quinn,” Quinn said, patting Dorrie’s arm.

Dorrie gave Quinn a wide smile that she had never given him. “Quinn, I always wondered, what is Gregory like in real life?”

Quinn laughed and tossed her hair over her shoulder in a cascading waterfall of brown silk. “I’m not surprised. Every woman in America wants the lowdown about Gregory Rotelle. He seems so debonair and sophisticated on television, but believe me, honey, the man deserves an Emmy for even being able to portray a human. In real life, he’s an ass. He spent more time in hair and makeup than most of the women. And, for the record, the hair is not real.”

Dorrie giggled, her pale skin coloring slightly. “No!” she gasped, moving her hand to cover her mouth.

Wyatt grew more annoyed. He still hadn’t gotten a laugh out of Dorrie.

“Oh, yes. His real hairline starts somewhere around the top of his ears,” Quinn said with a conspiratorial wink, causing Dorrie to collapse into laughter.

“Quinn,” Wyatt said in a low, quiet voice that neither woman could ignore. Dorrie glanced at him and stared back down at her plate, her smile disappearing, while Quinn looked at him with an innocent expression that would have fooled only a blind man. He clenched his teeth and demanded, “What do you want?”

“Wyatt!” Dorrie admonished in a whisper, as if Quinn wouldn’t be able to hear her.

“It’s all right, Dorrie,” Quinn said sweetly, patting the woman’s arm again. “I’m used to Wyatt’s moods.”

“Moods?” Dorrie repeated hesitantly.

“Quinn,” Wyatt said, a little louder this time. Quinn sent him another innocent smile. “What are you doing here?”

“Wyatt, I’m not sure I like your tone,” Dorrie said, sounding offended on Quinn’s behalf.

Quinn bit her bottom lip to hide her smile from Dorrie, but she didn’t hide the twinkle of amusement in her eyes as she turned to Wyatt.

Dorrie sent Wyatt a death stare, then smiled at Quinn. “I apologize for Wyatt’s behavior. You’re obviously here for lunch and just stopped by to say hello. That’s very nice—”

“I’m not here for lunch, unless they’ve changed the menu to include items that don’t automatically turn you into a cow,” Quinn said, then turned to Wyatt with a lovestruck look in her eyes. She placed a hand on his arm. “I came here because I heard that Wyatt would be here. He and I had a small argument this morning and I wanted to apologize.”

Wyatt could almost hear some cheesy soap opera music playing in the background. He glanced at Dorrie. She looked as if she had swallowed something distasteful. And Wyatt instantly knew what Quinn’s little show was about.

Wyatt narrowed his eyes at Quinn, who blinked at him. He moved his arm from her touch. “Apology accepted, Quinn. You can go now.”

“Will I see you later tonight?” Quinn waited a dramatic beat, then added, “When Graham and Charlie get here.”

“Quinn, we’ll talk later,” he replied tightly. “You can go. Now.

Quinn jumped from the booth, pulling down the skirt that had ridden up her thighs. Then he got distracted by the fishnets. He gulped. Hard.

Quinn avoided his eyes and smiled at Dorrie, who was looking at Quinn as if she wasn’t her favorite soap actress anymore.

“Dorrie, it was wonderful to meet you. Maybe we can get together and I’ll give you more dirt about the show.”

Dorrie murmured noncommittally, then sent Quinn a wan smile. Quinn glanced at Wyatt, then quickly turned and nearly ran out the diner. Wyatt would have felt some satisfaction, but Dorrie was looking at him with a strange expression. Two steps forward and twelve steps back.

“Can we go?” Dorrie asked, glancing around the diner for the owner, Annie. “I have a client coming at one-thirty.”

“Of course.” Wyatt pulled out his wallet, dug out enough cash to cover the bill and stood.

He offered his hand to Dorrie, but she ignored it and stood on her own. She grabbed her coat from the booth, then walked out the diner without another glance in Wyatt’s direction.

“Nice going, Wyatt,” someone yelled out dryly.

Wyatt ignored the catcalls that followed and shrugged into his own coat before he hurried out the diner after her. Dorrie was already halfway down the street to her office. He ran to catch up with her.

Quinn had said that it wasn’t over, and obviously it wasn’t. She was now determined to ruin his life.

