The Hotter You Burn

by Gena Showalter

  "What about Dorian Oliver?" Dorian didn't live in Strawberry Valley, but he met Harlow's other criteria.

  West whistled. "The guy's perfect for anyone. If I swung that way, I'd be all over him."

  "I remember Dorian." Jase cracked his knuckles. "Keep him away from Brook Lynn. Women look at him and experience that, what's it called, insta-love."

  True, but he wasn't a player. Like West, he was choosey. But unlike the pair of them, he preferred commitment. He'd married his high school sweetheart and would still be with her if she hadn't died from cancer.

  Beck had spent a summer with him years ago, both of them fostered by the same family. They'd liked each other from minute one and had kept in touch over the years.

  Fighting the urge to throw his phone across the office, Beck picked it up and made the call.

  *

  HARLOW EXPECTED BECK to come knocking at her door. Not because she'd agreed to spend the evening with him, but because of what she'd done to his bedroom walls. When the entrance swung open, however, he wasn't glowering at her. He smiled and held out a bouquet of pink and white flowers.

  "For you."

  What the...? "Uh, thank you?" Trying to coax her from her earlier upset? She accepted the gift, a sweet scent teasing her nose. "What are they for?"

  "Do I need a reason?"

  Yes! But she nibbled on her bottom lip and shook her head.

  "They reminded me of you," he said then. "Soft and pretty, delicate and dewy."

  Killing me. "Have you not been home?"

  "No, why?"

  "Well, uh... I kind of painted my--your bedroom walls."

  He frowned. "Kind of?"

  "Fine. Definitely painted."

  "Why would you do that? I liked my room the way it was."

  "So? You'll like it better now."

  "I won't."

  "Well, you can suck it," she said, flipping her hair over her shoulder.

  The frown morphed into a scowl. "Grab your paints. If you have to work all night, you'll work all night, but those walls will be beige by morning."

  "Not even in your dreams. You were willing to keep the mural when you first moved in."

  "But now I'm used to beige."

  Frustrating man. "We'll talk about the walls tomorrow."

  "Harlow--"

  "Brook Lynn came by, saw what I'd done, and asked if I'd paint a mural at her house." A zombie mural, of all things, for easier target practice. "She knows talent when she sees it."

  "Did you tell her no, you already have a job?"

  "Please. I said yes so fast I broke records. I will work for food."

  He went still, sniffed the air. "Do you have a pie in there, Harlow?"

  "No," she said, and his shoulders drooped with disappointment. "I have two pies. I haven't painted the mural yet, but I demanded an advance."

  He pushed his way inside, a drug dog on the trail of the biggest bust of his career. "Blueberry and apple. Good girl."

  She filled two bowls, then joined him at her small table. One bite, and they both moaned. Waiting had been difficult, almost impossible, but somehow she'd managed it, wanting to share this moment with him. And now she was glad she had.

  He winked over at her, his golden eyes sparkling.

  She smiled at him, unable to help herself.

  He reached for her, only to drop his hand before contact. Stiffening, he looked somewhere over her shoulder. "So... I found you a guy."

  Denial rose like a tidal wave. "So soon?"

  "Yeah. His name's Dorian. I'll get you a laptop so you can look him up on Google. Chicks are doing that nowadays."

  "Great. Wonderful."

  "You should see the pictures people have posted of me. In fact--" He withdrew his phone. "We'll look now."

  "No, thanks. Let's keep this about Dorian," she said, just to poke at him.

  His eyes narrowed, but he stored the phone. "I've known him since I was fifteen. He's a fireman, and according to the girl who lived next door to our foster family, totally hunkalicious. He's smart, kind and honest to a fault, but he lives in the city. If that's a deal breaker for you..."

  "No," she said. Beck wanted to play this game, so they would play.

  "Take some time, think about it." He threw down his fork, the metal clanging against the glass bowl. "We don't have to talk about this now. I know it upsets you."

  Upsets her? "No, no," she said. "Tell me more about him."

  Beck pushed his bowl aside, as if he'd lost his appetite, a reaction that thrilled her to her soul. He couldn't stand the thought of her with another guy, could he?

