Chapter 8

"Calm down, you're fine."

Emily stared at herself in the mirror. No more soot, her eyes had cleared, and she'd stopped shaking.

See? Just. Fine.

Banging on the bathroom door yanked her away from the moment under the fire shelter when the flames swept over them, and she stifled a scream as she breathed into her hole.

"Em! Are you all right?" JoJo's voice.

"Yeah. I'll be right out." See, her voice didn't even shake.

She blew out her breath, grabbed a towel and wiped the moisture from her face, then turned and opened the door. "What's up?"

JoJo and Sanchez stood in the narrow hallway, both of them changed out of their fire uniforms, back into jeans and T-shirts. Sanchez had pulled her black hair back into a tight ponytail. JoJo's was down, still wet from a shower, probably at the fire house.

Emily had gotten into her truck and driven straight back to her house. The last—very last—thing she needed was a debrief with her team.

She knew she'd screwed up, and badly. And it didn't help that Uncle Conner's voice just kept thrumming through her, on repeat.

Fear wins when it makes you do something stupid. That kind of behavior is dangerous—not just for you, but for your crew.

She could have gotten herself—and more importantly—Spenser Storm killed.

"Besides you nearly turning to barbecue? We heard about it at the fire house. Are you all right?" This from Sanchez who stood a little taller than JoJo, slimmer, a take no prisoners aura about her that suggested she had a history. But she never talked about her past, just kept her head down, did her job.

Now, a hint of anger, or maybe fear, flickered in her eyes. "The guys are really freaked out."

"So am I." JoJo grabbed Emily's hand. She tugged, then pulled her into a hug. "I'm so glad you're safe." She held her a second, then pushed her away. "I remember when I had to deploy my fire shelter. I never want to go through that again."

"Yeah, me either."

"Although," said Sanchez, one side of her mouth quirking up. "I did hear that you shared a shelter with Spenser Storm." She raised an eyebrow to go with the quirk of her mouth.

"He tried to rescue me. It was stupid—he could have gotten killed, and it would have been my fault." She shook her head. "Maybe I should resign from the team."

She pushed away from JoJo and headed out to the kitchen. Opened the fridge. She wasn't even a smidgen hungry, so she closed it.

"We're headed out to the Hotline. There's a country music guy there tonight. Oaken Fox. He's here to do some music video for the movie, apparently, and he's going to shoot part of the video down at the Hotline. Maybe play a couple songs from his new album. Some of the actors are going to be there too. Maybe Winchester Marshall. Or Trace Wilder. Come with us."

Except, that would be exactly where Spenser might head to decompress, and frankly, she simply couldn't face him.

Not after she'd practically attacked him. One second, she'd been whispering to him to stay put, and then next, well, she wasn't exactly sure what happened. Yeah, he started it—she recalled that much. But mostly she remembered closing her eyes and trying not to wreck the dream where Quillen Cleveland was kissing her.

But it was so much bigger than that, too, because it wasn't Quillen who'd rushed in to save her, but Spenser. Although, it was so like his Trek character to do something sacrificial and brave and heroic that it felt like Quillen.

Talk about living out your wildest fantasy.

Then, of course, she opened her eyes and woke up from the dream and realized she'd grabbed the poor man and held him down and, oh boy.

And then he'd kissed her.

Frankly, now that she thought about it, maybe she'd given off some sort of kiss me, we survived a fire desperate signal, and it had been just a…what? Pity kiss?

No, not that either, because he was definitely enthusiastic.

Oh, she didn't know what?—

"Emily?"

She blinked, looked at JoJo. "Um?—"

"The Hotline?"

"Oh. No. I think I've had enough excitement for one day."

"You sure you're going to be okay?"

"Mmmhmm. I'll probably just curl up in a blanket and watch something soothing."

"Like what? When Calls the Heart?"

She'd been thinking about an old Trek of the Osprey rerun, but whatever.

"Maybe we should stay home." JoJo looked at Sanchez.

"Nope. Nope, I'm fine." She headed down the hall. "See, this is me, getting my blanket."

She grabbed the handle of her door.

"Whoops, not the blanket!"

She stopped and turned, and JoJo was wide-eyeing her, eyebrows up. "Ixnay on the anketblay."

What?

Then she turned. "Good to see you, Spenser. Yeah, she's here."

Emily stilled. Spenser Storm was here?

JoJo turned to her, more wide-eyes. "Um, we were just leaving? Right? Or maybe staying?"

Emily came down the hall. "Leaving." She put her hand on JoJo's shoulder and turned her.

