by Marina Adair
“Pole dancing?” Adam felt the panic rise up. He knew Baby had found a new job, he just didn’t know what it was. Sweat beaded his brow and his right eye twitched with disbelief. “Please tell me that isn’t some fancy wine-country talk for stripping.”
Could this get any worse?
“Lucky for you, pole dancing is the number one way to stay in shape for the ladies of St. Helena,” Emerson said. “The senior ladies. Baby teaches classes at a dance school down the street. Unlucky for you is you’re still out a chef.”
Knowing he needed to make this right, Adam stepped back. “If I make things right with Harper, can I tell Chief Lowen you are on board?”
“Only because I’m marrying your brother and I don’t want it to be weird at the wedding. And if I didn’t pull out the fire extinguisher when your career was going down in a ball of flames, it would make it weird,” she said. “But if Harper isn’t cool with it, then you are SOL.”
“Not a problem.” He knew exactly how to sweet-talk a woman. “Now how about one of your famous breakfast burritos to go?”
This time the partition shut and locked, almost drowning out the sound of Adam’s stomach growling. Thankful he still had his nuts intact, and that Emerson’s chilly personality hadn’t frozen them off, he made his way across Main Street toward Parties to Go-Go. He needed to talk to Harper, but first he had a party planner to secure.
Charm amped to full, he pushed through the doors and was hit by the scent of latex balloons, varnish, and lavender candles.
Megan stood on a step stool hanging brightly colored lanterns from the ceiling. She wore a crop top that crept higher with every lantern hung, painted-on jeans, and a yoga-sculpted ass that promised to clear his mind of all things sunshine.
The door closed behind him, the bells jingling in his wake. At this, Megan attached the last lantern and turned to face him, a welcoming smile on her face. Recognition lit her eyes and her smile grew—uncomfortably big.
“Adam,” she said, hopping down off the step stool and swaying her way toward him. “What are you doing here?”
“You said I should call.” He leaned a hip against the counter. “Anytime, I believe was your phrasing, but then I couldn’t have brought you this.” He held up her latte. “It’s from next door.”
“That is so sweet.” She leaned over to sniff the steam. And groaned in ecstasy. “Fifty Shades of Chocolate? My favorite.”
“I know,” he said, kicking that Baudouin grin up a few notches. “Which is why I made it a large.”
She didn’t say thank you, didn’t acknowledge that anytime worked in today’s agenda, didn’t reach for the cup—or him. Instead she sat poised behind the counter. And that weird vibe Emerson was giving off was in full effect here too.
“So what can I do for you?” Although there was genuine warmth to her voice, there wasn’t the usual heat-laced undertones he was used to with women.
“I’m looking to throw a party and am in need of a partner.”
“We already had our party,” she reminded him sweetly, and images of New Year’s popped into his mind.
“That was more of a pre-party,” he clarified. “But I was hoping you could help me with this.” He set both cups on the counter and held up the binder.
“Beat the Heat isn’t just a party, it’s the party of the summer,” she said, taking the binder.
Every page she flipped relieved some of the weight Adam had been carrying. He’d flipped through those same pages over a dozen times and was no closer to figuring out how to plan something of this magnitude than when Roman had drafted him. But Megan, flirty and sexy Megan, looked as if she understood everything and knew exactly what steps needed to be taken.
“Are you planning it?”
“Long story short, yeah,” he sighed. “And I need your help.”
“I helped plan Beat the Heat a few years back, when I was first getting started, and gained a lot of new clients from it.”
He rested his elbows on the counter, slid the latte a little closer. “Think of how much more you’ll gain planning it with me.”
He winked.
She looked at the cup as though it were common drip from the convenience store.
Adam tapped his cup to hers and gifted her with his best Mr. July grin—and waited.
It took longer than expected, but he knew the second he had her. Two cute pink spots appeared on her cheeks and she placed her hand around the cup, batting those long lashes his way. Then she—slid it back toward him?