  He scratched his chest, saying, "Want to watch TV? There's gotta be something good on." He tromped back to the bedroom and threw himself on the bed.

  "Damn it," he said a few seconds later. "I've got pie on my shirt."

  "Go shirtless." Please.

  To torment him, she finished her dessert--and enjoyed another slice--before joining him in the bedroom. He'd gotten comfortable, kicking off his shoes, and yes, he'd removed his shirt. The sight of him arrested her. He was more than pure seduction and total temptation--he was a dream come true. His pecs were rock-solid, his stomach roped and lined with a goodie trail that made her mouth water.

  How was she supposed to keep her hands to herself?

  Better question: How was he?

  Almost defiantly, she toed off her shoes and climbed in beside him. "Move over, cover hog."

  He obeyed without protest, even stretching out his arm in an invitation for her to cuddle close. An invitation she accepted, resting her head against his chest. His heart was racing, pounding like a war drum, pandering to her hope.

  She would not make the first move. She wouldn't! But she also wouldn't make this easy on him. "I like the name Dorian."

  "Most girls do." His finger jabbed at the remote, switching channels.

  "It's sexy."

  Another new channel. "It's stupid. Door-e-ann is the name of a great-grandmother."

  "Or a famous male stripper I can ply with singles."

  Yet another new channel, this one a skin flick, filling the room with sounds of heavy breathing, rustling sheets and whining mattress springs, making her pulse jump and her insides go liquid.

  "Have you seen this one?" he asked.

  "No. Tell me about it."

  He set the remote aside, traced his fingers up and down her arm as she tried not to stare at the sea of naked flesh. "The plot is super complicated. You'll have to watch closely."

  "I can see how insert tab A into slot B would confuse you," she muttered. Dang him! Her pulse jumped faster. Did he want her to attack him?

  Realization settled. He did. He 100 percent, no-doubt-about-it wanted her to attack him. If he could get her to make the first move, he would feel he had permission to make one right back. How devious.

  I will outlast him. She swiped the remote and switched off the TV. "Let's play a game."

  "Good idea." He toyed with the ends of her hair. "I know how much you like to imagine yourself as other people. The stripper, for instance."

  "You can stop right there. I am not stripping for you."

  "As if I don't know that. I'm suggesting a role-play. You're a stripper who's just fallen off the pole. I'm a doctor, and I need to give you a very thorough exam to ensure you're able to return to work tomorrow."

  Her whoremones cheered. But self-preservation won out. Most girls would be offended by his proposal.

  She smacked him in the chest, considered performing a titty-twister, but resisted. "I'll save that game for my new boyfriend, thanks."

  His lips pursed. "Fine. Let's play the quiet game."

  "I lose. Let's talk. Daniel Porter is back from his military tour, and he's superhot." Both statements were true; she simply left out the part about Jessie Kay going on a date with him. "He lives in Strawberry Valley. Maybe I should call him instead of meeting your friend Dorian."

  Beck clamped the back of her neck in a hard clasp before releasing her. "I'v
e seen Daniel around town, and I'm pretty sure I heard a rumor he stole a doughnut from Strawberry Valley Community Church."

  "Wouldn't that make him perfect for me, considering I'm a reformed pie thief? Anyway, the church gives doughnuts away for free."

  "I still don't trust him. I'll look into him, but until then, I don't want you anywhere near him."

  Protesting too much, baby? "I hate to break it to you, Mr. Ockley, but you aren't the boss of me."

  "Actually, Miss Glass, I am. You work for me. Basically, I own your soul."

  She gave him another smack in the chest. "I mean you're not the boss of my personal life."

  "How dare you." He caught her wrist and, with a firm tug, pulled her across his body and tickled her under her arms. "I'm the boss of your personal life. Say it."

  "No," she managed as she laughed uncontrollably. "Never!"

  "Say it."

  "Stop...stop...please stop." She flung herself to the other side of the bed, but he just followed her over, the tickling more intense. "I'm going to pee my pants!"

  "That will be embarrassing for you. What are the magic words?"

  "You're...you're in charge..."

  The tickling instantly stopped. "Of?"

