by Amelia Wilde
His eyes burn into mine, scorching all my last reservations away. It’s now or never. Now. Or. Never.
I run forward and knock it out of his hand. It falls to the floor with a rolling clatter.
“I don’t want it,” I tell him fiercely, staring up into those dark, perfect eyes. “Having that award is fucking pointless without you.”
I’m in his arms in an instant, his grip so tight it’s almost crushing. He lifts me up, somehow balancing the gown against his body so that I can straddle his waist. It’s one hot, hurried instant and my mouth is on his, the back of his hand is on my neck, and he is desperately, devotedly kissing me as if there will never be another chance.
He pulls back and I gasp for breath.
“Juno Anderson,” he says, his eyes deep wells of need and pain and satisfaction, “everything is pointless without you. Everything.”
He kisses me again, hard and deep and totally unrelenting, and my entire body curves to wrap around him. I lock my arms tight around his neck, and it’s only when we come up for air that I realize I’m crying off all the professional makeup. I don’t give a shit. “I’m sorry.” I choke out the words, miserable and euphoric all at once. “I’m—”
“Professional question,” he interrupts in my ear, and his voice sends shocks of pure joy through every inch of my skin.
“Anything.”
“I love you.”
“That’s not a question,” I tell him, and lean down to bite his lip, claiming it for my own. “But I love you, too.”
“Don’t ever leave me again,” he demands.
“I won’t.” I’m crying and laughing at the same time, and I sound insane. That’s how I know he really loves me: he doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t back down. He just holds on tight. “I swear to God, you’re going to get sick of me.”
“Impossible,” he says. “But don’t make me work for you again, okay? That was too much.”
I bury my head in his shoulder. “Screw off.”
“I wouldn’t dare.” His hands are everywhere, stroking every line of my body, and fuck, I’ve missed him. I can’t believe I spent seven months without him. I can’t believe I wasted so much time.
“Wait.” I push myself upright. “You should be thanking me. You got nominated for Best Actor.” Cannon sets me on the ground and I slap him lightly on the shoulder. “What are you doing down here? You could miss it.”
“Love is the greatest prize of all,” he states, gazing deeply into my eyes. “Wait. Shit. You’re right. Nothing’s worth missing my crowning achievement for.” He turns to leave then extends a hand back to me. “Come with me. I’ll kick someone out of their seat for you.”
“I thought you’d never offer,” I say, bursting with love and pride and happiness. Cannon takes my hand and we move toward the back entrance of the room.
There’s a loud throat-clearing behind us, and I whip around to see Milton Greene. “Forgetting something?” He’s holding my Roger statue.
I hurry back and kiss him on the cheek then take the statue carefully in my hands. “Not this time,” I tell Milton. Cannon appears by my side, a hand on my elbow. “I have everything I could ever want.”
Epilogue
Cannon
Juno stands next to the camera, hat pulled low over her eyes in the Northern California sun. She watches the action of the scene with a hawk-like glare, her mouth in a studious line, and I know by the sight of it that my co-stars aren’t going to get off easy.
Her body tenses. “Cut!” she yells, and the word echoes over the set with such authority that everybody quits moving at once. It’s almost creepy how much power she wields in that body of hers. “Lucas, approach it from a different angle on the next take. If it doesn’t work, we’ll make an adjustment to the script. Melanie, you love him. Remember you are desperately in love with him. I need to see more of it on your face.”
I swore I’d never work with Juno again, but after a year of being pulled in opposite directions by unbelievably convoluted schedules, I said fuck it and signed on to what’s sure to be a blockbuster. A spy film. We’re back on the ranch in California, only this time it’s dressed up to be anonymous outbuildings and open land.
I’m dressed like an undercover agent, which isn’t ideal for what I’m about to do. That won’t matter to Juno, anyway. She’s been all about “seizing the moment” ever since the awards show. It freed her, in a way, that her family didn’t show up to see her win her first Roger. Her sister called afterward, apologizing profusely, and said she’d planned to go but got called to an emergency shift at the hospital. Juno’s parents had no such excuse. They were simply in Florida, and even though Juno sent an invitation and a pair of tickets, they couldn’t be bothered.
