Page 16 of Fuse

“You mean like—hmmm, let’s see—the freaking hillside the man’s bought and built a mansion on for her? And the numerous bad guys he’s put down for her? And—oh, yeah—the whole putting up with our mother thing for her?”

I fling a determined glower. “So much for not bringing up the obvious, lovely sibling.”

’Dia nods toward Joany. “She promised it, not me.”

Joany swivels off her stool and glides gracefully back to her feet. Her golden eyes are practically dancing, though I somehow know she’s invigorated, not gloating. “And I felt confident in doing so,” she affirms, “because now I get to tell you about the non-obvious stuff.”

I cock my head. “About what?”

“Not what.” She smiles gently. “Who. The thousand things that maybe you haven’t yet seen about Reece yet. All the things, beyond his superhero blazes, his press conference declarations, and even this incredible castle on the hill, that I see in that guy for the very first time since I’ve known him. Every stare he rivets into you, as if it’s his last. Every touch he reaches toward you, he looks as if he’s trying not to break glass. But most of all, in how you’ve changed everything that nobody can see on the outside.” She takes a determined breath before going on. “You’ve transformed that man, Emma. Wait.” She interrupts herself with a broader smile and an upheld finger. “You’ve transformed that boy, Emma. He’s determined to not just become a man but a better man than we all imagined. Than we all ever thought possible.”

For a long moment, I simply let my heart sit—and be jubilant in—that precious knowledge. I’m relieved to see Lydia seemingly doing the same, until she breaks the pause by reiterating, “Since you’ve known him.” Then asking Joany, “So how long has that been?”

“Since I started dating Chase in college,” Joany elucidates. “Nearly ten years.”

Lydia gives in to a long, low whistle. I swiftly spin away, presumably to check on the pie. It’s a great excuse for hiding the intensity of my reaction. Ten years. That’s a long damn time.

On the other hand…

“But wasn’t Reece estranged from most of you during all that time?” I have to ask, no matter how much I hate myself for it. “I only mean that there’s a possibility you don’t know all about him either. He was a person with a lot of complexities, even before becoming Bolt. Discovering that man would take—”

“A woman like you.” Joany, uncorking a bottle of Cabernet, motions my way with the corkscrew. “You really don’t see it, do you?” She glances at ’Dia. “Does she really not see it?”

Lydia drains her glass and ponies up to Joany for more Beringer. “Not one damn bit. I can tell you that with certainty.”

“See what?” I throw my mitt-covered hands out to demonstrate my frustration with their cahoots.

Lydia pings her stare between Joany and her glass. “Put a lot of gas in that can, baby. I think we’ll have to spell all this out for her.”

“Not. Necessary.”

The new voice in the room makes Joany miss ’Dia’s glass on the pour. I don’t blame her. Every distinct note of that familiar growl invades every heated, heightened nerve in my body. With arms still splayed, I whip toward the right—though the room could be plunged in total blackness and I’d find him. Feel him. Know him like the hairs on my own head and every blood cell pumping through my body. Blood that percolates and electrifies because of him. Always, always, all too aware of him…

She doesn’t see it…

I chomp the inside of my bottom lip. So maybe they’re right. Maybe I don’t see it—but I sure as hell feel it, and right now, that’s all I freaking need. And I mean need—as in, I’m going to revel in every possible moment of the man’s electric enchantment. That means openly, hungrily raking my stare all the way from his bare feet, over every powerful inch of the long legs still sheathed in his leathers, eye-licking all the defined edges of his torso beneath the cobalt T-shirt for which he’s switched out his jacket, and finally lusting over the cords of his taut, burnished neck…

In which several veins are thudding pretty damn hard.

Matching every rapid tick in his jaw.

Firing in time to every turbulent lightning flash in his stare.

Giving away the fact that he’s likely been hovering there for more than a few seconds.

Shit.

I swallow hard. He starts his approach.

Double shit.

“Enjoy your wine, ladies.” His unwavering stare clarifies I’m the exemption to the statement—the order?—as he yanks the mitts off my hands and then tosses them to the counter with the same commanding motion. “The ‘spelling it out’ will be handled from here.”

My mouth falls open. There are words ready to come out, I swear it, but all I manage is an incensed growl. “Handled?” I snap. “You’re going to ‘handle’ the fact that all I want is for you to be understood and happy?” Because now, it’s damn obvious he’s been lurking there long enough to hear all the key parts of this exchange. “That my heart is in the right place here?”

He doesn’t back off. Keeps looming and coiling, thoroughly in stubborn ox mode. And being too brawny and beautiful about it. “Not your heart I’m here for,” he charges softly. “Your head, on the other hand…”

“Is also screwed on fine. Not that any of you are listening.” But the second I retort it, I recognize the mistake. It might be a valid message, but even the truth is wasted if falling on deaf ears.