And right there, standing at the door, was Quillen Cleveland, the rescuer, dressed in jeans and flipflops and a T-shirt. His hair windblown, wearing a hint of a real, not made up, five o'clock shadow, concern in those beautiful pale blue eyes.

Or maybe not Quillen, because he was painfully, breathtakingly real the way he stepped in and said, his voice low, "I wanted to check on you."

Behind him, JoJo put her hand to her chest, arm to her forehead, as if to swoon.

Whatever. "They were just leaving."

"Fine. No blankets." JoJo pushed Sanchez out the door. Sanchez looked at her and winked.

What did they think was going to happen here? Because it was one thing to share a relief kiss, and entirely another for Spenser to…well, what was happening, anyway?

This was not a fairy tale where Cinderella ended up with the prince.

Although, shoot, she had some terribly wild hopes.

"How are you?" she said softly, her voice ridiculous. As if she was what, shy?

"I'm still a little freaked out, to be honest." He still stood at the door.

"Um…are you hungry?"

"Yep."

"How about a pizza?"

"I was thinking about Mac and Cheese, but that's fine." He pulled out his cell phone. "I have an account at Backdraft Pizza."

Of course he did. And when he called, he called the woman by name, laughed with her, and said, "Thanks, Darlin'" like he might be a cowboy, too.

And that helped pop the bubble a little because suddenly she was seeing Kathryn Canary kissing him. Hello.

See. Clearly the kissing thing was bigger in her head than his.

He hung up. "It'll be here in thirty minutes."

"I can make some lemonade."

"Perfect. Probably better than shots, right?"

She laughed, and the sound was way too high, too strange. Now she wanted to climb under the table. Instead, she fled to the cupboard. "Are you here to tell me I'm fired?"

He shook his head. "I was kidding."

"Maybe you shouldn't have been. I was…impulsive. And it nearly got you killed." Her chest squeezed a little to admit it, but maybe freeing too. "Facing your mistakes, your close call sometimes releases the trauma, lets you talk about it. Trauma debriefing 101. I don't know what I was thinking. I thought we'd covered all our bases—clearly, I am not the right person for this safety gig."

"It's not your fault." He slid onto a high-top chair at the counter. "Don't tell anyone, but Cosmos thinks that maybe we're being sabotaged. Kathryn's gown had accelerant on it, and so did the drapes that caught fire in the house."

She had pulled out a lemonade packet and now turned to look at him. "Really? Wow. Someone trying to shut down the movie?"

"Maybe. Or maybe it's personal."

A beat.

"You?"

"I don't know. I had this crazy fan threaten me after I wouldn't read his script at comic con."

She hid a smile.

"What? The danger is real."

Now she laughed. "Yes. Of course. Sorry." She held up her hand. "I'd volunteer to protect you, but you'd probably end up, I don't know, trapped somewhere, or burning to death."

"Agreed."

"Hey!"

"Just saying. Maybe someone needs to protect you."

"And you're volunteering?"

He looked at her. "Maybe."

Oh. Oh.

She turned back, shook the lemonade envelope and opened it.

"We don't know who would sabotage the movie. Someone who doesn't want the movie made?" He lifted a shoulder. "We just need to be extra careful this next week as we finish filming. From there, all the scenes are at the movie lot, indoors, and Cosmos will hire extra security."

She nodded.

"Emily?"

A beat, and when she looked up, he was standing beside her.

"What are you?—?"

He touched her face. "I'm not sure if I'm supposed to apologize or maybe…"

She swallowed. "Maybe?"

His hand cupped her jaw, his thumb soft against her cheek. "I didn't ask the first time. But I was wondering if I could kiss you."

Her mouth opened.

A beat.

He took a breath, dropped his hand. "Okay."

"Wait—" Then she turned to him, put her hand on his chest. His heart thundered under her palm. As if he was…Was Spenser Storm nervous? "Stop."

He stilled.

"I…am still sort of buzzing from today, and I need to know that you're not just here because, somehow, you feel responsible for me. Or sorry for me, or?—"

"Are you serious? Emily, you're the most amazing person I've ever met. If it weren't for you, we'd be…well, dead." He put his hand over hers. "And I'm still buzzing too. And maybe this is my own impulsive decision, but?—"

"Yes." She lifted her face, stood on her tiptoes. "Kiss me."

Oh, wow, had she just said?—

Yep. Because he leaned down, his mouth half-open, as if hungry, and kissed her.

No, inhaled her. His hands cradling her face, angling her mouth to meet his, tasting her, pulling her against him, then, because he was so much taller, picking her up and setting her on the island.

Talk about turning a girl's knees weak.

