by Marina Adair
“The Wrap Before You Tap It safety campaign did seem odd,” McGuire admitted. “But I figured that whether it was a joke or a real request, Cap would think it was funny.”
“He did when I showed it to him as an April Fool’s joke. Off duty. But when you submitted it officially, it somehow bypassed Roman’s desk and went straight up the line,” Adam said.
McGuire pushed his cereal bowl back. “Ah shit, man, Lowen saw it?”
“No.” Thank God. That would have been the final nail in Adam’s career. “His secretary saw it, noticed it was dated April first, and sent it back to Cap to deal with as he pleased.”
“How does Cap want to deal with it?”
“He doesn’t.” Not that Adam blamed him. Roman wanted to clean up another one of Adam’s messes about as much as Adam wanted to mess up. Which was why he mentioned that if Adam wanted to be a lieutenant, then he needed to start thinking like one. His first lesson?
Doling out adequate punishment for submitting a dickheaded request.
“He scrapped the form, agreed to let me talk to you about it, and wanted to offer his congrats to the newest member of the Beat the Heat planning committee.”
“That’s my punishment?” McGuire asked, his eyes dark with dread. “To help plan a stupid picnic with the Fucking New Guy?”
It was actually Adam’s punishment. One he gave himself—and one he would feel every second he was stuck with Seth and McGuire. But working with two dickheads seemed a fitting sentence.
Beneath the pain-in-the-ass pranks and bonehead decisions, McGuire was a natural. All the kid needed was some careful handling and solid direction and he would be able to go the distance. Roman had given Adam that direction, helped him transform from an adrenaline-seeking daredevil to a top-notch firefighter.
Now it was Adam’s turn to pay it forward, and hopefully do some more transforming of his own in the process.
“You and Seth will work together to make sure that all the posters are hung around town and that the Sentinel runs the ads for the event. Plus, you’ll run the engine station, talk to the kids about what being a firefighter means to you, and help a few of them climb the ladder.”
“With Seth?”
Adam pressed his hands flat against the table and leaned in. “You and Seth will be so close when this is over, people will think one of you puckered your lips too hard and swallowed the other. Got it?”
“Yes, sir,” McGuire moaned.
“Good.” Adam straightened. “Now I need to go apologize to a lady about being a dick.”
By the time Adam’s shift ended and he’d made his apologies about the condom prank to the appropriate parties, he was in desperate need of a hot shower, a cold beer, and a solid eighteen hours of sleep in his own bed.
Make that a cold six-pack. In his bed. With a hot woman.
He was SOL on one and two, but only because of option three. A hot woman—one with a camera and a sweet smile who might not have a bed but wanted him in bedtime attire.
Laughing at that ass-backward scenario, he showered at the station, threw on some jeans and a shirt, and made his way up Main Street.
The sun had long since disappeared, so Adam allowed the gaslit lamps to light his way. When he arrived at the Boulder Holder the CLOSED sign was flipped, but the door was unlocked. He let himself inside and breathed in the feminine scent of jasmine and lace.
A light humming came from the back of the store.
Adam followed the sound and discovered Harper in the back room, rifling through a box. Face down and ass up in a pair of cutoff shorts that rode high enough to show the beginning curves of her sweet cheeks—which swayed as she hummed.
Adam felt a small smile lift his lips and his mood.
She had on one of those multicolored tops he favored, maybe tie-dye. It was baggy in nature, cinched in the back by a big bow, and if she thought it made her look more temptress and less art teacher, she was wrong.
He watched her for a few moments, enjoying the show, then cleared his throat when the humming turned into singing “Sexy and I Know It.”
When she didn’t stop singing, or moving that swaying backside, he realized she’d known he was there all along.
“You’re late.” Her voice was muffled through the box, but he was pretty sure she ended the greeting with, “Drop your pants.”