I wait until Melanie’s done with a follow-up question to interrupt.
“Can we take five?”
Juno whips around, eyes narrowed. “For what?”
“Couple of questions.”
“Fine, but let’s make it quick.” Juno turns back toward the set and bends her head over her notebook.
She does not let our relationship get in the way of her professionalism. I love that about her.
I take a deep breath. The camera guy is watching me, and though we’re only standing five feet away, I give him the coded signal. He rolls his eyes, a smile turning up the corners of his mouth, and tugs his headset back on.
I wait at Juno’s side until she’s done writing notes. She lifts her face toward mine and I’m struck with how gorgeous she is—big green eyes, full lips, little pointed chin. I have to play it cool in this moment and not scoop her into my arms just to kiss her.
“What’s the question, Mr. Hunt?”
“It’s about a couple of different things. The first has to do with the blocking for the next scene. Can you…?” I gesture to the spot where Melanie and Luke were standing a few moments ago.
“Sure.” Juno follows me out.
I make a show of standing in a few different places, frowning down at the ground like I am a true novice who has never acted in a movie before. “I’m not sure the placement here is what we’re looking for, but it’ll have to do.”
“Placement?” Juno glances around. “Are you talking about the field? It’s not in the budget to do any serious landscaping, so—”
“It’s just that I imagined asking you these questions in a slightly more upscale locale.”
“Oh, yeah?” Her eyes sparkle. “Is this a conversation we should be having in a fondue restaurant?” Juno clears her throat, glancing back toward the crew. The camera guy is doing the acting job of the century. He’s pretending not to be filming while still keeping an eye on us in the frame. “Come on, Cannon. We don’t have time for jokes.”
“I’m deadly serious,” I tell her.
“Then what—”
I lower myself to one knee in front of her, right there on the ground.
Juno blushes so powerfully it’s like watching the sun rise. “What are you doing?”
“I have a professional question to ask you. It’s very serious and it could have a huge impact on both our careers. And lives. And, you know, I need your input.”
Some of the cast members are casually walking over, standing within earshot of my impromptu engagement video, and Juno’s eyes dart around the set. “Hey,” she calls. “Were you guys in on this?”
“A little bit,” Lucas answers, and a little symphony of laughter goes up from everybody ringed around the set.
“You’re all fired,” Juno says, and then she puts her hands to her mouth, her eyes shining. When those eyes meet mine, I’m filled to the brim and beyond. I have melted the outer shell of the Ice Queen through the power of a thousand orgasms and a million kisses to reveal the absolute human woman underneath.
“Juno Anderson, you don’t have to make a decision right now. It’s only that right now is the time I picked to tell you that you are the best and worst thing ever to happen to me.” Another burst of laughter. “You made me realize t
hat coasting on easy roles wasn’t enough for me. You taught me that love can overcome—”
“Oh, stop,” Juno groans. “I’m not that great.”
“You are wonderful,” I tell her, projecting every bit of seriousness I have in my soul. “And even if you suck sometimes”—everybody laughs, and Juno laughs with them—“that only makes you more precious, in my book.”
This is it—the big moment. I reach into my pocket and pull out the velvet box that’s been making my pants look weird all morning. I’m honestly shocked that Juno didn’t notice, since it is her professional duty in this case to make sure I don’t look like an ass on camera.
I hold the box up to her in both hands. “I love you,” I tell her, and this time, I say it like nobody else can hear. “I love you so much. Will you marry me?”
With infinite gentleness, Juno reaches down to the black velvet box. She rests her fingertips on the top, a whisper of a touch, and then with two fingers, she sweeps it out of my hands and onto the beaten-down grass under her feet.