  Harlow's chest heaved, and she struggled to catch her breath. "You're in charge of...of..." When finally she felt capable of movement, she dived to the floor, calling, "You're in charge of nothing!"

  A mock growl left him, and he stood. "You'll pay for that, dumpling."

  She scrambled to her feet and backed away from him. Struggling not to laugh all over again, she held out her hands to ward him off, but he just kept coming. From the corner of her eye, she spotted the second pie. The apple. The one he hadn't yet tasted.

  She swiped it up, saying, "Come any closer and the pie gets trashed!"

  Abject horror shone from his face. "That's taking things too far, Harlow Glass. Too far!"

  "You're right, you're right. I'm sorry." Gently she returned the pie to the counter, blew it an apology kiss, and then used her hands to form the letter T. "Time out."

  He crossed his arms over his chest. "You can't call a time out, not in matters of love and war."

  "Shows what you know. I just did." She walked to the fridge, thought for a moment, and grabbed two of Beck's beers, popping the tops and turning to face him. "Time in. Come any closer, and the beers get trashed."

  He barked out a laugh, but quickly blanked his features. "Not my favorite beers," he said, rubbing his chin with two fingers. "Anything but my favorite beers... But I just can't seem to stay away from you." One step, two...he approached her.

  "I'll do it. I'll pour them out." She held them over the sink.

  "Do it, and things will get ugly. I won't be responsible for my actions."

  "Oh, yeah?" She placed her thumb over the tops, shook the bottles and, as his eyes widened, sprayed him with the exploding liquid.

  When the fizz ran out, he licked the drops from his mouth. "Well, now," he said, his tone even. "I guess things are gonna get ugly." And then he advanced.

  He easily confiscated the beers and repeated her actions, shaking them and spraying her with what remained. Laughing hysterically, Harlow tried to escape. He merely backed her into a corner, dropped the bottles and held her in place with one hand while switching on the sink faucet with the other. He doused her from head to toe with water, and after she'd screamed and laughed in outrage, he stepped back to study his handiwork, nodding with satisfaction.

  When he focused on her breasts, his satisfaction dovetailed into white-hot desire. "Your nipples are hard." Husky voice, a little slurred, as if the beer had gone to his head.

  Her amusement died, and she began to pant. "Look away."

  "I can't." He planted his palms on the cabinets beside her temples, caging her in. Counter behind her, aroused male in front of her. "Say yes, and I'll lick you clean from head to toe."

  Her mouth went dry, and her knees shook. Yes, yes, a thousand times yes. A moment of pleasure awaited her...but only a moment.

  He'd just set her up with another man; she had to resist him. "No," she whispered. "My date..."

  Fury clouded his eyes before he spun away from her. "Your date. Right."

  "You did this, Beck. You. No one else."

  "You should thank me. He's Mr. Perfect. Everything I'm not."

  "What does that mean?"

  "Doesn't mean a damn thing."

  Feeling sad for him--for them--she sighed and said, "I think that's the problem. It never does with you."

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  BECK PEERED UP at the ceiling of his bedroom, morning light seeping through the crack in the window curtains. He'd spent the night tossing and turning, missing the feel of Harlow in his arms.

  After they'd cleaned the RV, he'd returned to the farmhouse to shower and change. The need to go back, to make things right with her, had been strong, but he'd somehow resisted. The girl was turning him inside out--which was the very reason he had to continue on this current path.

  Except, tired and grumpy, he thought, What the hell? He brushed his teeth, changed and made his way to the RV. Since she had no problem using her key to invade his house, he had no problem using his key to invade hers. He quietly made his way inside and found her in the bed. She lay curled on her side, her face toward his, a beam of light spotlighting her, turning her into the real Sleeping Beauty. He reached for her, caught himself just before contact and swallowed a curse.

  He gathered everything he needed to cook his famous morning-after breakfast, and as the bacon began to sizzle, she sat up like a zombie rising from the grave. At his laugh, her eyes snapped open.

  Utterly adorable--and damn it, he had to look away. His body was strung tighter than a bow. Any more pressure and he would snap.

  "Beck?"

  "The one and only."

  "What are you doing here?"

  "Cooking. I hope you're hungry, princess."

