by Lori Wilde
Ranger moved this thumb, accidentally driving the thick thorn deeper into her flesh.
Ember yelped. Good news, her lungs were working again.
“What is it?” Alarm deepened his voice.
She squirmed, struggling to move from his strong grip.
“Oh shit, Sparky, you have a huge thorn in your neck.”
“Well, duh, Professor. Get it out.”
Gently, he turned her head to one side, cupping her cheek in his palm. She was still lying in the dirt, her back supported by his thighs where he knelt.
“It’s in there deep, babe.”
Babe?
Not once in their lives had Ranger ever called her “babe.” Why was he doing so now?
Ember was having a hard time catching her breath again, and this time it had nothing to do with hitting the ground after catapulting over a camel’s head.
“It’s a mesquite thorn, babe.” There it was again. “This is probably going to hurt . . .”
“It already hurts.”
He made a hissing sound.
Ember was vaguely aware that the cast and crew had strolled over to ring a circle around them, gawking at the proceedings. But what captivated her was Ranger’s lap. He shifted as he examined the best way to get at the thorn, sliding into a cross-legged position, his butt planted firmly on the earth. Her head level with his crotch.
She thought of the day they went land sailing and her face flushed hot.
Despite the crowd, it felt too damn intimate. If her knees hadn’t been rubber, she would have jumped right up, yanked the thorn out on her own, and gone right back to work.
But Ranger was doing this strange thing, tenderly stroking her temple and breathing so slowly and deeply she found herself helplessly matching his rhythm. He was murmuring something about the cosmos, a run-on, stream-of-conscious kind of thing, hypnotic and lulling.
“A comet,” he said as if he were reading it straight from a textbook, “isn’t as glorious as it sounds. It’s basically just a dirty snowball made of space ice and rock debris.”
She laughed softly, felt the sound vibrate through the stiff denim of his jeans, and that made her think of land sailing again, and she froze.
Holy amortization, what was wrong with her? Why this immense and undeniable sexual attraction to her best friend? It was wrong. It should be taboo, and yet, and yet . . . God, how she wanted him in every way possible.
“There you go, sweetheart,” Ranger said.
Sweetheart? First babe, now sweetheart? What did this mean? she thought miserably. Weren’t he and Dawn an item? Argh, she was so confused.
He held an open palm in front of her face. “All out.”
She stared at the half-inch-long gray thorn, the tip of it tinged with her blood. She’d been so lulled by his mesmerizing voice and gentle touch she hadn’t felt him extract the thorn.
“We need to clean that wound, so it doesn’t get infected.”
“I’ve got the first-aid kit,” Chriss Anne said helpfully, and passed the white box with a red cross on it to Ranger.
Ember couldn’t say why she didn’t get up at this point. She should have gotten up. She hated appearing weak and helpless in front of people. But there was something happening here between them. Not sure what, but something. Something more than their regular friendship and affable bond.
Something that felt rare and divine.
Unless she was just fooling herself.
But he’d called her babe and sweetheart.
So she just sat there while he cleaned the puncture site with alcohol and dabbed on antibiotic ointment and finished off with a Band-Aid.
Ranger got up, reached down, offering her his hand.
She touched his palm, felt a bolt of energy course between them so fierce it belonged in a fairy tale. She stared into his eyes and he stared back, and suddenly he was so much more than her best friend, Ranger. He was every dream she’d never dared dream for fear of ruining their closeness.
She sucked in a deep breath.
So did he.
“I’m sorry you got hurt,” he said. “But you did beat Dawn. You get to be Fiona’s stand-in.” He looked inordinately happy at that turn of events, but maybe she was projecting.
Ember’s legs were currently so shaky she couldn’t even answer.
“A win is a win,” Dawn said. “I’m not afraid to admit when I’ve been bested. Good on you, Ember.”
“Enough entertainment for one morning,” Ember barked, back in director mode, and dusted off her clothes. “Back to work everyone.”