I look down at the box, which has landed upside down. “This is starting to become a pattern.”
Juno puts a hand underneath my chin, and I look up into her eyes, a stunning view. “Yes,” she says. “Yes.” Louder this time, for the cast and crew. “Yes!” she shouts, pointing right into the camera, and then she tumbles into my arms, kissing me like there’s no tomorrow. And you know what? I don’t care if there is.
“I’m sorry about throwing the ring,” she murmurs into my mouth. “I just had to. Circle of life, and all that.”
“Very professional,” I say into her ear with a laugh. We’re in a vortex of cheers and hoots and happiness, and there’s nowhere else I’d rather be. I stand up, taking her with me, and bend down to retrieve the ring box. Before she can do anything rash, I open it and slip the ring onto her finger.
Juno puts her arms around my waist, a tight hug I don’t want to escape. “Feels so good,” she says over the people still cheering.
“What?”
“Being yours.”
I kiss her again, to make sure she knows it. To make sure she won’t ever forget.
* * *
Prepare yourself for book-ception! The movie Juno and Cannon make in Tall Dark & Handsome tells the story of two other incredible heroes from the Wounded Hearts series. Dayton Nash, war hero and broken man, fights for forbidden love in Before She Was Mine. Get it now on Amazon!
Before She Was Mine
1
Dayton
My missing foot hurts like a bitch.
You’ve probably heard of phantom pain, and I’ll tell you right now—you’re picturing it wrong. It’s not nebulous, an aching vapor in roughly the size and shape of the limb you’ve lost—in my case, my left leg, starting just below the knee.
There is no shin. There is no foot. There are no toes.
They were irreparably mangled at the base of a mountain in Afghanistan, and it’s almost definitely my fault.
But fault has nothing to do with the very real burn at the back of my missing heel, like I shoved my feet into running shoes like a lazy bastard, not bothering to stick a finger between my ankle and the heel tab until I’m several miles in and it’s already too late. Fault has nothing to do with the sharp pebble between my second and third toes, driving into the webbing with every step I take along the filthy snowstreaked steps, or the burning stretch in my arch threatening to root in my heel. If that happens, I’m fucked, because there’s no cure for a bum heel in a foot that doesn’t exist.
The phantom pain rubs shoulders with the real pain where what’s left of my leg—what the doctors call residual limb like it’s the dry end of a party sub—and that pain, at least, I can take full credit for.
Ten steps away from the exit of the 50th Street subway, it’s already throbbing from standing on the train. The stairs are too narrow. It should be better on solid ground. The lady ahead of me on the steps doesn’t know that. The handle of her purse slips down her shoulder, inch by inch, the top partially unzipped. She curls her head toward her shoulder but it doesn’t do anything to pin down the strap. Whatever’s in the cardboard box is either fragile or too heavy to hold with one hand.
“Shit,” she whispers.
I step up beside her, the extra effort of catching up putting more pressure on the missing foot. My arch twists, pulls. It’s the only way to keep going, and I have to keep going. The exit beckons. I want to accept the invitation. I’m not a fucking hero, but I’m not a total asshole, either. I want to ignore her. I don’t.
“Give you a hand with that box?”
She flicks her eyes over to me. “I’m okay.”
“You’re about to lose half your purse.”
One more glance. The dress pants must help my case. “If you’re sure—”
I take the box and she hitches up the purse strap on her shoulder. Without the added weight she springs up the steps, waiting for me at the top. It’s heavy. It’s a good counterbalance for my shitty prosthetic but it makes my stump press into the socket, setting the hot spots on fire.
Out on the sidewalk I tip it back into her hands. “What do you have in there?”
A rueful shake of her head. “Books. I couldn’t let them go.” She turns away and back again. “Thanks.”
It’s three and a half blocks to where I’m going and cold as hell even though it’s sunny. The sidewalks are a mix of sand and slush and petrified dog shit and that pain between my toes. If I didn’t know better, I’d take off my boot and look for that pebble, rub at the arch.