  "For bacon? Always. But I'd rather have you," she grumbled.

  He had to grip the counter to remain in place. "Your date is tonight, remember?"

  "What!" she gasped out. "How could I remember when you never told me? So soon?"

  "Why not?" The longer he put it off, the crazier it would make him.

  "Just... Screw you." The patter of footsteps. The slam of the bathroom door.

  "Not a morning person," he called. "Got it."

  She emerged as he finished loading two plates with eggs, bacon of course, hash browns, pancakes and more bacon. They sat across from each other at the small table, and he pushed her plate in front of her.

  "Well, well," she said. "I didn't sleep with you, but I get the blow-off breakfast anyway. Is it my birthday?"

  "Technically, you have slept with me. Though I'm not sure why I keep coming back. I had to spend that night listening to you snore--"

  "I do not snore!"

  "Honey, you sound like a freight train."

  "You are such a liar." She threw a fork at him. "Tell me you're a liar!"

  "And actually become a liar? No. You're welcome, by the way. For my exalted presence and the breakfast. When is your birthday, anyway?"

  "December third."

  "That's coming in fast."

  She shrugged before admitting softly, "It'll be my first birthday without my mom."

  Hello, ache. I missed you. "Well, it'll be your first birthday with me, you lucky girl, and I hereby vow to make it the best one of your life."

  Looking more vulnerable by the second, she said, "Just how are you going to do that?"

  He grinned slowly. "Are you thinking naughty thoughts, Miss Glass? Wanting me to give you something personal?"

  "Oh, shut up and let me eat," she said, grabbing another fork.

  "Uh, uh, uh." He snatched the plate away from her. "Not until you tell me what you want for your birthday."

  "Gimme that food before you get stabbed."

  "Tell me."

  "A wedding ring. How about that?"
>
  Brat. "I'd be willing to give you a practice wedding night." He set the food in front of her, saying in falsetto, "'Thank you, Beck. You look so handsome this morning, Beck.'"

  Harlow dug into her food, ignoring him.

  "'Why, Beck Joseph Ockley,'" he continued in his impression of her, "'you always have the best ideas.'"

  Harlow glanced up. "Your middle name is Joseph?"

  "Yep. What's yours?"

  "Adrianne."

  He'd had a forkful of eggs on the way to his mouth, paused, then slowly lowered the utensil. "Did you say... Adrianne?"

  "Yes." She chomped into a piece of bacon. "Why?"

  "Well, I had no idea your initials were HAG."

  Horrorified, she gasped out, "Don't you dare call me hag."

  He smirked at her. Was there any woman more adorable?

  Dorian would go crazy for her.

  Good humor suddenly gone, Beck attacked his food with a vengeance. When he finished, he felt sick, but he stood, carried his plate to the sink.

  Without looking at her, he said, "Your date will be here at seven. Be ready."

  "Don't worry, I will. And I'll wear something sexy. One of the racier dresses you gave me."

  He barely contained his scowl. "One of the immodest ones you refuse to wear for me?"

  "Definitely."

  "Great." Either she was more confident now, or she simply hoped to torture Beck. "I'll wear a suit."

  "As my bodyguard, it'd be more appropriate for you to wear camo."

  "Hag, it won't matter what I'm wearing. If I decide to take out your date, he'll never see me coming."

  *

  AFTER BECK TOOK OFF, Harlow called for reinforcements. To her surprise and delight, Brook Lynn and Jessie Kay showed up at five to help her get ready for her three-person date-slash-torture session.

  "By the time we're done with you," Jessie Kay said, "Beck is gonna wish he'd lost his penis in a tragic bull-riding accident."

  "Let's hope." Like a harem girl within the pages of a romance novel, Harlow was buffed, waxed and oiled, her hair curled and coiffed. Despite her earlier bravado, she pulled a cashmere sweater over the revealing sheath dress she selected, hiding her scars.

  When the girls finished with her, she twirled in front of the full-length mirror she'd had installed in the bedroom, pleased with how she'd turned out. The icy color of the dress brought out the blue in her eyes, and even her hair. Three healthy meals a day had added a natural rosy tint to her skin and blessed her with the feminine curves she'd always envied in others.