by Angel Payne
“Did someone call for Transformatron?” Reece’s boom is all but drowned by the girls’ combined squeals, which conquer even higher octaves as he swoops in, shirtless chest rippling as he extends both arms, letting them latch on like monkeys hanging from his tree limbs.
At once, everyone’s gasps turn into groans.
“Transformatron’s a showy bastard.” The mutter comes from Harrison, Neeta’s day-shift counterpart on the front-desk team.
“I’m still getting another slice of pizza.” Wade adds a loud oof while struggling to his feet and shuffling back inside the house. His remark almost makes me sorry for the capper I’ve got to add to it.
“Well, I’m not tired anymore.”
Like I said, almost sorry.
As I pay for my cheek beneath a bombardment of wadded pizza napkins, Reece reappears from his lap around the small house with two giggling aerialists in tow. Nope. I am definitely not one speck exhausted anymore—and now start to wonder if the grand vision in my head is going to be asking one favor too many from the universe. I mean, look at the man. He’s got the chest of Triton, the legs of Apollo, the penis of Eros—and a heart that’s all Bolt. I can’t even comprehend all the phone calls he had to make and favors he had to call in to make this day happen for Cal and his sisters, but seeing those girls light up when beholding just a few painted butterflies and new bedding in their room…and the look on Cal’s face after we set up the new swing set in the backyard and then turned on the new bells-and-whistles computer and monitor set, placed in a stylish corner hutch and seating combo thing that will be perfect for the girls’ homework sessions…
No major construction, taking us only an afternoon.
But imagine the good we can do if given more time and resources…
A resolve that reinvigorates my mind at just the right moment. Because here comes my glorious man again, this time with the kids at his heels instead of on his arms.
I leave the porch, giving high-fives to the returning warriors when they announce the “dragon” has been defeated, tamed, and turned back into a reptile who only wants good for the universe. As I continue my own quest, walking toward Reece with my heart thudding in my throat and my love brimming in my eyes, I’m actually a little thankful when he yanks his T-shirt out of his back pocket and tugs it back on. This conversation is going to be nerve-racking enough without his gleaming abs to waylay me.
“Congratulations, Transformatron,” I quip, unable to resist smoothing a hand down one of his biceps. “You helped save the galaxy.”
His cocky grin does not help my nervous pulse. “That’s what I do.”
“Obviously.” As if my rebuttal needs backup, I sweep my gaze back toward the house. And its repaired front stairs. And the shiny screens in the windows. And even the new camera mounted over the front door, connected to the app that’ll display visitors on Cal’s phone screen.
I turn back, discovering Reece’s stare hasn’t departed from me. His eyes are the shade of graphite, which fits with the flinty new angles of his face. I blink, wondering if this is the same guy who smirked at me like a flirty guitar god just two seconds back. Not that I’m complaining. This mien is better for what I have to say. And then the huge thing I have to ask.
Deep breath. Stay calm.
“So,” I finally murmur.
“So,” he replies just as softly.
“I’m…not sure I’ve really thanked you for this yet, mister. Not officially.”
A chuff escapes him. “Yes, you have, Bunny.” He steps closer, brushes a strand of hair off my face, and leaves his long fingers cupped at the curve of my cheek. “In about a thousand different ways.”
I get down a huge gulp. One more. Floodwaters, meet matchsticks. The waterworks are on, my heart is overflowing, and there’s not a thing I can do to hold back the tears now.
“Damn it, Emma.”
I sniff hard, hoping that’ll help. “Sorry. Sorry. They’re all happy tears, okay? You…you’re just too good to me. My superhero in so many ways.”
He slides his eyes shut. “I know. And I never want to stop being that.”
Shit, shit, shit. He’s so earnest and serious, making me feel even weirder about all this. But if the fast-and-direct approach works for yanking off bandages, maybe I’ll get lucky in this case too.
“I have something I need to tell you.”
My rickety laugh blends with his, the same way we just issued the same sentence at once. As the mirth fades from his lips, his grip intensifies against my head. “You first,” he utters. “Yeah, I’m going to be a wuss about this.”
“Not wussier than me.” I lift my hand, fitting it atop his. “You first.”
“Emma. Fuck.”
“Reece. Fuuuuck.”
But my tease doesn’t ease his disquiet. He jacks his head back, looking to the remnants of the sunset in the twilight sky. I drop my head and concentrate on my paint-spattered shoes in the cool grass.
“I’m giving up Bolt.”
“I’m quitting my job.”
This time, I couldn’t be more thrilled we walked on each other’s sentences. Or more ecstatic about the content value of his. Fighting to keep my grin somewhere in the realm of happy instead of leaping up in pure elation, I stammer, “You…what?”
He clearly doesn’t know how to interpret my expression. His face contorts with an intense emotion before he resets all the angles with solid command, even nodding with G.I. Joe gravity as he does. “I’m doing it, Emma. I’m putting away the leathers. And the missions. And the scumbags and the assholes. I’m sure as hell not going back into hiding, but I’m not going to give everyone a bigger target to aim at by the day.”
I tighten my hold around his arm. Gulp against even more tears as I whisper, “Reece…”
“You’re not upset, are you? Not too much?”