“Dorrie, wait,” he said, grabbing her arm.

They stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. The withering look Dorrie gave his hand on her arm made him quickly release her. She relaxed a fraction, then glanced around Main Street. Thankfully, the street was almost deserted. Most people had gone back to their ranches, farms or stores. The lunch hour—as much as there was one in Sibleyville—was over.

“I told you that I have an appointment,” Dorrie said stiffly.

“I’m sorry about that,” he said, motioning back toward the diner. “Quinn and I had a little argument this morning when she stopped by the house—uninvited, I might add—and that’s all. There was nothing more to it.”

“Quinn’s reaction to you didn’t seem like nothing,” Dorrie said quietly, avoiding his eyes.

“Quinn is an actress.”

“I’m not an idiot, Wyatt,” she said icily, her cheeks flushing with anger. Wyatt didn’t know whether to feel excited that he had finally gotten a reaction out of Dorrie or worried. “I saw the way you looked at her, and I saw the way she looked at you. The whole diner did.”

“Quinn and I are friends,” he said, attempting to carefully walk through the minefield without losing any limbs.

She snorted in disbelief, then appeared surprised that she had done anything so unladylike. She shook her head as the anger slowly drained from her face. “I don’t know why I’m getting so upset. You don’t owe me anything.”

“Not yet.”

Her expression grew guarded as she studied him. “What do you mean?”

“I think you know how I feel about you, Dorrie. I really like you. I think you and I have a lot in common and want the same things for the future. I want to get to know you better.”

A smile bloomed across her face and she instantly stared at the ground, as if she hadn’t meant to smile like that. Wyatt smiled, relieved.

“I want to get to know you better, too,” she said softly.

“Lunch? Same time tomorrow?”

“I’d like that,” she said, finally meeting his eyes again.

She waved, then walked into her office. Wyatt waited until the door closed, then cursed. Quinn wanted to know if he ever spoke. Well, he now had plenty to say to her. A lot, in fact.

Chapter 6

Quinn didn’t like to reward herself with food, but sometimes only the ability to eat anything she wanted could sufficiently reward a woman who normally ate no more than fifteen hundred calories a day. Quinn bit into the oversized cheeseburger she had picked up from another diner outside town, then stuffed several French fries in her mouth. She moaned in pleasure and leaned back against the pillows of the porch swing on the back porch of the house.

She would never admit it, but this was her favorite spot in Sibleyville. Two large trees shadowed the back porch from the overhead sun. There were gentle rolling green hills as far as the eye could see punctuated by little bursts of wildflowers that bloomed in the summer.

This afternoon there was a chill in the air, but the sun shone and the all-encompassing quiet was only interrupted by the occasional shrill of a bird call.

She had changed out of her come-hither clothes into a pair of comfortable, worn jeans and one of Graham’s sweatshirts. As a result, she was warm for the first time since she had driven into Sibleyville last night. And she was actually eating. Real food. She almost felt content; maybe Sibleyville was not exactly the pit of hell she had always pictured. But then again, she was drowning her insides with fat and grease, and a girl was liable to feel anything under that influence.

She chuckled to herself as she remembered Wyatt’s expression in the diner. An hour later and she still got a good laugh out of it. He had been furious. Annoyed. Pushed to the limit. Completely outmatched. By the time Charlie and Graham arrived in town in another few hours, Wyatt would have admitted defeat and Quinn would be packed and ready to return to Los Angeles. Of course, Kendra would not be happy to arrive here and not find Quinn, but Quinn would thank Kendra in her Oscar acceptance speech.

Quinn smiled again, then lifted her wineglass to her imagined enraptured audience. No, she would first thank Wyatt in her Oscar speech. He could fume while he changed all those babies’ diapers he was so looking forward to changing.

“Celebrating something?” came a dry voice.

Quinn screeched in fear at the sight of Wyatt standing in the yard. She screamed again when she realized that she had spilled wine all over her jeans. She jumped to her feet and swiped at her jeans with the towel she had been using as a napkin.

“Damn it, Wyatt. You scared me,” she snapped, annoyed.

