by Marina Adair
McGuire was all lean muscle, young ego, and, until Seth had come on a few months ago, the station’s resident FNG. Coincidentally, up until a few months ago Adam had been the station’s resident smart-ass—excelling in ribbing, pranks, and making a party out of twist ties, tinfoil, and downtime. But that was before Cap had told him he was up for review in a few months, before Adam learned that if he played his cards right, a promotion was a possibility.
Even with his colorful past.
“Then explain how I got her digits,” Seth said, waving a piece of binder paper like it was the Holy Grail.
“Dude, you humped bumpers with the Cal State cheerleading team’s car and you only got one girl’s digits?” McGuire asked, dumping enough spaghetti noodles into the colander to feed a small country. “What kind of victory lap is that?”
“It was the dance team,” Seth argued as if that made it all okay. “And it wasn’t a victory lap. Besides, you were the one who sent me out in the first place to get bananas.”
“Is that what she wrote her number on? Your banana?”
The other guys laughed, and Adam could tell that Seth was two verbal jabs away from a swift smack to Will’s head.
Adopting his best don’t mess with me face, Adam strolled all the way into the kitchen.
“McGuire,” Adam said, and all the men looked up. He looked back, cool and assessing. “Remember the call we took where you came across that eight-foot python?”
The smug look cleared from his face, McGuire nodded. “The one in that attic?”
“That’s the one.” Adam’s smile said it was also the one where McGuire had pissed himself, and instead of making a big deal out of it, Adam had kept his mouth shut, because he knew this job was hard. Scary as shit. And sometimes they were bound to act human and screw up. Seth had screwed up dinging the engine, severely enough that his job might be on the line, and McGuire shoving it in his face was bad form.
“Yeah, I remember it.”
“So do I,” Adam said in his best lieutenant voice. “We done here?”
That was all it took. The men straightened, McGuire zipped it and went back to making dinner, while Seth pretended to watch the game.
Adam patted FNG on the shoulder and beckoned him toward the garage. They walked to the truck in question. Not a word was said as Adam circled the engine. Not a breath was taken when he studied the bigger-than-double-Ds dent in the back fender.
“That ding is more than a damn bumper, so spill.” Adam locked gazes. “And I mean everything.”
“Everything?” Seth’s eyes went big and his ears went pink, telling Adam this was going to be a whole lot more complicated than a little fender bender with a pretty girl.
“If I wanted the crib notes I would’ve listened to them over a bowl of chili at Stan’s, not here with a bunch of giggling ladies.”
“Right.” Seth swallowed. “But I’d first like to express just how sorry I am for calling you in on your—”
“The dent, freshman.”
“McGuire sent me on a banana run. He said it was for some dessert he was making, but I know it was his way of reminding me I’m the fucking new guy. So I went, got the bananas, let it roll off my back, then I met this girl in line. A spinner with tits. Real tens too, not the purchased kind,” Seth said, as if retelling his account of coming face-to-face with the chupacabra of women. “She looked at my uniform, started chatting me up, paid for her things, then slipped me her number and left. I got in the truck and was pulling out, when she appeared in my side window and stood out the top of her friend’s sunroof.”
Adam looked at the ceiling because he knew, knew, where this was going.
“Then she lifted her top—no bra and definitely all real—and I don’t know what happened. My foot slipped off the brake. I was in reverse and boom.”
Adam ran a hand down his face. “Please tell me you didn’t hit another car.”
“Worse,” Seth said, sounding defeated. “I hit a crate of tampons.”
“Tampons? Are you shitting me?”
Seth shook his head. “The delivery guy had just taken them off the truck and was going to roll them into the back bay of Picker’s Market.”
Adam wanted to strangle the kid, but he understood that this kind of attention came with the uniform. It was also the kind of attention that took some getting used to. And for a fresh-out-of-school, freckle-faced new guy, it would have been distracting.
“Aw, man,” Seth said. “When the guys find out I hit a crate of tampons and not the girls’ car, I will be the butt of every single joke until I retire.”