“Um.” Fiona was lacing and unlacing her fingers; her face was screwed up into a wellspring of guilt. “Could I talk to you a minute, Ember?”
“You don’t need to feel badly about skipping out on this scene. Camels can be hard to handle.” Ember brushed her palms down her fanny, dispersing sand.
“I’m really sorry.”
“No biggie. I can deal.”
Fiona cleared her throat, but didn’t quite meet Ember’s eyes. “I’m not just begging off from this scene.”
Ember stopped dusting herself, straightened, and tilted her head. There was a tone of finality in Fiona’s voice. “What’s wrong?”
“I . . . the scene where Edward kisses Mary . . . I don’t feel comfortable doing it. Could you possibly . . .”
Yes, cried Ember’s heart. Yes! But her mouth said, “I know kiss scenes are difficult, but it doesn’t mean anything. Look at it like a job.”
“You’re doing the camel scene for me. I was just hoping you could step in on this one too.”
“It can work for me to be your body double on a camel, but it’s not going to work for close-ups. The kiss scene has to be shot close up.”
“Ember.” Fiona’s voice went up an octave, high and stringy, pleading for understanding. “I don’t want to play this scene with Ranger. I don’t want to kiss him. I’m saving my kisses for one person . . .” Fiona slipped a glance over at Palmer.
“You and Palmer are together?”
Fiona shrugged, grinned coyly. “Last night, after everyone left Chantilly’s Palmer and I . . . well, let’s just say I’m no longer the least bit interested in Ranger.”
“Okay, that’s fine. No harm, no foul, but you can still do the film with Ranger.”
“That’s the thing. I kind of want out of the film.”
“But you love acting,” Ember said. “That’s what you told me when I cast you for the role.”
“Not as much as I want to explore this thing with Palmer.” Fiona giggled.
“Oh.” Ember blinked. “That was fast.”
“I told you I was ready for a man in my life.”
“What can I say?” Ember was steamed, but trying not to show it. She couldn’t force Fiona to stay on the film.
“I appreciate everything you did for me,” Fiona said. “Truly.”
“You’re totally walking away?”
“I know that means you’ll have to reshoot my scenes.”
“I could ask Luke if he could pay you a little something, if you stay. But—”
“It’s unfair to everyone else,” Fiona finished for her. “It’s not about the money. Truly, it’s about Palmer and me.”
It took everything Ember had in her to smile. “You’re free as a bird.” She sounded cool, oh yes she did, but inside she was scrambling for a solution. She was the one who’d hired Fiona, and she’d have to tell Luke she’d made a mistake in casting the church secretary. She hated when she was wrong.
Fiona kept knotting her fingers. “I’m so sorry—”
Ember made a stop sign with her palm. “Think nothing of it. You do what’s right for you. I mean that.” And she did. Life was too short to feel guilty. She would figure out this new curveball later. “Have fun with Palmer.”
Fiona slapped her palms together like she was saying a prayer. “Thank you, thank you! You’re the most awesome person.”
“I’ll do it,” a voice said from behind Ember.
“I’ll play Mary Beale. I can’t wait to kiss Ranger.”
Jealousy was a runaway freight train whizzing right through Ember. “We already discussed this. You’re too tall,” she said brusquely.
“Palmer could adjust the camera angle to make me look shorter.” Dawn’s face was gold, glistening in the morning light. “I already talked to him about it.”
“Fellowship. Observatory.” Ember was so freaked at the idea of watching Dawn kiss Ranger that she couldn’t form complete sentences.
“Next week,” Dawn reminded her.
“Filming for three weeks.”
“You could film all my scenes with Ranger first.”
Damn the woman for being so helpful. “Appreciate the offer,” Ember lied like a shag rug at Graceland. She did not appreciate the offer. Not one little bit.
The worst part of Ember’s personality wanted to say, He called me “babe” and “sweetheart.” Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Kiwi goddess. But her better side won out—dammit—and she simply smiled.