No, I wouldn’t. Not with the buildings huddling together above me, blank windows watching my sorry progress. I should have canceled this meeting.
The foot that isn’t there presses down through a gray layer of slush and jerks sideways. I curse under my breath. I wore work boots today. I shouldn’t have worn work boots, but it’s this kind of weather that makes me glad I stuffed my metal replacement foot into something sturdy, with waterproof canvas. Even the thick treads aren’t a match for the endless winter nightmare in Manhattan.
This is a waste of time. Things were going fine at the factory in Queens. Totally fucking fine, except for the muscle spasms that knocked me off balance when I lifted the assembled windows onto the racks, or the way my hands swelled for days on end from the chemical baths if I worked Section 12.
If I’d had some painkillers, it would’ve been good, but that asshole O’Connors at the VA had gone so far as to put down his clipboard and look me in the eye at my appointment last week, as if he was a wise old general and not a green doctor younger than I am.
You can’t keep putting your body through this punishment. That’s what he said to me. As if I deserve anything less than a punishing job—than mindless, manual labor.
Shit. Did I miss the building?
I shuffle myself over to a wrought-iron fence planted in the concrete and lean my hip against it. There’s not much slush here. I dig into the pocket of my dress pants, bought new at the last minute.
I have a card.
It reads:
Heroes on the Homefront
Veteran Services
540 W. 50th Street
New York, NY 10019
The sight of it makes both my feet itch. If I still had both of them, instead of dragging around this titanium-alloy bullshit, I’d run back to the train station right now.
Too late for that. I’m already in front of 540 W. 50th, and there are giant windows up front. They’ve been cleaned recently, so I have a full unobstructed view of the receptionist, who smiles at me and gives me a little wave.
Jesus Christ.
The socket on the temp prosthetic is digging into my leg somehow, sending sharp sparks of pain up into my thigh. The gel liner that’s supposed to protect it is worn down. I reach for the door and my leg resists picking up my foot. I swing it twice to get myself through, and on the second swing my boot catches in a snowdrift a few inches from the door, which throws me off balance.
<
br /> I’ll never let them see my shame. Heroes on the Homefront—what utter bullshit. I’m not a hero. I can’t even get through the front door without everybody in here—some woman has now joined the receptionist behind the desk, absolutely wonderful—giving me pitying looks.
I let the door swing shut behind me and step fully into the lobby. The receptionist is half out of her seat as if she’s about to rush over and take my arm, and Christ, if she does that, I’m done with this place and every other place, to be honest. She must see it in my face because she sits down, still wearing the encouraging smile that’s making my gut twist, and watches me approach the desk, eyes wide and shining.
“Welcome to Heroes on the Homefront,” she says, big brown eyes practically glistening now, for fuck’s sake. “How can I help you today?”
“Dayton Nash. I have an appointment at eleven.”
She nods as if she’s in the presence of greatness—I’m going to die of disgust—and picks up the handset of her phone. The other woman disappears in a flash of bleach-blonde pixie cut. “Have a seat, Mr. Nash. There’s coffee and tea, if you’re interested.” Ms. Pitying Receptionist lifts her chin toward a coffee cart over by the opposite window. As if I’m going to drag myself all the way across the room while she watches her own personal performance of a hero on the homefront. I take the nearest seat.
And wait.
Five minutes tick by, then ten, then fifteen. It’s ten past now, and too hot in the waiting room. Too boring. The sleek furniture is fine for five minutes but not for twenty, and the music—god, the music, it’s soft country and right now I can’t stand it. I can’t stand the framed photos of the American flag on the walls. I can’t stand the black carpeting, shot through with red and white and blue. And I can’t fucking stand that I’m here in the first place like some asshole who can’t get a job on his own, who thinks he deserves something cushy, something pre-arranged. If only that cow-eyed receptionist knew what I’ve done. What I still could do, if push came to shove. The ends justify the means.
