Fuse

by Angel Payne

  Emma

  Will any of this ever stop being such a mess?

  The question bashes the inside of my brain like an NBA team training for the championship—weirdly appropriate, since I’m pounding out a great acoustic support track by jerking doors, slamming drawers, and stomping around our arena of a kitchen.

  The din is easy to get away with, since everyone has filtered out to the backyard, where Anya’s setting out plates of snacks and Chase is opening wine. I volunteered to stay in here and set up the buffet-style brunch foods—a collection of salads, sandwiches, finger foods, and desserts easily capable of feeding that basketball team five times over—in hopes of dealing with all my weirdness about this morning in a more constructive way than a classic Emma retreat-and-hide. So far, so good.

  Sure as hell doesn’t mean I’m not still tempted.

  Especially as I swing around, a bowl of Greek salad in one hand and a tray of stuffed peppers in the other, to confront a pair of insightful golden eyes ensconced in a petite, perceptive face. Especially as my I’m-so-busy act is shot to hell before I can fake five seconds of it. And especially as Joany pops up to park herself on one of the high barstools along the other side of the granite island.

  “Hey.” I force out the breezy tone while peeling back the plastic wrap from the peppers.

  “Hey yourself.” Her tone is light but meaningful, doubling my shock that she’s a savvy stock analyst instead of a high-end psychotherapist. But now that I think about it, the professions are scarily similar.

  “Everything going okay out there?” I nod toward the patio. To any outsider, the scene is simply a group of family and friends enjoying an early summer day, not the survivors of a memorial service that was turned into a crazy installment of a superhero summer blockbuster, minus anyone flying or dissolving. But as the cliché goes, the day isn’t over yet…

  And I find clichés fascinating…why?

  “Oh, just peaches and roses.” Joany’s smile is a combination of both, with her high cheekbones evoking the fruit and her stunning skin tone borrowing from the flower. With her silk blouse and tailored palazzo pants completing the scenario of Southern belle chic, I’m forced to remember that she’s probably readying to drop a zinger of a follow-up to that. “But it’s definitely not the case in here, is it?”

  Like that one.

  Swoosh. Two points.

  I puff out my cheeks and then release the air on a big whoosh. “You don’t beat around the bush, do you?”

  “Why waste time?” She rests her elbows on the bar and then turns her hands upside down, cupping one inside the other. It’s like a finger steeple, only slightly less intimidating. “Especially when someone I care deeply about has a crap day thrown at them.”

  I almost think of taking a lap around that proverbial bush myself and pretend she’s talking about Chase instead of me, but as the woman has perfectly said, why waste time. “Thanks,” I murmur. “I think you’re pretty awesome too.” And I mean every syllable. As future sisters-in-law go, I’ve hit the jackpot, but that still doesn’t mean I want to spill to her about Angelique’s true impact on Reece’s life. “But honestly, the tale is long and messy and—”

  “Isn’t this a fun conversation to walk in on.” The comment comes from the last person, besides maybe Angie, that I want to see strolling in right now. But as Lydia parks herself on a chair next to Joany, I’m almost tempted to laugh. The pair of them are like Buffy and Willow rebooted, ready to kick ass and take names—only with cheerleading uniforms that would have to be emblazoned with Spill it all now, bitch.

  Crap, crap, crap.

  “What?” I volley, circling back for the next load out of the fridge. I palm the bottom of the pan with the Southwestern chili pie I made last night while adding, “You have anything long and messy you’d like to discuss, sister of mine?”

  “Ew.” ’Dia’s retort already conveys her grimace, so I don’t look away while punching in the preheat number for the pie.

  “Well, this is getting interesting,” Joany chimes. “Good thing I refilled my glass before coming in.”

  “Nothing interesting here,” Lydia slings back. “Move along, kids. Nothing interesting at all.”

  I pivot back around, ending with arms spread, hands planted, and both brows raised. “Except for the fact that our favorite golden-haired commitment-phobe has all but moved you into his place?”