“This is weird, right?” she said in a hushed tone. “The coffee, you here, wanting to plan this event with me?”
“I don’t think so,” Adam said, not sure if she was mad that he hadn’t taken her up on her anytime offer sooner. Or maybe something in the air was making women weird-sensitive. “It’s great exposure for you, and you would be helping me out big-time. That’s what friends do, right?”
She looked around the store, and even though it was empty she lowered her voice. “We’re more of friends waiting for something to happen.”
“Is that a problem?” When she looked as if, yeah, it was a big freaking problem, he changed tactics. “This is a real job offer, Megan. One that comes with a paycheck. Not a big one—it’s probably what you received last time—but a legit check.”
“I want to help you out. I do. But you know how people talk in this town.” She rolled her eyes, then went serious. Dead serious. “I mean, that new pole dancing teacher just wore your jacket to class and all the biddies at the studio were sending her the stink eye. Not that I ever would have shipped you two.”
“Shipped?” he asked, because obviously this was one of those Mars versus Venus moments—and he didn’t even want to think about that jacket.
“You know ship, short for relationships, couples to get behind,” she said, as if that clarified things. “At first, when I heard whispers about Hadam, I didn’t get it—”
“Hadam?”
“Your ship name,” Megan said, clearly unaware that Adam’s understanding of this conversation was out to sea. “I mean you two are so different. Like never happen in a million years with you being strictly a friends-with-benefits kind of guy. A total BBD,” Megan said, and it didn’t sound like a compliment.
“BBD?”
“Bigger better deal, always looking for the next thing.”
Wow, was that how people saw him? As a guy who was unable to focus on something long enough to see it through to the end? Because if that was the case, then he had a whole lot more to prove than being lieutenant quality.
“And she’s that all around awesome, super sweet, best friend who guys want to marry,” she said, and Adam choked at the last word. “So I, like everyone else by the way, thought there was no way it would work, but then I read on Facebook this morning about the whole ‘Hadam at hello’ and I have to admit”—she reached across the counter and patted his hand, as if he were her gay best friend—“I’m totally Team Hadam.”
“Who the hell is Hadam?”
“Harper”—she held up one hand, then the other—“and Adam.” Then she married her fingers together and smiled. “Hadam.”
Adam felt the floor shift.
“Me and, um—” His windpipe collapsed and choking didn’t even cover the sensation.
“Harper,” Megan said in awe, as if she were talking about unicorns, Mother Teresa, and her favorite sorority sisters all wrapped up in one sunny package. Then she patted his hand. Again. “She is the sweetest. When my brother-in-law walked out, Harper stopped charging my sister for her kids’ art classes until she was back on her feet. She also helped me land my first client when I started working here, and never asked for anything in return. She’s just . . .”
“Awesome?” Adam deadpanned.
“Totally. I can see why you’d fall for her. It doesn’t get BBD than Harper.”
Adam wanted to ask if Harper gave birth to Jesus as well. And what the hell? He hadn’t fallen, and that kiss—although surprisingl
y hot—didn’t constitute a ship name. Not in his world anyway. But Megan wasn’t done.
“And since you and I, um, partied a little . . .” She threw up air quotes around the word and grimaced. Grimaced! “Well, working together now would just be weird, you know?”
No, Adam didn’t know. Because women didn’t grimace when recalling their time with him. And nothing about his parties were ever little. Pre-party or not, he was a closer. A fact he wanted to point out, except Megan was already closing the binder.
“Good luck with Beat the Heat,” she said. “Oh, and you should get your jacket back. Harper’s too sweet to be the crazy jealous type, but people are talking and it’s a total douche move.”
“Douche move?”
Placing the two cups in his hand and the binder under his arm, Megan ushered him to the door. “Tell Harper I said hi!”
The door slammed behind him, leaving Adam with no caterer, no planner, and no one to drink his Fifty Shades of Chocolate.