She glared at him and was surprised by the sudden shiver that raced through her body. He was gorgeous. All brown skin and denim-clad legs and eyelashes. It was ridiculous to think of a man as simply legs and eyelashes, but she did. And he even wore a tan cowboy hat. And he didn’t look ridiculous in the least.

“Where are the fishnets?” he demanded, walking up the porch stairs to tower over her.

Quinn ignored him and quickly walked into the house to the kitchen. He followed her.

“These jeans cost one hundred and fifty dollars,” she growled as she wet the towel and began to blot the stains. “Not to mention I spilled wine all over my lunch.”

“One pair of jeans and a burger and fries for my future with Dorrie. It’s a good start,” he said flatly.

“What are you talking about?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about. Your little act in the diner,” he said angrily. “I have to admit, it was a brilliant performance, Quinn.”

She threw the towel in the sink disgustedly, giving up on her jeans and then glared at him. He was much closer than she had realized. And there was that scent again. The Wyatt scent. Her nerves tingled.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she managed.

He laughed in disbelief and sat at the table to lean back and study her. She refused to believe that she was nervous in the least. But she sure felt something akin to nervous. Very nervous.

“I know you think that all Sibleyville natives are hicks, and maybe you’re right. We are. But this hick knew exactly what you were doing when you sauntered into the diner in those fishnets.” He paused in his speech to sputter, outraged, “Fishnets, Quinn? It’s nearly fifty degrees outside. You’re going to catch pneumonia.”

For some reason, she found it amusing and a tad touching that he was so focused on her health. She hid her smile and said, while pretending to stifle a yawn, “You’re really going to have to stop speaking in codes because I have no idea what you’re talking about and I’m getting bored.”

Wyatt’s eyes narrowed and Quinn wondered if she had finally pushed him too far. He stood and moved across the kitchen toward her. Actually, he stalked across the kitchen to her. She took a defensive step back and bumped into a counter. She placed her hands behind her and tried to hold Wyatt’s dark gaze.

“You upset Dorrie today, and you pissed me off with that little show,” he said in a low voice that threatened either ecstasy or hell. “If you think that I’m going to roll over for you because you attempt to throw a little wrench in my budding relationship with Dorrie, then you don’t know me very well. If anything, you’ve made me more resolved than ever to date Dorrie and you also have made me more resolved than ever to make certain that you and your film crew never set foot in my house.”

“That’s not fair,” she squeaked.

“Not fair,” he repeated, in disbelief. “After your performance in the diner, Dorrie and half the town think you and I are sleeping together. By the end of the day, the entire town will think we’re on the verge of getting married. That’s not fair, Quinn. You know that I’m trying to build a life with Dorrie. She walked out on me in the diner and almost walked out on me entirely.”

“Almost?” Quinn repeated, disappointed.

“Yes, almost. I managed to salvage our growing friendship, no thanks to you. But even though she pretended to believe me, there was doubt in her eyes that was not there before.”

“I see I’m not the only one bitten by the drama bug around here. All I did was act a little friendly, Wyatt.”

“Do you really think that I’ll talk my mother into letting you use the house just because you’re threatening to sabotage my relationship with Dorrie?”

“That’s exactly what I think,” she said flatly. He appeared surprised, as if he didn’t expect her to admit it. She smiled. “You know I can do it, Wyatt. One smile. A well-placed hand or, a kiss even, and Dorrie will never talk to you again.”

“Are you threatening me?” he asked in disbelief.

“Whatever you think of me, I am an actress. An extraordinary actress, actually. I can make anybody believe whatever I want, which means I can make this town—including Dorrie—believe that you and I are having a torrid, no-holds-barred affair and that we’re madly in love,” she said simply. “Without any participation from you. And no one will believe your denials because everyone knows how you’ve followed me around like a puppy ever since Graham and Charlie met.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I would. I intend to, actually, unless…well, you know what I want,” she said then lifted her left eyebrow in challenge. When he only stared at her, his face a blank mask, she sighed in frustration. “Come on, Wyatt. Why put me through this? Just give me what I want—the house for the film—and I’ll be out of your hair, and you and Dorrie and continue your inevitable march toward white picket fences and dirty diapers.”

He stepped closer until the heat from his body mingled with hers. She suddenly found herself breathing hard. Her gaze dropped to his mouth, and she found herself licking her lips.