  My sister winces again. Then turns nearly as magenta as her wine while waving her free hand around like a twerking butterfly. “Temporarily,” she stresses. “Very temporarily. And only because of everything that went down in Paris. He’s still freaked about it all and just wants—”

  I cut her off with a yap as soon as her words really sink in. Though I cushion the blow with an apologetic wince, I ask, “Freaked out? Sawyer? Still?”

  Legitimate queries. Sawyer can’t talk about a lot of his past because he’d actually have to kill us if he did, which has always made me assume that his Team Bolt duties are softballs and popcorn by comparison—but the pensive look on my sister’s face is far from a Saturday ballgame face.

  “I know,” ’Dia finally mutters. “I don’t understand it either.”

  “Nor are you comfortable with it.”

  Joany’s observation turns Lydia into a block of discernible stillness. Me too. For the last six weeks, ever since she first confessed as much during the big formal party at the Griffith Observatory, there have been several conversations—’Dia moaning into my shoulder or a glass of wine or both—about Sawyer’s missing commitment chip and all the places he might have misplaced it in his psyche. But since he seems to have found it, even temporarily…

  “She’s right.” I ignore the oven’s temp-ready ding in order to blurt it, not ripping my stare from my sister. “You really aren’t comfortable with it. What the hell, Princess Purple Pants?”

  ’Dia takes a hefty gulp of her wine. Uses the move to swing a deft toss-toss of her strawberry-blond mane, which she’s chosen to wear down on a day that’s already eighty-five degrees Fahrenheit and counting. So maybe heatstroke’s the reason for her derangement.

  “So who’s the one we’re here to grill again?” she flings, gaze narrowed.

  Maybe Sawyer has actually called her bluff on the commit-or-get-off-the-pot issue and she’s feeling that damn testy about it.

  Joany chuckles while casually tossing up both hands. “I save the grillwork for my job, ladies. I do, however, like to be concerned about friends.”

  “Amen.” Lydia raises her glass, taking advantage of the juicy chance to point at me with the same motion. “And she’s concerned about you, missy.” Her mien turns solemn. “We both are. Honestly.” A tiny V appears between her eyebrows. “You okay?”

  I snort softly and get ready to slough that off, but something happens between shutting the oven and jabbing ten minutes into the timer. Something slips inside…something I don’t have the mental power to pull back again. Not right now. Emotional shields are hell to keep fortified, especially when confusion corrodes them from every edge. And yeah, I grudgingly acknowledge the advantage of getting to show Lydia how this emotional exposure stuff can be beneficial—though right now, with all the self-doubt added to my vexation, I’m not throwing all my eggs into that motivational basket. Not that I know where I am tossing the things. I just pray I’m making an omelet instead of a new mess here.

  On that encouraging—choke choke—sentiment, I let out a sigh. Take a pause to eyeball Buffy and Willow via the reflection from the glass door of the microwave. Finding it easier to gather my thoughts by beholding them this way, I finally mutter, “All right, fine. So I wasn’t as smooth with…things…at the memorial as I should’ve been.”

  “‘Things.’” ’Dia’s snort is oddly satisfying to hear. “You mean like your fiancé’s ex turning herself into his human sympathy wreath?”

  “Well, he and Angie share things.” I’m battling for the kick-ass, CEO-in-the-corner-office vibe—but I’m pretty sure I
’ve only gotten as far as second assistant in the mailroom so far. “Specific things and unique experiences that none of us can even begin to comprehend.”

  Yep. Mailroom. And with the admission, I understand—with crystal freaking clarity—how ridiculous it is to feel so insecure about a woman still clearly grieving for the man she desperately loves and who deserves to do that with his brother. To be able to talk to him and hug him and even be consoled by him…

  “Okay.” Now Lydia’s the one raising her hands. “Great. Awesome. So does that mean that if some CIA operative from Sawyer’s past suddenly pops up and starts talking about their ‘good old days’ in shithole war zones, I’m supposed to give her carte blanche to his cock again?”

  I spin all the way around to face her again. “Is that what’s going on with you two?”

  “What?” Lydia scowls and gives a violent shake of her head. “No! Sheez.”