“Gah.” And unbelievably, there’s number three. A record, for sure—in a record-making, extraordinary day. “You incredible, clueless man.” With my hand already in his hair, I yank him down for a kiss that’s damn near punishing. “I couldn’t be happier, okay?” I stay close, needing to feel every vibrant, pulsing inch of his life and vitality. “No more worrying about some bastard distracting you while another puts a bullet in your face. No more worrying you might have been jumped or shivved or—”
His bark of a laugh cuts into my diatribe. “Shivved?”
I tweak on his hair again. “You know what I mean. And does it matter anymore?”
“Not one damn bit.” His gaze turns the color of mist, and he leans down to take my mouth in a softer kiss. “Besides, I may have some new semantics for you to worry about soon.”
“Huh?” I let go of his hair and relock him with my gaze. “Mister, you did just hear my little announcement too, right?” But before I’m finished, I already see the affirmation of that—in every inch of the new smirk spreading across his lips. “Well, shit. Don’t tell me…”
“That I was already anticipating your resignation letter after our little adventure today?”
“Little?”
“New semantics.” A shrug of broad shoulders. An even cockier grin. “So I won’t tell you that I wasn’t just anticipating it. I was hoping for it.”
“Excuse the hell out of—” I drop my hands and push hard against the grip he’s now secured around my waist. No dice. I’m stuck here. “You were hoping for me to resign from your night crew team?”
He soothes me with a firm press of lips to my forehead. In return, I fume. I don’t want to be soothed. Most of all, I can’t handle the idea of him “anticipating” all my moves like that. It should seem creepy to me—but the thing is, it doesn’t. And that’s even weirder, right? It just makes me feel…exactly like I do now. Protected. Valuable. Purposeful. Like what I’m doing actually matters to someone. Liking what I’m doing matters the most to an incredible man like him.
“All right. Truth,” he murmurs against my temple. “If you didn’t resign, I probably would have asked you
to anyway.”
I splutter again—just not with the force of Transformatron’s girlfriend. “Why?”
“Because I need you to work on something else.”
I lean back as far as he’ll allow. Travel my gaze downward. “Mr. Richards, even with your python of a sex drive, there are only so many hours in the day we can—”
“Not on that,” he chuckles out.
“Then…what?”
“A new arm of the Richards organization that I feel strongly about. And won’t entrust to anyone but you.”
I frown. “A new arm…how?”
“Richards Reaches Out.” He jogs his head an inch higher. Squares his shoulders to match the determined set of his face. “Something completely crazy for us because it’s going to be a nonprofit facet of the brand.”
“Nonprofit?” I abandon the frown for an are you batshit stare. “Like Papa Dearest is going to go along with that?”
He shrugs again. Damn it, he needs to stop doing that, because every lift of his linebacker-worthy lines does crazy things to my concentration. “Spoke to him this morning. Dad doesn’t just approve of this idea. He’s volunteered to help you get the whole train chugging and rolling along.” In response to my bugged-out eyes, he qualifies, “Look. My father may be a self-absorbed dick from time to time, but he also knows a strong nonprofit can do amazing things for public perception—and in this case, as a viable resource for bringing along future leaders for the company.” He swoops his sights back toward the gang on the porch. “Leaders like Cal.”
“Who might need more than just a cosmetics touch-up on their house for a day.” At the encouragement of his proud, intense stare, I go on. “Who may need financial assistance with daycare so they can get themselves through college. Or even a car for commuting. Or introductions to people for job interviews.” And I’m just getting started, because as he keeps nodding, I just keep sharing. So many possibilities and ideas, which have all been darting through my head like balloons in a hurricane, are now gathered and pushed in one epic, shiny bouquet of thought. “Life coach and mentorship match-ups. Internship opportunities. Partnerships with organizations like Working Wardrobes and Young Professionals of America…hey.” I emphasize the protest with a whap on his chest and stare up at his jawline as he releases a chest-deep chuckle. “What’s so funny?”
He shakes his head, gazing down at me with thick, meaningful intent. “Not funny, Velvet. Just happy. That crazy, amazing thing you do to my heart every time you’re near.” He cups both sides of my jaw now, cradling my face in his perfect protection…and adoration. “And goddamn, I’m so grateful.”
Sigh.
Just. Freaking. Sigh.
But I’m able to emit half of one before he claims my mouth beneath his again, twisting yet soft, thorough yet seeking, claiming me yet freeing me.
Knowing me.
Bonded to me.
Ignited with me.
Bolted with me.
And dear God, I never want it to be any different.
“All right, all right,” I say with a mocking gripe when he finally releases me to give me air again. “I quit, I quit.”
“Good.” He smashes my mouth with harder significance now before pulling away. “Because you’re now officially hired.” The most magnificent smile I’ve seen on his face reaches all the way up to his eyes, perhaps even into the follicles of his thick, luscious hair, now blowing in the balmy breeze of a classic LA evening. “Welcome to Richards Reaches Out, Miss Crist.”
“Why thank you, Mr. Richards.”
“Anything you need to ask about the place? Like where’s the coffee maker? Copy machine? And when do we start changing the world?”