“You have gone too far, Quinn. This is war.”

“War?” she croaked. She shook her head confused. “I don’t want—”

“War, Quinn. You want a battle. You have a battle.”

She choked out a nervous laugh. “Be reasonable, Wyatt.”

“I’m done being reasonable with you. You don’t understand reasonable. Here are the rules of engagement. One week. One week for you to try whatever you can to turn Dorrie against me. If you succeed, then you’ll have the mortuary for your film because you’d have done me a favor in showing me that Dorrie is not the woman I thought she was. If, on the other hand, Dorrie ignores all of your underhanded attempts, then you’ll never mention that film or my house again.”

“Wyatt, I’m not—”

“Is it a deal or not?” he demanded, moving even closer.

They stared at each other for a moment. Then his gaze subtly dropped. To her breasts. Even though she wore a sweatshirt at least two sizes too big, she felt vulnerable and dainty. It made her instantly more nervous.

She crossed her arms over her breasts, and Wyatt instantly lifted his gaze to hers. He didn’t smile this time. He just watched her. Waiting.

“You’re really confident in Mission—Find a Wife, aren’t you?”

“I’m confident in Dorrie.”

“I watched you two before I walked into the diner. It looked painful. When you’re the big talker at the table, there definitely is trouble.” Her eyes widened as Wyatt leaned even closer and placed his finger on her lips, effectively silencing her.

“Don’t worry about my relationship with Dorrie,” he said quietly, his eyes boring into hers. “You should be worrying about finding your next movie role. Do we have a deal or not?”

She couldn’t resist the grin that spread across her face. “A Sibley always gets what she wants, Wyatt. You’re in over your head.”

She placed her hand in his to shake on the deal. Wyatt laughed, seeming almost as delighted as she was. And there it was. The two were smiling at each other. Enjoying each other, even, with the threat of mutual destruction.

At the same time, they both realized that they were smiling at each other, alone, in the house, holding hands. His hand was large and warm, slightly callused. And even though Quinn felt weird touching Wyatt, it also felt strangely comfortable, as if she had been holding his hand for most of her life.

Time stopped. His smile faded and a strange expression crossed his face, as if he couldn’t quite believe that she was standing there, near him. His lips parted slightly. Quinn thought that Wyatt leaned toward her. She knew that she leaned toward him.

“We’re home!” came an excited cry from the living room.

Wyatt jumped away from Quinn, and Quinn bumped into the counter once more. Charlie walked into the kitchen, looking cute and impossibly sweet, loaded down with brown grocery bags. She set the bags on the counter and grinned when she saw Quinn. She raced across the kitchen to wrap Quinn in a tight embrace that left Quinn gasping for air.

“You’re still here,” Charlie said, excitedly. “I saw your car out front, and I was so excited. We can go pick a Christmas tree.”

Graham walked into the kitchen and appeared to be on the verge of speaking, then just looked from Quinn to Wyatt. Quinn widened her eyes at Graham, silently begging him not to say anything that would draw Charlie’s attention the strange undercurrents in the kitchen.

“And did you hear that Kendra will be here tomorrow?” Charlie practically jumped up and down as she released Quinn. “I don’t think the three of us have been together for Christmas since…I don’t know when. This is going to be so exciting. I have to start baking cookies and making popcorn for the tree—”

“Calm down, baby. We have a few more days until Christmas. You can torture us with Christmas cheer after you’ve had a chance to relax a little,” Graham said with a gentle smile in Charlie’s direction before he pinned Quinn with a hard look and then turned to Wyatt. “Wyatt, nice to see you. What are you doing here? Helping Quinn prepare for our arrival?”

“Wyatt, what a nice surprise,” Charlie exclaimed, walking across the room to throw her arms around him.

Quinn tried not to feel jealous at the sight of her sister touching Wyatt and Wyatt touching her back. Quinn couldn’t hug Wyatt. Quinn frowned when she caught Graham staring at her with a knowing smirk. She resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at him. She had never had a brother before and as brothers went Graham was fine, but he did have the annoying part down.

“It’s nice to see you, too, Charlie,” Wyatt said, smiling. He nodded at Graham then glanced at his watch. “We should all catch up later. I have to…I have to get to something in town. A meeting.”

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