She was nearly even with him now, and she slid her arms over his shoulders, her fingers in his hair, that silky dark hair.

What was happening here?

Never before had she been kissed like Spenser Storm kissed her, deep and long, like he actually meant it, and frankly she simply lost herself.

The trauma of the day dropped away, and with it, even her fantasy of kissing Quillen Cleveland, because this man—this man wasn't Quillen. Sure, he was charming and brave and had risked his life for her, but he was also just a little vulnerable and sweet and…

Shoot, she was in terrible, terrible trouble.

Because Uncle Conner had gotten it right. The man was going to run away, back to Hollywood.

And he would take her heart with him.

* * *

Slow down.

Slow. Down.

Spenser wasn't exactly sure how he'd gotten from standing in her kitchen asking for a kiss to the rush of desire and longing that seemed nearly insatiable as he pulled Emily closer to him.

Maybe it was the tiny sounds she was making. Or the way she wrapped her arms around his neck, playing with his hair.

Or the sense, even as he did slow them down, that she wasn't allured by his screen persona, but actually, she was kissing him, Spenser Storm.

Which meant, he didn't want to somehow destroy this by becoming someone she'd read about in the tabloids. Liars, all of them. But he wasn't unaware of the reputation his agent had helped ignite, especially during his Tiger Beat years.

And then there was his stint as a model for Abercrombie. So, yeah, he slowly pulled away, touched her forehead with his. "So…"

"So," she said, and smiled.

And maybe God was on his side because his phone chirruped with the delivery driver's text. "Pizza's here."

He left her on the island and practically fled to the door, and when he'd returned, she'd finished making the lemonade. He set the pizza box on the island, and she brought over the pitcher and a couple of plates—and it all suddenly felt very, very awkward.

Oh no.

Then, "For the record, I do know CPR."

He looked at her.

She grinned at him. "You're sort of white, like you might be freaking out, so I thought I'd let you know that I could save your life. If I had to. Again."

"Um, I think we're even." He opened the box, but his heart had restarted, so maybe she had saved him, at least a little.

"What? I was the one who grabbed the fire shelter."

"Please. Ten more seconds and you would have been under the barrel when it exploded."

Her eyes widened then. "Oh."

Uh oh. "I was just—no, no, let's not go back there. Sorry. I was?—"

"I'm just playing with you, Storm. Keep your shorts on. What kind of pizza did you get?"

Wow, he liked her. "Pepperoni. Mushroom." He opened the box.

"My favorite." She grabbed a piece and slid it onto a plate. "Comfort food. Best trauma therapy ever." She had poured him a glass of lemonade, and one for herself, and now took hers to the sofa. Sat down. Picked up the remote. "Comfort television, your pick."

He added a piece to his plate. "Father Murphy reruns on TV Land."

She pulled up the menu. "Really?"

He sat on the sofa next to her. "My dad was a stuntman on the show—it was his first gig, and he liked watching it with me. Said there weren't too many shows he'd let me watch. It's a great series about a guy who pretends to be a priest to help some orphans. He falls in love with this schoolteacher and in the end, they adopt the orphans."

"That's very sweet."

"It's that or CSI."

"That's a big jump."

"Dad was also a stuntman on that show for three years. In fact, his last gig was a jump from a helicopter. Unfortunately, they were filming in a gulch outside the city, and somehow the chopper caught on some electrical lines. There was a child actor aboard, and Dad grabbed the kid as the chopper went down, and cushioned his fall. It saved the kid's life, but that's how he died. "

"Oh, Spenser."

"Yeah. They still aired the show. I couldn't watch it for years, but then I did, and…I don't know. Sometimes I rewrite the ending where he lives, you know? Walks away, comes home."

He wasn't sure how this had gotten so serious so fast. He put down his pizza. "Sorry."

"No, that's a great therapy technique when we feel like the truth is too hard. I rewrite that moment when I'm staring at the man who would kidnap me, and instead of taking his hand, I just turn and keep running."

She did what? "Why did you take his hand?"

"He said I could trust him. And I believed him." She made a face. "I was six. And I was scared, so…you know."

"That's terrible."

"Yeah, well, in my rewritten ending, I slap his hand away and run and run and end up in my mom's arms. Or I make myself older and fight back. I like that ending."

He just stared at her. "That's brilliant."

"That's therapy."

"Maybe I should have had therapy. Instead, my grandfather got me into acting, and suddenly, I could pretend I was someone else, all the time."

"Quillen."

"In a way, he sort of saved me. In my head, I'm as brave as Quillen."

She touched his arm. "Or your dad."