“Well, if that isn’t the best ‘welcome home’ in the history of mankind.” He might be going for upstanding citizen, but he was still a man, and from what he could see of her backside, she was all woman. And right about then, he needed a cute, curvy distraction. “With fair play being what it is, I say the next article to disappear is that top of yours.”
Harper straightened and gifted him with a big smile. Not flirty or overstated. Just real, as though she were happy to see him. And a smile like that, man oh man, it cut through all the BS to ease that twisted ball in his gut that was a tangle of stress. And Adam didn’t know what to do with that—an unusual situation for him.
“I meant, so you can try these on.” She dangled a pair of silk undies in his direction. They were red, tiny, and looked like a thong for superheroes.
“No amount of manscaping will get me in those,” he said. She dropped them in the box and pulled out another pair. Boxers. Pink, pinstriped, and not happening. “Pink clashes with testosterone.”
“After a drink or two, you might change your mind,” she said hopefully, pointing to a bottle of Scotch to be used as a prop poised next to the chair.
“You got another bottle?” he asked, and she shook her head. “Then I promise you I won’t reconsider. No man wants to be seen in those, and no woman wants to see a man in those.”
“More manly underwear. Got it.” With a dainty little huff she dug back in, and after several seconds came up with a pair of boxer briefs. They were kind of manly, not made of silk and, “They’re purple.”
“Seriously?” She dropped her hand to her side. “Okay, what’s wrong?”
He cleared his throat. “Nothing.”
“Then why are you acting all pissy? See, there. I can’t shoot you when you’re pouting.” She cocked her head. “Well, I could shoot you, but it wouldn’t be with my camera.”
“I’m not pouting.” Since bitching about his day or having a heart-to-heart with his girlfriend was firmly on his not in this lifetime list, Adam flashed her the dimples. Double barreled with all the pearly whites showing. It had been called sexy, mesmerizing, endorphin inducing. “Here’s a grin. My way of saying fair is fair, and if I lose the pants, you lose the top.”
“We don’t have enough Scotch, remember?” She narrowed her eyes and studied him, really hard. Until he was afraid she was seeing more than he wanted her to—and he began to sweat. Then she pointed to his lips. “Yup, that smile’s missing the whole let’s get drunk and screw vibe you normally put off, and you’re looking a little soul battered.” Her face softened. “Sure you don’t want to talk about it?”
He shrugged as if he had not a clue as to what she was talking about. But the sweating didn’t stop, because if there was one thing Adam had learned over the past week it was that Harper was a master of the unsaid. She could read body language and translate silence like a professional interrogator. So when she gave a disappointed smile, then bent over to grab a different pair of boxers, he knew she was letting him off the hook.
Which was what he wanted, right? No complications, no confusion, just a whole lot of chemistry mixed with a I’ll rub your back, you rub mine pact.
Only now, he was here and everything felt complicated, and he was more than confused. In fact, his heart was racing and his face felt hot, and—Jesus Christ—he was nervous.
It wasn’t the studio lights, or the too-metro-to-be-manly underwear, or even the elaborate Calvin-Klein-meets-Hugh-Hefner man cave she had created from fabric, a leather chair, and raw talent.
It was the unimpressive shirt, the bare feet, and the genuine concern that had his brain checking out. And that smile. One fla
sh of those teeth and he knew he’d come here tonight needing something. He wasn’t sure what, but Adam didn’t do nervous.
And he sure as hell didn’t do needy.
“I was just wondering if you gave Chantel my measurements,” Adam said, toeing off his boots and bringing this party back to where it should be.
Fun with a side of flirt.
“She sent a few different sizes. I’m sure it will be fine,” she said.
“Size fifteen is usually a special order,” he said.
Her expression went from confused to understanding as she recalled his offhanded remark the other day in front of Clay about ring sizes.
“We’re not using any accessories,” she said, “just pajamas and underwear.” She held up his first outfit again.
He grinned big and bad. “Sunshine, when I said my ring size was a fifteen, I wasn’t talking about my finger.”
Adam didn’t want to talk about what was bothering him.