At this point, Adam was more concerned about the kid having a career with the department to retire from. Seth was good at his job, feared the right things and nothing else, was a team player, and knew how to take an order. Problem was, when he wasn’t geared up and beating back a flame, Seth could be persuaded into doing just about anything. And when Roman found out what had transpired from his latest screwup, he was going to hit the roof.
Only Adam could talk his way through this with Roman. Explain it in a way that Roman, who was also one of his closest friends, could write off. Because it wasn’t Roman who Adam was worried about pissing off—it was Roman’s boss, Chief Lowen.
The battalion chief had a reputation for scaring off FNGs, which was why the station was short staffed.
Adam had dedicated too many of his personal hours transforming Seth from a death-defying frat boy into the beginnings of an incredible firefighter. He couldn’t lose him to a crate of tampons. Plus, Adam had been that same fearless troublemaker at one time too, getting distracted by a flash of cleavage and making shit decisions that nearly cost him his entire career—and worse. If it hadn’t been for his former captain seeing the potential in Adam and giving him a second chance, he wouldn’t be a fireman, living his dream.
“Here’s how this is going to play out,” Adam said. “I’ll call Roman, tell him I was driving the truck and—”
“No way,” Seth said. “I can’t let you take the fall.”
“As opposed to you getting passed on for the job?” When the kid still looked ready to argue, Adam added, “And McGuire getting written up for giving you the keys to go on a banana run? Not to mention, whoever else knew what was going on and didn’t step in?”
Seth thought about that long and hard, until Adam could see the frown split his brow. And okay, the situation wasn’t quite as dire as Adam was making it out for the other guys, but Seth didn’t need to know that. Once word got out of exactly why Seth had hit the tampon crate, Chief Lowen would rain down on him like Hurricane Katrina.
“So we go with my plan,” Adam said when he heard a car idling out front.
“I don’t like it,” Seth finally said, “but I’ll go with it.”
Adam didn’t like it either. In fact, the second he saw the polished red truck pull into the drive, he was rethinking the plan. The plan sucked. And he needed a new one. A-SAP. One that didn’t involve him, on his day off, dealing with this BS.
Because this hurricane had just turned into a Category 5. It wasn’t Roman behind the wheel of the department vehicle, but Battalion Chief Lowen. A notorious hard-ass who’d spent too many years behind a desk to remember what it was like to be in the field. He upheld the letter of the law, rather than the person’s intent, and based all decisions on potential media coverage.
Adam was so screwed. There was no way even a guy like Lowen could positively spin a fender bender involving a new engine, a tampon crate, and a banana run. Not with the implications about wasting taxpayer dollars on engine repairs when they were already suffering from budget cuts.
To make matters worse, Lowen also had an extreme dislike for Adam.
Partly because Adam lived to walk the line, but mostly because when Adam had been an FNG he’d taken the chief’s goddaughter on the grand tour of the station—ending with a ride around town in the engine—where she’d rung his bell.
“Baudouin. Why am I not surprised?” Lowen
barked, negotiating his spare tire around the steering wheel to get out of the truck and inspect the dent. Then he inspected Adam, who was about to take the blame for a collision he hadn’t caused—while wearing nothing but flip-flops, shorts, and a PLAY HARD tee.
“Chief,” Adam said, smiling. “How’s the family?”
“Still off-limits.”
Mondays had always been Harper’s favorite. There was something about the start of a fresh week, the unlimited possibilities the next seven days held, and the sounds and smells associated with Main Street coming alive. Monday had a rhythm, an ebb and flow of the unexpected and the familiar that brought her comfort.
Residual effects of the unconventional childhood she’d shared with an unconventional mother.
Today was the perfect Monday. The sun was out, the sky was clear, and the zinnias and morning glories filling the wine-barrel planters that lined downtown were in full bloom, painting Main Street with all the colors of summer. Even better, Harper had channeled her inner sexy to try to help her grandmother.
Maybe channeled was too strong a word, but she’d definitely acquired enough intel to fake it.
