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“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?