At First Touch. Tamara Sneed

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