Noted—and understood. After the day Harper had had, it was probably a good thing. She was still reeling from her accidental matchmaking disaster, so partaking in a kumbaya moment in the middle of her grandma’s shop wasn’t a smart idea. Even if Adam did look as if he could use a real friend.
Only Adam didn’t do real—he did frat-boy-meets-beefcake. Which worked for her since Harper never did the sorority thing, and she wasn’t a big fan of red meat. Plus, they weren’t supposed to be getting to know each other better. Sure, he’d walked in looking sexy and strong and strangely lost—and Harper, being Harper, momentarily forgot the deal—but he wasn’t looking to be found.
And she wasn’t looking to add one more platonic guy to her collection. Only instead of taking a step back, like she should have, she stepped forward and into him, ignoring every warning bell blaring in her head. His face creased with confusion and a vulnerability so genuine that she wrapped her arms around his waist and just held on.
Adam might not want to talk about whatever was bothering him, but it was obvious he needed a hug.
She felt him freeze and everything in that moment stilled, as if the gesture were so foreign he wasn’t sure what to do next. It was a strange reaction for a guy who had canoodled with half the town’s female population.
Harper knew all too well that canoodling and connecting were two vastly different things. Mastering one didn’t mean receiving the other, so she rested her head against his big chest, right over his heart, and waited. Waited for him to give in, to take what she was offering.
Support and understanding.
She felt him let go, release a breath that seemed to go on forever as his body pressed in closer and closer around hers. When he didn’t have anything left, he rested his cheek on the top of her head and locked his hands behind her back.
Neither of them moved. They didn’t speak or think. Just accepted the give and take of energy as it passed between them.
A minute or fifteen might have passed before she realized that her eyes were closed, that his arms were holding on to her as if they were the only things keeping him grounded, and Harper wondered what would happen if she never moved, if she decided to stay right there. In his arms. Forever.
Reminding herself that connection and commitment also weren’t exclusive to each other, she gave a final squeeze and stepped back.
“What was that?” he asked after a long moment, his voice thick and raspy.
“Us not talking about it.” To make sure she didn’t do anything stupid—because hugging was one step away from loving in her world—she turned around to focus on the placement of the leather chair, positioning a glass of Scotch on the arm. “Now, go put those on. I cleared out the first dressing room for you.”
After Adam had texted her he could stop by after closing, she’d spent the evening turning Couture Corner into a studio, knowing it would take her mind off what was going on at the wine bar next door on her date with the doctor—though Liza was the one on it—and the space would work as the perfect backdrop for the shoot. It was sexy, sensual, masculine. Not that Adam needed any help in any of those departments.
He’d walked through the door wearing jeans, a T-shirt, and yesterday’s stubble, and managed to flip every one of Harper’s female switches. The man wore sexy like it was a cologne.
“I’m good.”
Harper looked over her shoulder as Adam fisted his shirt with a single hand. He drew it over his head in a move that was all bad boy and swagger, tossing the shirt to the floor and leaving him in boxers, bare feet, and enough male confidence that Harper forgot all about Liza and Clay flirting right then at Cork’d N Dipped.
In fact, she forgot a lot of things. Like how photographers shouldn’t openly gawk at their subjects. Or why taking a little time for pleasure was bad for business. Heck, she couldn’t even remember how to breathe.
Or why Adam was a bad idea.
Adam was gorgeous. Mind-blowingly so. He had miles of toned muscle and tanned skin that rippled as he moved. His chest was covered with just the right amount of hair, which fell into a vee before disappearing beneath a pair of boxers. They were more boxer briefs, which, like every other uniform he wore, he filled out to perfection.
And that stomach, sweet baby Jesus, those abs looked to be cut from stone—or perhaps they were from lifting ladders or parked cars, or whatever it was firemen did to keep in shape. He rested his hands on his hips, and his six-pack became an eight, rippling down and tightening, then a twelve—
Harper snapped her eyes to his, beautifully blue and twinkling with amusement. “You did that on purpose,” she said.