Harper pulled the “Fast Track to Seduction” article she’d discovered online out of her purse and looked at the first rule. According to the twelve-step article, sexy was a state of mind. So, contrary to popular belief, there was nothing wrong with faking it.
Harper gave herself a stern nod, then put the article back. If she wanted to save her grandma’s shop, then she needed to stop thinking like Suzie Sunshine and fake herself right into the role of a bedroom bombshell. At least until she got through this meeting with Lulu Allure.
And maybe got herself some adult cookies to go with a tall glass of yummy man.
Which was why, instead of wearing one of her go-to farm dresses with floral-patterned tights and Mary Janes, Harper had come to the shop early to dress for sex-cess.
Embracing rules number five, less is always more, and seven, the profound power of red, she’d purchased a body-hugging scarlet number that was sleek, sophisticated, and posed more questions than answers. Then, since sexy was in the accessories, or so she’d heard, she’d slipped on the naughtiest pair of panties in the shop, mile-high heels, and applied just enough makeup to appear flushed.
With one last look in the mirror, she fluffed her hair and hoped it looked more like bed-rumpled waves than corkscrew curls, then strutted out of the dressing room and into the shop. Where she nearly tripped over her feet.
The Boulder Holder, where she’d spent countless hours after work giving it a fresh, new, youthful look—a transformation, really—was packed full of customers. Women of all shapes and sizes—curvy, petite, willowy, and buxom—had turned out in a show of support. The problem was, they were all retired.
There wasn’t an arthritis-free or girdle-less gal among the group. Except for one—the runway-ready thirty-something with shiny black hair and perfect allure who stood at the entryway of the shop, a red journal in hand, frantically taking notes as someone asked where the banana-hammock display had been moved.
“Grandma,” Harper whispered, dashing over to the register, her head pounding each time she watched a customer rifle through the racks like it was the yearly bloomers blowout and not the most important day for the shop. “Why are all these people here? We have the Lulu Allure meeting today.”
“That’s why I called in backup. I figured if the rep saw how packed the store was she’d change her mind. All it took was me mentioning a free banana-hammock with every purchase of twenty dollars or more before noon, and the knitting club cleared out and the girls started lining up.” Clovis took in the crowded store and smiled, big and proud.
Harper took in Clovis with her blue eye shadow, coral lips, and emerald lace bustier she was wearing as a top and groaned.
“We wanted to prove we have a youthful edge. Flirty summer romance, boudoir sexy—that was the plan, remember?” It was a good plan. One that ten minutes ago Harper had been certain would sway the rep’s opinion of the shop.
“Oh, I remember all right. That’s why I told the girls no dentures or orthopedic shoes allowed.” Which explained why Mrs. Sharp was moving her lips like she was a ventriloquist.
“These aren’t girls, they’re grandmas,” Harper pointed out. “And call me crazy, but when I think of Summer of Seduction, saggy breasts and Bengay don’t really come to mind.”
“We might be up there in age, but we are all widow’s peak women,” Clovis chided, clearly offended.
“Widow’s peak women?” Harper asked.
“Women in their seventies who are embracing their sexuality. In fact, WPWs are enjoying the best sex of their lives, and enjoying it three times more often than you and your youngster crowd. Just ask Giles.”
Harper gagged a little. “I’ll take your word for it.”
Giles Rousseau was weathered, pushing eighty, and Clovis’s gentleman friend. They had both stubbornly circled each other for two decades, then last year Giles finally made his move, taking them from foes to frisky in a single night, and now they cohabitated in a quaint cottage off Main Street and co-parented their dog, Jabba.
“Good sex or not—”
“Great sex, dear. There’s a difference.”
It had been so long, Harper wouldn’t know.
“The point is, how am I supposed to present our ideas to the rep when your widow’s peak women are rifling through the merchandise and picking apart the store we worked all last night finishing up?”
Clovis took in the store once again, the swarm of biddies, the picked-over displays, and leaned heavier on her cane, letting loose a deflating sigh. “Oh my, I really blew it, didn’t I?”