“What’s up?” Ranger asked, strolling over.
“Fiona’s quitting the film,” Dawn said.
“Aww, too bad.” His tone was sympathetic, but he didn’t look the least bit unhappy.
“Dawn was generous enough to volunteer to take her place.” Ember had to force her jaw to unclench.
“But Ember’s going to do it.” Dawn sounded unexpectedly giddy and gleeful.
Ember whipped her head around in time to see Dawn and Ranger exchange a weighted glance. A meaningful glance that made her sick to the very pit of her stomach.
“Hmm,” Ranger said, then turned and walked away without another word.
Holy second mortgage. Was he upset? About Fiona? Or the fact she was going to play Mary Beale? Ember raced to catch up to him. She had to see his face.
“Range?”
He stopped, peered over at her, his expression mild and noncommittal. Oh she knew that look, had seen it across a poker table many times.
It was the face of a man in possession of a killer hand.
Only, she had no idea what game they were playing.
He was going to kiss Ember.
The thought burrowed deep into his brain, and Ranger literally could not think of anything else. After almost thirty-three years of knowing her, and loving her a dozen different ways, this new dimension of love hit him like a winter tornado, shocking, surprising, twisting him inside out.
He was about to kiss his best friend.
Granted, it was not the optimal way to share a first kiss. It would be for a film, in front of cast and crew, but it didn’t matter. At long last, he was going to kiss her.
And because it was for the film, if things turned sour and she didn’t reciprocate his feelings, then no harm, no foul. They could go right back to how things were before.
Safe. He was completely safe. He couldn’t miss.
Or so he told himself.
He stared at Ember’s lips, so ripe and pink and lush, and he almost kissed her right then and there, the film be damned. So many years he’d looked at those lips, and yet until this moment he’d never quite seen them.
Not in the way he was seeing them now—soft, succulent, sensual, celestial. Incredible instruments of love.
“Are you all right?” Ember asked.
“Yeah, sure,” he grunted, putting on his poker face. Hell no, he was not okay. He was madly in love with his best friend, and he was about to kiss her in front of all these people, and he was scared to the core of his bones that she was not going to love him back in the same way he loved her. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Because Fiona doesn’t want to kiss you—”
“I wasn’t the least bit invested in Fiona. You were the one who thought we’d make a good match. She and Palmer are much better suited.”
“I can see that now.”
“So are you going to stop matchmaking people?”
“Well—”
“Ember.” He put emphasis on the last syllable of her name the way he did when he meant business.
“Chriss Anne asked for my help . . .”
He raised an index finger. “Stay out of it.”
“This feels like another Lucy and Ricky Ricardo moment.”
“Which means if I want you to stop matching people up, then I can’t tell you to stop or you’ll charge in guns blazing.”
Her mischievous smile lit a fire inside him. “Now you’re catching on. Strip.”
“Huh?” Ranger blinked. “What are you talking about?”
“Strip off your shirt. Haven’t you read the script? In this scene, Edward is bare chested.”
He’d memorized his lines, but he hadn’t paid much attention to the stage directions in the script. “You gotta be kidding me.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll slather you with sunscreen.”
He remembered the last time she’d slathered him with lotion. Hell, he was already lathered up, and it had nothing to do with sun exposure. Unless you considered Ember the sun, which come to think of it, was a pretty accurate metaphor for his best friend—bright, hot, intense. The sun was essential, but it could burn you up if you didn’t respect its power.
And every single day, scientists feared the loss of the sun.
Without the sun, there was no life.
Without Ember, he had no life.
A chill went through him. An ice block of terror. Without the sun, without the sun, without the sun . . .
Frozen.
A wasteland.
“Strip,” Ember repeated, grinning like it was her birthday.
And he was already starting to sweat. Both hot and cold. Time seemed to warp, feverish and dreamlike. A desert mirage. How long had he felt this way? Was it a good thing or a bad thing that he loved, desired, and feared his best friend?
