Tamara Sneed - At First Touch

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To the Creators, Actors and Supporters of “Soap Operas”

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Judging from the heavy pounding on the front door of the Granger Funeral Home, Wyatt Granger figured either the defensive line of the Oakland Raiders had come to pay a visit or someone had died. Since Wyatt did own and operate a funeral home—and the average member of the Oakland Raiders, along with most other people in California, had no idea that Sibleyville existed—that left the latter proposition. Wyatt’s luck had run out, and someone was dead.

Wyatt cursed and slowly set down the newspaper on the nearby coffee table. It appeared that his late evening ritual of reading the paper was not going to happen tonight. He suspected that most funeral directors did not curse when they were faced with the prospect of potential customers. But, then again, Wyatt was not like most funeral directors.

Unfortunately for Wyatt though, he was the last Granger left in Sibleyville and by default that left him to answer the door and pretend to be like most funeral directors. After all, the Granger Funeral Home motto was not Burying Your Dead Since 1919 for nothing.

Wyatt forced himself to stand from his father’s favorite easy chair and walked through the foyer to the front door. He took a deep breath and stood frozen at the front door. He cursed at himself again. He needed to stop acting like a wuss and open the door.

Wyatt pasted his best funeral director smile on his face and opened the door. He was immediately blinded by a bright white light and the sound of applause. He shielded his eyes with a hand and squinted into the light. At least ten people stood crowded on the covered front porch. There were two cameras, one man holding the blinding light overhead and another guy holding a large microphone. And in front of the entire circus stood Quinn Sibley.

Wyatt felt the sudden urge to vomit. It was the same reaction every time he saw her. Like a sledgehammer in his gut. She was too beautiful, too perfect. And entirely too much out of his league.

His gaze drifted from her perfectly formed, heart-shaped lips to the deep V of the skintight dark green halter dress that skimmed every famous and well-photographed curve of her body. Her brown hair held hints of dark blond and honey and hung like a curtain of silk down her back. Her honey-brown skin was flawless, and her hazel eyes flashed more green one moment, then more brown another. He would have sworn they were contacts if he hadn’t spent so much time studying her to know they were 100% real. And then there were her breasts.

Men could spend hours writing poems to her breasts. Wyatt had spent enough time staring at them over the last year to know every curve by heart. They were a little too perky and round and perfect to be God-given, but they were absolutely perfect. Any man who turned up his nose at them was either blind or a complete fool.

And with all things that came in a package that promised to be too good to be true, Wyatt had stayed far away from her. No, sir. Not him. Besides, he had other plans for himself this holiday season, like getting to know Dorrie Diamond better. Dorrie was petite, cute and most importantly, one of the only single women in town under the age of sixty and over the age of eighteen. Not to mention that she was black, this was even rarer in Sibleyville. She was 28 years old and Wyatt had decided that she was perfect for his plan. He wanted to start a family and judging from the longing he saw in her eyes when she saw babies, so did she. Quinn Sibley was nowhere in that plan. Not one beautiful inch of her.

“Wyatt!” Quinn exclaimed, as if he were a long lost friend.

When Wyatt only gaped in response, Quinn threw her arms around him and squeezed her ample breasts against his chest and, God help him, Wyatt moved closer to her, allowing himself for a moment to accept that this was not a fantasy.

Ever since he had first met Quinn Sibley in Sibleyville last year, she had been the name in lights in his daydreams and fantasies. She and her two sisters had come to Sibleyville to live in their grandfather’s boyhood home for a few weeks in hopes of inheriting Max Sibley’s considerable fortune. There had been no fortune, but the women had left a mark on Sibleyville. Quinn’s sister, Charlie, had married Wyatt’s best friend, Graham, and the two had spent the last year essentially disgusting everyone with their lovesick, puppy-dog looks and cuddly exchanges. Thankfully, Charlie and Graham spent most of their time in Los Angeles.

The few times Wyatt had seen Quinn since she and her sisters had left town had been just enough to let him know that it hadn’t been a joke: this woman had a hold on him. She knew it, which probably explained why she treated him like snail dung on the bottom of her shoe. And glutton for punishment that he was, Wyatt still could not stop thinking about her. Or her body and those lips, to put it more accurately. It was pure lust, and lust could be controlled. Or so Wyatt had heard.

“You’re looking good, Wyatt,” Quinn gushed, as she not so subtly positioned him so that they both faced the camera. “What has it been? Five, six months? Too long, right? We’re practically family. We shouldn’t wait this long to see each other.”

It took him a while because he did have the most perfect pair of breasts pressed against him a few seconds ago, but Wyatt finally realized that it was not an accident that Quinn and a camera crew were hogging his porch.

“Quinn,” he finally said.

He glanced at the cameras and the men in flannel shirts and khaki shirts standing around the porch, watching the scene with bored expressions. One man blew a bubble, then popped it and continued to chew like a cow.

Wyatt stepped closer to her and turned his back to the cameras. He asked, flatly, “What is going on?”

“I’ve got a chance of a lifetime for you, Wyatt,” Quinn continued excitedly, ignoring his question. She flashed a smile at the camera, then turned back to Wyatt, “I’m documenting one of the most exciting moments of my life—my homecoming to Sibleyville—”

“Homecoming?” he repeated, blankly. “You’re not from—”

She squeezed his arm—hard—and continued to smile at the camera. “I have been picked to star in a Helmut Ledenhault movie. Yes, that’s right, Wyatt, the Helmut Ledenhault. And, even more, exciting, Helmut has chosen to film the movie here in Sibleyville. Our little town. And here is the really best part, Wyatt. Are you ready for this?”

“No.”

Like a runaway train, she ignored his distinct lack of enthusiasm and plodded on. “We want to film the movie here in the Granger Funeral Home!” Wyatt shook his head in disbelief, and this time she pinched him on the back of his arm. He flinched in surprise. Her camera-worthy smile never faltered. “Two weeks, at the most, Wyatt. What do you stay? Are you ready to be a star?”

Wyatt stared at her uncomprehendingly for a moment. For the first 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?”