  “But it has happened,” I prompt.

  “This isn’t about Sawyer and me, damn it.”

  My turn for the lifted hands. I do so with my oven mitts still on, acquiescing. “You’re right. And I’ve got to be honest about that if I’m ever going to accept it.”

  Joany’s gaze instantly bugs wide. “Accept it?”

  “What she said.” Lydia fist bumps the woman. “You’re not ‘accepting’ anything about this, sister. I don’t care how much that woman plays the Camp Consortium sympathy card with that marble on top of her shoulders; she’s not going to play the sympathy card here. Or the ‘for old time’s sake’ card. Or even the ‘no one understands the torture I’ve endured’ card.”

  “But what if that’s exactly the case?” I don’t flinch a millimeter, even when ’Dia snaps her stare back to me.

  “Excuse me?” she snaps.

  “You heard me. What if that’s the case? It’s possible, damn it,” I rush out, stomping on whatever she was preparing to say with her flashing gaze and deep-drawn breath. “There’s no support group he can go to for this. No therapist who’s going to give him a list of deep-breathing techniques and an order to take me away for a long weekend somewhere. To Reece, a night of ‘taking it easy’ means he’s not setting half the city on fire just because his bloodstream is ordering him to get naughty with me. Then when he can relax enough to slip into a deep sleep, it’s almost not worth it for him.”

  Joany frowns. “What do you mean?”

  I tilt my head and copy her expression. “What if your alarm clock wired itself to your whole body, and it woke you by sticking your finger into an electrical outlet?”

  Lydia, getting ready to sip some more wine, stops the glass halfway. “Well, shit.”

  “If you think it sucks hearing about it, try watching it.” And that gets me nowhere in the sharing-is-a-good-thing department. A morose cloud seems to flow in—even from the blazing-hot day—and blankets itself over my shoulders and through my senses. “And every time I do, I feel like crap for not being able to understand or feel any of it along with him.” I shake my head, giving up the fight against the rest of the confession in my heart. “I love him.” Forget trying to hide the tears that swell along with it. “But I don’t know how to love him. Or even if I’m the best person to do that.”

  “Oh, for the love of…” ’Dia slams down her glass, sloshing dark-fuchsia droplets across the discarded plastic wrap next to the stuffed peppers. “And you’re expecting us to buy that how? Or why?”

  “What she said.” Joany initiates the fist bump this time, though the action’s faster in light of their dual irritation with me. “And I’ll be kind about this and not bring up the obvious…”

  “You mean like—hmmm, let’s see—the freaking hillside the man’s bought and built a mansion on for her? And the numerous bad guys he’s put down for her? And—oh, yeah—the whole putting up with our mother thing for her?”

  I fling a determined glower. “So much for not bringing up the obvious, lovely sibling.”

  ’Dia nods toward Joany. “She promised it, not me.”

  Joany swivels off her stool and glides gracefully back to her feet. Her golden eyes are practically dancing, though I somehow know she’s invigorated, not gloating. “And I felt confident in doing so,” she affirms, “because now I get to tell you about the non-obvious stuff.”

  I cock my head. “About what?”

  “Not what.” She smiles gently. “Who. The thousand things that maybe you haven’t yet seen about Reece yet. All the things, beyond his superhero blazes, his press conference declarations, and even this incredible castle on the hill, that I see in that guy for the very first time since I’ve known him. Every stare he rivets into you, as if it’s his last. Every touch he reaches toward you, he looks as if he’s trying not to break glass. But most of all, in how you’ve changed everything that nobody can see on the outside.” She takes a determined breath before going on. “You’ve transformed that man, Emma. Wait.” She interrupts herself with a broader smile and an upheld finger. “You’ve transformed that boy, Emma. He’s determined to not just become a man but a better man than we all imagined. Than we all ever thought possible.”

  For a long moment, I simply let my heart sit—and be jubilant in—that precious knowledge. I’m relieved to see Lydia seemingly doing the same, until she breaks the pause by reiterating, “Since you’ve known him.” Then asking Joany, “So how long has that been?”

