“And is she in the movie? Molly Cade?”

That garnered more than a squint from Venti; it earned Wyatt a skin-penetrating stare because Wyatt had sounded . . . animated. He didn’t do animated for anything or anyone.

Except for Sean and Logan, his foster father and biological brother, both long gone. For Roni, as well, very much alive and vexing.

And once, for Molly Cade.

A smile spread slowly across Venti’s face. Fucker. “Fan of Ms. Cade’s work, are you?”

Big fan. Of how hard her tongue worked when wrapped around his cock. How good her tight, lithe body worked his until every one of his atoms had exploded in the kind of pleasure he’d never experienced before or since. They had crossed paths at a strange time in Wyatt’s life. In the intervening five years, whenever her saw her on the screen, a cavalcade of what-might-have-beens marched through his brain. Ridiculous, for true. Oscar-nominated actresses who commanded multimillion dollar paydays weren’t exactly his usual diet.

Not that his sex life had improved much. Definitely more watch-your-weight than three square meals.

Molly Cade was currently in his zip code. Or soon would be. Dubbed America’s sweetheart in all those dumb romantic comedies when she wasn’t playing some macho loser’s helpless love interest in the latest summer popcorn movie, her one step outside her wheelhouse had yielded that Oscar nod for some indie film. And then it all turned to shit for her in the last year.

But before she was all that, before she was the Molly Cade, she was the one woman who had snuck under his skin. It would be mighty interesting to see if she had the means to make him itch like before. Come alive like before. Keeping her and her production company out of his sister’s orbit would be a bonus.

He met Venti’s gaze squarely, not caring what the cap might think about his sudden about-face.

“When do I start?”

“You have to admit he has a great ass.”

Molly Cade turned to the speaker of that bald statement and gave her the slitty eyes. Calysta Johnson—bestie, Gal Friday, and fellow ass connoisseur—remained oblivious to Molly’s glare, too busy ogling the ass-ets of Gideon Carter, costar on Molly’s latest movie venture, Into the Blaze. Molly followed Cal’s gaze to where Gideon the Idiot stood just as . . . yep, he rang the old-timey firehouse bell affixed to the wall of the Robert J. Quinn Fire Academy on Chicago’s West Side. At the clanking din, he whooped like a frat pledge and nudged the ribs of his right-hand dickhead, Jeremy.

Molly couldn’t help her sigh. “Sure, great ass. Pity it’s on his shoulders.”

Cal chortled. “If I was ten years younger—”

“Or had a brain injury.”

“I’d be all over those perfect globes.” Quirking a grin, Cal aimed a glance past the hulking steam-powered engine in the lobby and checked her phone again. “Our contact is late.”

“You make it sound like a special military op. We’re just meeting the Pabst Blue Ribbon—drinking, potbellied hose hauler who’s going to make sure that this movie is more authentic than a Ken Burns documentary.”

Cal squeezed Molly’s arm. She could always tell when Molly was nervous. “Hon, this is going to be a huge success. Your way back onto the A-list, into the fickle public’s hearts, and their big fat wallets.”

“I don’t care about being A-list or making bank on the first weekend. I just want”—she balled her fists and placed them on her hips, growling her determination—“I just want people to hear my name and not think ‘Ryan Michaels’s pathetic ex’ or ‘her tits look bigger on the silver screen than they do in those hacked photos.’ ”

“Well, they do look bigger. That’s the magic of Hollywood.”

Molly barked a reluctant laugh. Thank God for Cal, who always managed to tell it like it was and shut down those invites to the pity party.

“Speaking of photos, did you see them?” Cal jerked her chin to the west wall, where a battery of frames hung in a grid. They both moved toward them.

The Wall of the Fallen.

Molly studied the pictures, her hands behind her back, feeling a touch ghoulish. Like she was invading this sacred space. Faces shone back at her, some smiling, most not, all dressed in their CFD uniforms. Each of them someone’s father, brother, son, friend. Their courage and sacrifice blanketed Molly to the point that the problems she had endured this past year paled in comparison.

Slowly, she walked past the memorial until she came to the two she recognized: Sean Dempsey and his foster son, Logan Keyes.

Sean was that stereotypical hale and ruddy-faced Irishman with the twinkle that not even his grim official photo could dull. Beside him, Logan stared out from beyond his fiery grave, a hint of a smile teasing the corner of his mouth. Nine years ago, they had given their lives, spawned a legion of bar tales, and inspired a family of foster kids to follow in their footsteps. One of them, Alexandra Dempsey, was as well-known for her on-camera and romantic exploits as she was for her bravery. Her story of fierce familial loyalty, headline-grabbing heroics, and a love for the ages—the movie poster was already designed in Molly’s mind—would add the human interest element to Into the Blaze’s pulse-pounding action sequences. Unfortunately Alex and the CFD had stonewalled Molly’s efforts to tell it. Months of no calls returned and then a sternly worded letter from former Chicago mayor, now hotshot lawyer Eli Cooper informing Cade Productions that Firefighter Dempsey’s story was not for sale.

Six months of fighting tooth and nail with Ryan’s lawyers for her rights and dignity had soured Molly on smooth-talking lawyers. Where there was a will . . .

The Dempseys, as the foster siblings were collectively known, worked at Engine 6—which is why she had requested one of the company to be the consult when the usual CFD-designated tech was injured. It was a long shot, but if she could learn more about the Dempseys, find a way to connect with them, maybe they’d open up and let her tell their story. Time was nipping at her heels, though. Shooting started in two weeks, the adapted script was ready to go; it just needed the imprimatur of America’s Favorite Firefighter to varnish it with the sheen of success.

This was to be Molly’s comeback and it would be spectacular.

“God, they are positively smokin’.” Cal held up her phone to showcase the cut body of Gage Simpson, one of the Dempseys, posing in the charity firefighter calendar that had taken the city—and country—by storm last year. “Two of them in those beefcake calendars, one of them a ripped boxer, the hot tamale sister. Wonder what the mystery brother looks like.”

So did Molly. Four of the Dempseys were unafraid of the public eye, but the fifth—Wyatt Fox—remained a shadowy figure who shunned the limelight. She hadn’t looked all that hard, but not a single, clear photo of Mr. Fox had come to light. Not even on Facebook.

“Probably got thrashed by the ugly stick. But the rest of ’em”—Cal gave a low whistle—“must be something in the Chicago water.”

Have a care, Cal; they were standing before a monument to the city’s finest and bravest. Molly turned her head, ready to admonish her friend for her crassness, only to find that Cal’s mouth had fallen open and her gaze had redirected to some point over Molly’s shoulder. “Or maybe it’s what they’re feeding them down at the firehouse,” she murmured.

A curious shiver thrummed through Molly’s body before she heard, “Miss Cade?”

The shiver magnified in intensity, though that wasn’t right. It rocket-fuel-boosted every cell in her body to the level of a quake. She turned.

The Marine.

Her brain tried to compute the image before her. The same rugged features, but more weathered. The same fit body, but more space filling. The same uncompromising blue-gray eyes, but more distant.