However, he had a few choice words to tell Harper. The first one was a heartfelt sorry for screwing up her week. The second would be exactly where she could stick all of her sunshine. Adam wasn’t the only one with some explaining to do.
He might have messed with her week, but she’d destroyed his game.
Later that day, Harper moved carefully through the rows of easels, taking the time to study each and every student’s Picasso-inspired self-portrait. Some had crowns, others had capes and laser guns, but all of them told a unique story.
It was why she loved art so much. Almost as much as she loved her pint-sized artists. Each and every one of them touched her heart—even the challenging ones. Especially the challenging ones. They usually had the most important stories to share, but were often overlooked.
Not by Harper. She glanced around the Fashion Flower, at the bright and expressive clothes cheerfully displayed, then to the Budding Artists Gallery that filled the shop’s windows, and a sense of pride welled up.
She understood that every superhero smock worn and finger-painted canvas made was a purposeful statement that her little customers were too young to put into words. It was important that their art was seen and appreciated—that the children felt seen and appreciated.
Harper was well aware of the connection between her job and her personal life. Growing up with an actress for a mother, who was happiest when center stage, and being overshadowed by her had become a way of life. No matter how boldly she behaved or dressed, Harper had never managed to find her own spotlight.
Something she was determined to change.
The shop door opened and in blew a warm gust of summer air—and her second chance. Clay was no longer in the dark suit and tie he’d been wearing when he’d returned home from San Diego a few hours ago. It seemed Dr. GQ had shed his professional attire for something more date-like—dark jeans, blue button-up, and a to-go bag from the Sweet and Savory bistro—too big for a party of one, but not big enough to be leftovers.
“Hey,” she said, walking over to meet him, happy she’d worn her favorite dress. It wasn’t red, but it was a bold teal and bohemian, and it made her butt look amazing. Not that he was looking at her butt right then, but if he did she knew it would look its best.
He smiled and then the most wonderful thing happened. He leaned in and kissed her. Not on the mouth, but on the cheek. A sweet and charming greeting that felt safe and warm—and encouraging.
“Am I interrupting?” Clay asked quietly, taking in the ten sets of eyes curiously aimed in their direction.
“Eyes on your own canvas, I’ll be right back,” Harper said, and after some disappointed grumbling, paintbrushes were moving again. She slipped off her smock that read FLOWER POWER, in case Clay wanted a better view, and ushered him outside. “They should be fine for a few minutes.”
“As long as they know you can see them, you mean,” Clay said, and Harper had to laugh.
“Yup, as soon as I turn my back, paint will fly.”
“If Tommy is doing a craft, I can’t turn my back for even a second without fearing the glue will wind up in his mouth and the house will explode in camo-colored paint bombs.”
“Tommy’s a smart kid with a big imagination, and he’s very talented,” she said, knowing it must be hard to keep up with a kid as high-energy as Tommy. “And you’re a good dad for indulging him.”
“Thanks. Being a single parent wasn’t how I imagined this all going, and this last year has been rough, but I finally feel like I’m getting a handle on things. San Diego got me thinking that I should find a way to carve out some time for myself again. Like you said. Maybe even get back out there and start meeting people like—”
People like me? Harper wanted to ask, because when Clay had returned from his trip earlier that day, she may have only imagined the way he’d looked at her when he’d seen her in his bed watching cartoons, but she wasn’t imagining how he was looking at her now. As if he wanted to kiss her.
But a squeal erupted from inside, and Harper turned to find two students mixing all of the colors into one.
“You’d better handle that.”
“Yeah.” Harper stuck her head in the door. “William. Violet. What are the rules when we use acrylics?”
Both kids stopped to look at her, then their hands went behind their backs. Too bad their brushes were dripping paint all over the floor.
“No mixing,” Violet said innocently.
“Then what are you doing at the supply table?”
“Mixing black paint,” William said. Violet held up her brush and smiled in agreement.
“You both have black paint”—she lifted a brow—“at your easels. Which is where you should be standing.”