Clovis didn’t understand the concept of moderation. Everything she did, she did with gusto—including love. Which was why Harper pulled the older woman into her arms and whispered the same comforting phrase her grandmother had told her a hundred times as a kid: “Anything done from the heart can’t be wrong.” With a final squeeze, she pulled back. And then because she didn’t want to let down the woman who had sacrificed so much to be both a grandmother and a mother, Harper added, “Now you find a way to clear some of the customers out and I’ll go do what I do best.”
Making friends wasn’t Harper’s only superpower. She could also tell a story and captivate an audience through images. Today she was doing both.
Pretending the shop was in tip-top shape, Harper headed toward the window display—and the woman who held the fate of her grandmother’s shop in her hands. Determination pushed her shoulders back, even though nerves had her heart pounding.
“I’m Harper Owens, senior merchandising manager.” Harper stuck out her hand. “You must be from Lulu Allure.”
The woman studied her for a long moment, taking in every inch of Harper’s attire—especially the shoes. She didn’t appear overly impressed, but she also didn’t appear as if she were going to ask for tips on papier-mâché crafts for kids. Harper considered it a win.
“Chantel,” she said, offering Harper a glossy black-and-gray business card that read, CHANTEL LARUE, VP OF SALES AND MARKETING, LULU ALLURE.
Harper swallowed. They hadn’t sent a low-hanging sales rep—they’d sent in the big guns—which had Harper wondering just how bad these contractual changes were going to be.
“It’s so nice to meet you,” Harper said, but her voice got lost in the chatter and shuffle of the customers.
“I believe we had an appointment.” Chantel looked at her watch, then at the bifocals and frosted tips circling the merchandise. “Did I get the time wrong?”
“No, you’re right on time. Mondays are just busy.” Harper extended an arm toward the back of the shop. “Why don’t we head into Couture Corner so we can chat.” And so Chantel could see a room that hadn’t been picked over.
Late last night, right before Harper had finally turned in, she’d had a stroke of genius and turned the back storage space into a private showing room for their more high-
end lines.
The transformation was incredible, Harper thought as they entered the room. It was exactly what the Boulder Holder needed to sway Chantel. Bright, bold, breezy, sexy, and of course highlighting the star of the day—the entire Lulu Allure summer line. A detail that Chantel certainly couldn’t miss.
Neither could she miss the tufted cream silk panels, silver and black accents, and chandelier Harper had salvaged from the garage and spray-painted to appear vintage. One of the secret tools of any good set dresser was the ability to accomplish high-end looks on a low budget. Harper could turn a fish bowl and an IKEA desk light into a realistic Tiffany sconce with only a glue gun, sea glass, and craft paints.
“This is . . . unexpected,” Chantel said, taking a seat, and Harper felt her shoulders lift. Finding sensuality in the unexpected was rule number nine. “It reminds me of this little Parisian lingerie shop I went to last spring. They would bring the customers a cappuccino and croissant while they brought in a selection of their merchandise that was hand-chosen for the customer.”
“That’s what we’re going for, only using selected local wines,” Harper said, grabbing a tray of chocolate-dipped fruit with a flight of Napa Valley wines off the shelf. She placed it on the small table separating the two plush wingback chairs she had dragged down from the attic. “We wanted to create an intimate space that would provide a luxurious and plush environment to make the women feel pampered, and to highlight our specialty lines. Also, pairing the perfect wines with elegant lingerie will encourage customers to slow down and really experience the merchandise.”
Chantel took a glass and lifted it to her lips. “I didn’t get the impression your clientele would be interested in lines like these.”
Harper swallowed down the bitter taste of judgment and smiled. “We get a lot of tourists, bridal parties, bachelorette parties, and groups of girlfriends up for a weekend of wine tasting. Our focus is to become the number one destination for bridal parties and girls’ days out in wine country, and cash in on the twenty- to thirty-something weekend wine tasters.” Harper stood and draped one of Lulu Allure’s biggest sellers over herself, as if she were one of those sexy and sophisticated twenty- to thirty-something weekend wine tasters. “Our new look and the Tempting Tastings parties are going to get us there.”