“Being bad.” Wilder tipped an invisible hat at Quinn. “For being a real bad guy.”

Chapter Eight

IT WAS QUIET on the drive home. The truck lights shined over high packed snowbanks and an empty road. Kit listened to talk radio and Quinn was acutely aware of Wilder’s silent presence in the backseat. Why did he have such a rift with his lovely family? Despite being in the center of a warm and affectionate crowd, he’d looked alone all through dinner and then during the football game. And no one seemed to know how to bridge the gulf. The loneliness that surrounded him made her throat tighten.

“Don’t forget to go by Wilder’s place first.” She cleared her throat as Kit turned onto Main Street.

“Yep, got the memo.” Kit shot her a quick sideways glance. “Not a problem.”

She looked out the window at the closed storefronts. “It’s nice living in such a small place. While my truck is getting fixed I can walk everywhere. That would never happen in L.A.”

Kit coughed into his fist. “You like your place?”

“It’s a cute rental, bright and cheerful. Looks like the flowerbeds will be amazing come spring. I think the owner is traveling overseas.”

“Yeah. Marigold.” Kit said the name like it cost him something. “Goldie is off gallivanting around the world. Finding herself or something, probably doing yoga in India as we speak.”

“I’d love to go to Europe someday. Her adventures sound great.”

“Peachy keen,” he muttered, turning down the narrow steep grade of Castle Lane while Wilder said nothing at all.

Kit parked the truck in front of the cabin and Quinn jumped out, grateful to escape the sudden awkward silence. She’d put her foot in it with Kit but wasn’t sure what “it” was. She waited for Wilder to emerge and followed him toward the porch. Even though they walked a foot apart, their shadows merged in the high beams. There was a quiet jingle as he dug his keychain out of his coat pocket.

She kicked the snow off her boots. “I had a nice time tonight.”

He froze, holding the door open. “I did too, surprisingly.”

She stepped into the dark, narrow hall. He flicked the overhead light on and she turned, gasping, not expecting to find him near enough that she could make an in-depth study on why his irises were such a perfect green.

“What are you lookin’ at?” he asked hoarsely.

“I think your eyes are the same shade as my ring.” He flinched when she set her palm against his scruffy cheek, comparing. “Yep. A near perfect match.” This nervous inner jumpy feeling was going to give her a stomachache. “My birth stone is a peridot. I was born at the end of August. Virgo alert, sorry.”

His thick brows knit. “What’s that mean?”

“Apparently I should be a clean-freak perfectionist.” She shrugged. “Except I’m an outlier because ew sums up my feelings on the subject of chores. I hate doing dishes and forget about folding laundry. But then again I do like to color code and alphabetize my bookshelves and arrange my comic collection by year so maybe there’s something to it after all.”

He shrugged out of his jacket and hung it on a chair. “Didn’t peg you for a comic fan.”

He wasn’t cute or charming, just bluntly honest. After all those bullshit years in Hollywood, it was refreshing to speak plainly. “I wouldn’t say I’m your average fan, more like a champion of the underdog. See, my collection consists solely of failed superheroes.”

He was silent. If he breathed she couldn’t see the physical evidence.

“Everyone loves Batman, Spider-Man, Superman, The Avengers. But what about Ashtray, who kills villains with second-hand smoke?”

He dipped his chin, peering at her. “Ashtray?”

Her cheeks flushed. The only way to end this conversation was to cease talking but the brakes were off. “There’s also Echo Boy, the skilled mime, and the Incredible Spork, and don’t forget Captain Canada. He fought for truth and justice, but also socialized medicine and—”

There was a sound of a truck engine starting, wheels backing up.

They both exchanged surprised glances.

“Where the hell is he going?” Wilder’s thick hand-knit wool sweater made a scratching sound as he slid past her down jacket. He yanked open the door and the cold air was welcome relief against her hot cheeks. “Kit’s gone.”

“Oh no.” She hugged herself. “I wasn’t taking too long, was I? I know I have a tendency to talk a lot but—”

He shut the door, keeping his hand pressed against the wood. “My guess? This was a con job between him and my brother.”

“I’m not following.”

Wilder turned, pushing a hand through his hair. “He and Archer probably got it into their thick heads to play matchmaker. It’s exactly the kind of stunt they’d pull.”

She straightened her glasses. “You think Kit purposefully left me to . . .”

His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Force us to spend the night together.”

A zap of electricity coursed through the valley between her breasts. There wasn’t room in this tight space to think or inhale or do anything but stand here with this crazy desire to reach out and splay her hands across his broad chest, clutch his sweater and drag him closer.

Apparently she wasn’t as into funny wisecracking hipsters as big brooding alphas. For years she’d been doing it all wrong.

“I’ll call Sawyer and he’ll come fetch you.” He made a low frustrated grumble deep in his throat. “I hate being so fucking useless.”

“Stop that right now,” she said quickly. “First, I don’t want Sawyer to drive all the way out here—his cabin is miles away. Second, you are far from fucking useless.”

“I can’t drive.”

“Neither can I tonight and I’m not unusable.” His gaze shot to her face and she had to work for her next breath. “But walking in the dark is a little scary. Do you mind if we build up the fire, make tea and figure out what to do?”

“You think I’d let you set foot outside by yourself tonight? But I don’t have tea, Trouble.” His eyes gleamed and, God help her, she liked it. She was like a rabbit prancing under a hungry wolf’s snout with a placard that read, “Eat me! I’m delicious!”

She exhaled lightly. “Well, you have a pot that can boil water, right? My purse just so happens to contain my backup tea stash.” She sensed his question before he had a chance to ask. “Never know when a girl might need a quick cup of Egyptian licorice or peppermint or chamomile—but you seem like you might be a rooibos type of guy—”

His mouth covered hers. There wasn’t a warning. The rest of her babble hummed into his mouth, turning into a soft sigh. Oh, thank the lord, he felt it too then, this inexplicable connection between them.

“I should push you away, but can’t seem to get close enough.” He had her up against the wall, bracing his weight against either side of her head and she grabbed two handfuls of sweater and the thick wool felt as thick, masculine, and sexy as she hoped. As for the muscles beneath it . . . oh . . .

Oh yeah.

He slid his tongue against hers again with a husky moan. “This is a bad idea.”

“Stopping would be a worse one.” She broke the kiss to fasten her lips to the side of his powerful neck between thick cords of tendon, his stubble rough on her lips. He tasted like soap, salt, and man. His pulse increased when she reached to tangle her fingers in the bristly waves dusting his collar.

“What the fuck are we doing?” His fingers found her jacket’s zipper, grinding it open.

“What feels good?” She arched her back. “I want to forget everything for a night, don’t you?”

“I need more, that okay?”

“Yes. More.” She pressed her hips closer. “Good idea.”

His big hands slipped under the hem of her shirt, unapologetic and forthright, the warm calloused pads of his fingers rough against her cool stomach, as if his body temperature ran a few degrees higher than normal.

He took his time, exhibiting absolute control while all she could do was hang on for dear life, her face buried in his neck, writhing while his hands moved over her ribs, one at a time, as if climbing a ladder. She wanted to be against him in bed, to take his hand and slide it where her nipples were peaked, aching to be rolled between his thumb and forefinger. She wanted it rough and fast and urgent. But then, as much as it made her twist and moan, it was nice for him to take his time.