“Looked like you were waiting for a show.” He flexed harder. Damn, the man was built. A fact she’d accepted the first time he’d posed for her. But this time felt different. More intimate. “Who am I to deny a lady?”
A bead of sweat rolled between her breasts from the heat of the lights. Then again, maybe it was the heat Adam was putting off.
Regardless, it was time to get to work. “I was admiring the new men’s line.”
“I’ve been told I have an impressive line.”
“The lines of the design,” she clarified, and he chuckled. She threw her hands in the air and struggled for a way out. “And the color. It matches your eyes.”
“The shorts are purple. My eyes are blue. And they’re up here, sunshine.”
Harper’s eyes flew to his—again. This time they were lit with humor. “The boxers are merlot, not purple, and everyone knows that merlot complements cobalt blue.”
“Everyone, huh?” Adam stepped into the lights and sat down on the chair. Careful not to knock over the Scotch, he sprawled out, leaning back deeply in the chair, resting his elbows on the arms while making himself right at home on her set.
“My turn, then. Your cheeks are pink, or would that be flushed?” He made the word sound sinful. “And they match your eyes, which are heated and dilating as we speak.” He looked down at his boxers and waggled a brow. “Does that mean the boxers will impress the female board members at Lulu Allure?”
Harper rolled her eyes and then picked up her camera, bringing everything into focus, and took a few shots to make sure the lights synched up.
Good to go, and Adam looking stunning on her LED screen, she snapped several more. His hair was mussed just enough, his stubble cast the perfect shadow, and his tan skin glistened against buttery leather. He didn’t need to be told how to move or how to sit—he was the embodiment of rugged allure. A real GQ’s Sexiest Underwear Model.
A great thing for a successful photo shoot. Not so good for her elevated heart rate.
She tilted the camera slightly, stepping in closer to frame him perfectly, then pushed the button only to stop after one shot because his cobalt-blue pools locked on hers through the lens. And he grinned—one of those full-wattage, flirty grins that was part bad boy and part sex god, and completely heart-stopping.
Harper lowered the camera and looked at the boxers. “You don’t need help impressing females, and you know
it.”
“Life’s too short to be ordinary, sunshine.”
And wasn’t that the worst thing to be? Ordinary.
Harper’s throat tightened and her stomach did a familiar dip down. She’d lived an extraordinary childhood, with an extraordinary mother, traveling from one stage to another—never managing to find her own spotlight.
Every cast became family, every set became home, and every time Harper threw her little self into making it fun, making people happy. Ultimately, the final performance would come, her mother would take a bow, and then it would all disappear. Her family moved on to bigger and better sets, her mother moved on to another role, and Harper felt as if she was always left waiting in the wings. Waiting to be noticed.
An irony that didn’t escape her.
“Like me?”
Adam leaned forward and took the camera, setting it on the arm of the chair. Then he took her hand in his and tugged her closer.
“Not like you,” he said quietly. “Nothing about you is ordinary, Harper.”
Around Adam she didn’t feel ordinary, or overlooked, or as if she were destined to be everyone’s go-to friend. She felt seen—not only as a woman, but as the only woman in the room. And yes, she understood, right then she was the only woman in the room. But the way he watched her and touched her made her feel unique.
Wanted.
“Whoa,” he said, giving her hand a soft squeeze. “Dating 101 states you aren’t supposed to cry when a guy pays you a compliment. You’re supposed to smile and say thanks in that mysterious way that neither confirms nor denies your interest so he’s inclined to buy you a drink in order to solve the mystery.”
She blinked back the forming tears, then bent over and kissed his cheek, the stubble tickling her lips as she whispered, “Thank you.”
“You need to hold your cards a little longer,” he said quietly when she pulled back. “Going in for the kiss with one compliment is too easy, even for me.”
She choked a little on her tears. “It was the perfect compliment and a perfectly disastrous day, so it deserved a kiss.”