“Oh, I already know the answer to that one, mister.” I reach up, wrapping my arms around his neck and then arching my brows, already promising him the hottest kiss of our day. “We already have.”
Continue the Bolt Saga with Part 4
Ignite
Available July 31, 2018
Keep reading for an excerpt!
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Excerpt from Ignite: Part 4 in the Bolt Saga
Chapter One
EMMA
Funny how life changes when the world knows you’re sleeping with a superhero.
Funnier still how the differences are most glaring in the tiniest details. Like finally finding one’s way to the ladies’ room after a five-hour flight and a twenty-minute gate taxi only to have one’s three-by-six-foot sanctum pierced by an urgent whisper from the next stall over.
“Hey.”
At first, I clear my throat and ignore her. The chick’s probably just on the phone with someone and isn’t aware of my presence next door.
“Hey. You. Emma Crist.”
“Uhhhh…” I repeat the throat clearance with a little more emphasis. Believe me, I’m painfully used to being recognized in public these days, but it’s usually not when I’m pausing for a second of relief in the airport bathroom. “Yes? Can I help you?” In any case, professional mode is best. She’s probably just asking for toilet paper or a tampon.
“So tell me what he’s like.”
I watch my eyes bug in the reflection from the stainless-steel door. “He…who?”
“Come on. You know who.”
“I…uh…”
“Reece Richards.” She adds a conspiratorial giggle. “You know. Bolt. What’s he like, girlfriend?”
“I beg your pardon?” My confusion is authentic on several levels. I’m really in the weeds about what to do. I’m done with my business but afraid to budge. If I make a move, will she flush just as fast and corner me against the sinks? If I don’t, how long will she hold me hostage on the pot in order to win her answer?
“I bet he can fuck like a machine. Right?”
“Pardon me?”
“Probably doesn’t even need a recharge—even if that cover story you’re floating is true, about the thunder and lightning being a big ol’ magic trick and all.”
“Well.” Forget professional. Maybe I just need to show my whole hand now. A full house of irked, peeved, and get-lost-lady. “Reece has already made his official statements on the matter.”
Statements that were meant to buy us some time. Badly needed time. A moment’s breath to figure out our new reality, which feels no more real now than it did back in July. The night he’d taken off his mask in that room, in front of my family and a hundred other Newport Beach socialites, and changed my life forever. A change I thought I was ready for—but quickly learned I wasn’t. Since then, despite the changes and compromises we’ve both made, life still feels like a gigantic roller coaster, with no return back to the loading platform in sight.
Which means I need to learn to hold on tighter or seriously invest in some barf bags.
“Come on. Just tell me.” Annnnd, Stall One is still damned and determined to girl-talk her way into a confession from me. “He’s better than the little battery bunny, isn’t he? But does he come with a…drum?”
The threads of suspicion in my gut form into a bigger ball. This chica’s pushing the metaphors hard. Just like a good gossip reporter would…
“I…”
The trill of my cell can’t be better timed. With a whoosh of relief, I grab for the thing. “Sorry. Have to get this.”
“Oh, God. Is it him?”
Of course it’s him. Not that I’m going to tell her that.
Using the nickname we openly borrowed from the world’s most notable superhero creator provides a perfect way to do that.
“Mr. Lee.” Like the real Mr. Lee, my man has a tendency of showing up in the most unexpected places at the oddest times, earning him instant street cred for the designation.
Reece Andrew Richards has a different view on the matter and makes that clear with a dark, dangerous, arousing-as-hell growl.
“How can I be of service to you this afternoon?”
Reece repeats th
e sound but with more sensual undertones. “That all depends.”
“Yes. Go ahead. Of course I’m here.” Attempting to keep up the calm, cool, and professional thing is not easy when the man has the power to flip my stomach like a pancake simply with the force of his voice.
“On whether you plan on fully apologizing for using that little zinger.”
I clear my throat again, using the sound to cover what it takes to clean stuff up and get back to my feet. “We fully understand your frustration with the situation, Mr. Lee. Richards Resorts wants to make things right. I’m still at the airport, but I’ll be back at my desk in about an hour and will be happy to—”
“No.”
One word, full of carnal command, turns the pancake to mush—along with my knees. I fight to stay upright with a fortifying breath through my nose. “So sorry. Could you repeat, please? I didn’t quite get that.”
Reece’s grunting laugh fills the line. “Oh, you’ll get it, my little Velvet Bunny. Just not back at the office.” He adds a subtle hum because he knows, no matter where I am or what I’m doing, how hot the sound makes me—and exactly where. “It’s Friday. You’re taking the rest of the day off.”
I unlatch the stall door and march to the mirrors and sinks—where my flushed cheeks and aroused eyes are waiting to gloat at me in full. Damn him. How I’ve missed him. “I’ll have to double-check that request with upper management.”
“Upper management is waiting for you at the curb, woman.” His tone drops into the rugged valley between seduction and fornication. “Which means get rid of whoever’s gawking at you and get your sweet ass out to the VIP pick-up curb.”
“Well, I have checked bags—”
“Which Z is already handling,” he supplies. “So you have no more excuses. Get out here. Into my arms. Now.”