Feared her because if anything happened to her, to their relationship . . . if he lost her, oh if he lost her . . . life was an empty black hole. A vacuum of nothingness.
If he was stronger, bolder, braver, he would take that chance and just tell her what he was feeling. But that fear, the icy bite of it, still held him in its teeth from the day he’d stood beside her at the altar as her man of honor and watched her marry Trey.
Her eyes were latched on to his, and they stood in the heat. Staring and breathing.
A challenge of some kind.
A dare he didn’t know if he should take. Her blue eyes mysterious as quarks, lustrous and shimmering with energy. In the face of so much heat, he glanced away. Terrified he’d go blind if he did not.
There was that fear again.
His knees were stiff with it. His heart swollen and sluggish. What human being hadn’t felt fear in the face of such great love? The sheer force of letting go, of trusting another, of being fully and completely vulnerable.
And yet, there was the hope that behind the fear lay an oasis of joy.
He met her eyes once more. Go ahead. Stare at the sun. Be bold. Stick with the plan. It will work.
Finally, he wrenched his gaze from Ember’s, smiled over at Dawn as if she were his sun, and said, “Could you help me get naked?”
Chapter 15
“How often is happiness destroyed by preparation, foolish preparation!”
—Jane Austen, Emma
They were standing on the front porch of what had at one time been Edward and Mary Beale’s home when Edward was stationed at Fort Davis in 1857.
Ranger was in front of Ember, naked from the waist up, the sun glistening off his tanned body. Droplets of sweat pearled at the hollow of his throat. His dark hair curled around the top of his ears. He exuded masculine power and panther-like grace.
Ember stared at her best friend, who looked so incredibly different to her now. Peering through the flimsy gauze of the past, through memory and dreams. Seeing him, fully seeing him for the first time.
It was as if s
he’d been blind for thirty-two years and undergone a miraculous new surgery to restore her sight, and with the removal of surgical bandages, every detail was sharply vivid and brand-new.
She noticed everything. The sensual curve of his mouth, the small bump at the bridge of his nose, the silvered scar tracking down the middle of his chest, the flex of his honed muscles, the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed.
Fascinated. Captivated. She was stunned by the freshness of her sight, overwhelmed by the blooming catalog of his spectacular attributes.
Palmer brought the main camera in for the close-up. The boom mike dangling over their heads. The crew and cast members stood watching, Fiona peeping over Palmer’s shoulder. Everyone was about to watch her kiss Ranger for the very first time.
No big deal. It was just a kiss for a film. It didn’t mean a thing.
Short. Sweet. A touching of their lips. No open mouths. Chaste. Innocent. A family-friendly film.
Except Ember’s pulse was racing and her breath came out fast and shallow, and all she could taste was the strong, cool-hot tang of the peppermint she’d popped into her mouth. What if they didn’t get it right on the first take? What if they had to kiss again and again and again?
She pushed up the sleeves of her Mary Beale costume and took a step closer to Ranger.
“Ready?” she whispered.
“Ready.” His tone was airy, but his eyes, oh those deep brown eyes, were heavy, full of mystery and danger.
Dangerous. This was very dangerous. She was treading on unstable ground. How had she ever believed she knew him?
Silently, she shifted to director mode and counted down on her fingers, arm at her side, signaling Palmer when to start filming.
Ranger stepped closer, until mere inches separated them. He dipped his head. Sighed softly. “Mary.”
Oh shit, oh shit! Stop. Cut. Cut. Cut. Bail out. Bail out. Once she did this, there was no undoing it.
Ember didn’t know where she found her voice or the courage, but she managed to stay stock-still and murmur her one-word line with heart and heat. “Edward.”
His bare chest was a wall, striated with well-honed muscles, the old scar, and a whorl of dark hair. His body was a heater, radiant and hot, blasting straight into her.
