At First Touch (2 page)

“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.

Q
uinn 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.”