“Yes, Miss H,” they said in unison, then moped back to their respective places.
Harper closed the door. “Sorry about that.”
“Not a problem.” Clay laughed, a warm and understanding laugh, and she felt everything inside her go soft. Clay understood kids, understood her job. Being a single dad made him the perfect match for her. Yet she didn’t feel any tingles today. “I came by to say thanks for watching Tommy today. He really had a great time.”
“I did too. Tommy’s a great kid and we had fun.”
“Which is why I wanted to give you this.” He held up the bag and smiled. “I asked around and found out that you have a sweet tooth. And since you’ve been so slammed, I wanted to indulge you a little, for saving my hide.”
“I do like sweets. A lot.”
Blaming the lack of tingles on stress and knowing it was now or never, Harper licked her lips to bring Clay’s attention there, then thought of a sexy scene from a book she’d just read and flicked her hair. Because, according to rule six in creating lasting appeal, feeling sexy makes one appear sexy—and with being covered in finger paint and glitter glue, Harper needed a little help in the allure department.
She wanted Clay to see her as more than a friend who was good with his son. She wanted him to see her as a sexual being who would be good in his bed.
Lowering her voice, she leaned in and rested a hand on his arm, making sure her head was tilted in case he wanted to aim that cheek-kiss somewhere more central. “You know what else I like a lot?”
Clay shook his head.
“When it’s a little dirty?” a voice cut in.
Before Harper could respond, she was spun around and two full lips crashed down on hers. Hard and demanding and with enough irritated male to have her staggering back. Because it wasn’t Clay cashing in on those benefits she was so eager to dole out—it was her very own kissing bandit there to steal more smooches.
Smooches meant for Clay.
Harper pushed back, surprised to discover just how many packs Adam had under his shirt. A twelve-pack for sure.
“What was that?” she demanded, wiping her hands across her lips, painfully aware they were tingling.
Dang misfiring tingles.
“Me, missing my girl,” Adam said, holding up a to-go
bag of his own. He also held the paintbrush that had been holding her curls back, which meant her hair probably looked like an electrocuted Q-tip.
“Your girl?” she asked, a sinking feeling settling in her gut.
“According to Facebook you have some big status change you’re dying to announce.”
Harper felt her hands start to sweat. There was no way he could know she had a favor to ask. A favor she had been putting off asking because she didn’t know what she’d do if he said no. A favor that, if she asked in front of Clay, would make everything awkward.
She looked at Clay’s expression of shock and snorted. After that kiss, awkward would be a welcomed state. “It’s nothing, really.”
“Huh,” Adam said. “Aunt Luce has placed ten-to-one odds that it is a ring-required kind of status change. Which is why I thought I’d drop by and let you know I’m a size fifteen.” He wiggled a brow. “Special order.”
“You wish,” Harper mumbled.
“Ring required?” Clay said, not as horrified as Harper would have liked. In fact, he seemed excited to be chatting with Adam. “I didn’t know that you two—”
“We’re not,” Harper clarified, right as Adam said, “She had me at hello.”
Clay’s eyes bounced between the two of them like he was watching the final set at Wimbledon. Adam’s eyes? They were firmly affixed on Harper’s cleavage.
“One look at her Parisian peek-a-boos and, pow, it was like witnessing a goddess being born.”
“Parisian peek-a-boos?” Clay asked, his brows folded in on themselves.
“You peeked at my Parisian peek-a-boos,” Harper clarified.
Adam grinned, wicked and with purpose—and Harper’s knees wobbled. “I did a lot more than peek.”
“He’s kidding.” When Adam didn’t comment, only twisted one of her loose curls around his finger, she elbowed him in the ribs. “Tell him you’re kidding.”
“No can do, sunshine. Parisian peek-a-boos are powerful stuff,” he said, slinging his arm around Harper’s shoulder. “Plus, some girl was seen wearing my jacket and was nearly mobbed. I can’t imagine what would happen to anyone who spoke out against Hadam.”