Sheesh, now his chest sort of closed up. He nodded.

"I heard Cosmos today accuse you of wanting to be a stuntman."

His jaw tightened. He drew in a breath. "I'll never be my dad. He was… He was my whole world. Brave and strong. A real cowboy. He wasn't interested in being anything but who he was—a stuntman. He'd grown up watching my grandfather go through wives, and girlfriends, and he was just…not that guy. He met my mom at a Billy Graham crusade in Alaska when he was twenty years old. He'd gone there to escape my grandfather, got saved, married my mom, and then decided to come back to Montana when she got pregnant. She had a miscarriage. It took them another ten years before they had me. They moved to Hollywood, and he and mom were both stuntmen and extras until she got pregnant, finally, with me. She died during childbirth."

"Oh, Spenser, I'm so sorry."

"My dad was amazing. He took me everywhere with him. I was often on set. In fact, I was on set the day he died. I was eight, and we had a camper trailer he'd haul around. I wasn't watching, but I'll never forget the AD coming in to take me to the hospital. My grandfather showed up a couple hours later—he was filming in the area. My dad had died."

She'd gone quiet, her hand on his arm.

"I'll never forget my grandfather coming into the waiting room. He gave me a hug, said that Dad was gone, and that there was press waiting outside. Told me to smile and say my dad was the bravest man I knew. It wasn't a lie."

"Smile?"

"Show business. I started acting just a few months later. And since then… I don't know. I was in a couple movies and then became Quillen. But in truth, maybe I don't know who I am."

"I do. You're Spenser Storm. Cowboy. Actor. Pretty good kisser?—"

He grinned at that.

"And every bit as brave as your dad. You don't have to be a stuntman to prove that."

A beat.

Oh boy. Now she was inside his soul, taking a good look around.

"I think your dad would be really proud of you. You're an amazing actor, Spenser, and the world is a better place because you brought a great story on screen once a week for ten years."

"Yeah, that's what the world needs—a great story."

"What? Yeah, it does. People need stories. For entertainment. For inspiration. For hope. A great story—a great character—can get inside our hearts and inspire. And that's just as lifesaving as running into a fire."

He gave her a look.

She put down her pizza. Stood up. Faced him.

And then, "We go into the stars not because we crave adventure, but we crave something more—the touch of honor. We go to save a hundred lost souls, never mind one of them is my father. We go because every life matters, and every soul is worth the search, worth finding. So, Commander Tarkon, are you with me?"

He blinked at her. "You memorized the speech from season three?"

"Episode four, when they decide to go into the black hole that would fling them across four galaxies. Yes. I was in tears."

Oh.

"It sort of reminded me of—and I know this sounds weird—of Jesus going after the lost sheep. And somewhere deep inside, I was that lost sheep, needing to be found."

He saw her then, just for a moment, a child, lost in the dark.

And now she wiped her cheek. "So don't you dare say that you're not a hero. Because to a teenager who was still trying to figure out if God cared, the story of Quillen's quest to find his father very much mattered."

Sheesh, now he might cry. "Okay."

"Okay. Now eat your pizza." She picked up hers then sat back on the sofa.

But again, she'd sort of saved him because the terrible tightness in his chest released. He picked up his pizza. Then he reached for the remote. "We might be able to find a rerun of Trek of the Osprey."

She took it away from him.

"I would rather sit here with the real Quillen Cleveland and finish off this pizza."

He glanced at her. She was smiling, wagging her eyebrows.

"If you want, we could run lines. I read the script. You get the girl."

Oh wow, he desperately hoped so.

Still. "Actually, that's the thing. I still think it doesn't work."

"Really? I love this movie."

"Except in the end, Winchester dies at the hands of Irish, and yeah, I get the girl, but… I don't know. It's not the ending in the book."

"Which is…"

"Both men die."

"Hmm." She took a sip of her lemonade. "Not very inspiring."

He stared at her. "That's it. The ending is…not inspiring. Happy, but not…inspiring."

"So, what are you going to do about it?"

"There is nothing I can do. The story isn't mine."

She drew up her legs, crossed them. "But if you could, how would you end it?"

He considered her, sitting there in the pool of light from the lamp, dressed in a T-shirt, her hair still wet from a shower, her green-blue eyes pinned to his. And for a second, her words simply landed, found soil.

I would rather sit here with the real Quillen Cleveland and finish off this pizza.

This. This was how he'd end it. With a woman who saw him, not Cleveland, or even the guy who'd run in to save the day, but the guy who just wanted to get it right.

The thought caught him up, wrapped around him, held him.

Slow down. Just slow down…

Not a hope.