  “Since I started dating Chase in college,” Joany elucidates. “Nearly ten years.”

  Lydia gives in to a long, low whistle. I swiftly spin away, presumably to check on the pie. It’s a great excuse for hiding the intensity of my reaction. Ten years. That’s a long damn time.

  On the other hand…

  “But wasn’t Reece estranged from most of you during all that time?” I have to ask, no matter how much I hate myself for it. “I only mean that there’s a possibility you don’t know all about him either. He was a person with a lot of complexities, even before becoming Bolt. Discovering that man would take—”

  “A woman like you.” Joany, uncorking a bottle of Cabernet, motions my way with the corkscrew. “You really don’t see it, do you?” She glances at ’Dia. “Does she really not see it?”

  Lydia drains her glass and ponies up to Joany for more Beringer. “Not one damn bit. I can tell you that with certainty.”

  “See what?” I throw my mitt-covered hands out to demonstrate my frustration with their cahoots.

  Lydia pings her stare between Joany and her glass. “Put a lot of gas in that can, baby. I think we’ll have to spell all this out for her.”

  “Not. Necessary.”

  The new voice in the room makes Joany miss ’Dia’s glass on the pour. I don’t blame her. Every distinct note of that familiar growl invades every heated, heightened nerve in my body. With arms still splayed, I whip toward the right—though the room could be plunged in total blackness and I’d find him. Feel him. Know him like the hairs on my own head and every blood cell pumping through my body. Blood that percolates and electrifies because of him. Always, always, all too aware of him…

  She doesn’t see it…

  I chomp the inside of my bottom lip. So maybe they’re right. Maybe I don’t see it—but I sure as hell feel it, and right now, that’s all I freaking need. And I mean need—as in, I’m going to revel in every possible moment of the man’s electric enchantment. That means openly, hungrily raking my stare all the way from his bare feet, over every powerful inch of the long legs still sheathed in his leathers, eye-licking all the defined edges of his torso beneath the cobalt T-shirt for which he’s switched out his jacket, and finally lusting over the cords of his taut, burnished neck…

  In which several veins are thudding pretty damn hard.

  Matching every rapid tick in his jaw.

  Firing in time to every turbulent lightning flash in his stare.

  Giving away the fact that he’s likely been hovering there for more than a few seconds.

  Shit.

  I swallow hard. He star
ts his approach.

  Double shit.

  “Enjoy your wine, ladies.” His unwavering stare clarifies I’m the exemption to the statement—the order?—as he yanks the mitts off my hands and then tosses them to the counter with the same commanding motion. “The ‘spelling it out’ will be handled from here.”

  My mouth falls open. There are words ready to come out, I swear it, but all I manage is an incensed growl. “Handled?” I snap. “You’re going to ‘handle’ the fact that all I want is for you to be understood and happy?” Because now, it’s damn obvious he’s been lurking there long enough to hear all the key parts of this exchange. “That my heart is in the right place here?”

  He doesn’t back off. Keeps looming and coiling, thoroughly in stubborn ox mode. And being too brawny and beautiful about it. “Not your heart I’m here for,” he charges softly. “Your head, on the other hand…”

  “Is also screwed on fine. Not that any of you are listening.” But the second I retort it, I recognize the mistake. It might be a valid message, but even the truth is wasted if falling on deaf ears.

  It might also be a mistake because of how I’m hefted right off my feet, despite my outraged shriek, and then flung over the ox’s shoulder right out of the room—as my sister and Joany replace their fist bumps for applause and their huffs for approving laughter.

  “Spell it all out for her,” Lydia yells as Reece heads for the stairs leading to the master bedroom. “And be sure to start with A!”

  Chapter Five

  Reece

  Oh, I’ll start with A, all right.

  Why even wait until we get to the bedroom?

  I’ve never wasted a chance to pay special attention to this woman’s fine ass, and this moment is no exception. Despite my irritation with her—perhaps because of it—a small thrill jacks my blood as I bring my free hand down across the perfect globes that are lodged so ideally against the side of my face.

  Hard.

  All right, I’m a little more than jacked.