by Marina Adair
She looked at the bright, whimsical, summer-loving theme and then thought about the deep masculine undertones of the photo shoots. “It really makes a statement, if that’s what you mean.”
“Statement?” Chantel laughed. “Those images were a visual orgasm. They were raw, erotic, captivating, a feminine take on male sexuality. I had to open a bottle of wine while looking at them. Your branding for the line is light-years ahead of what our marketing team came up with.”
“It is?” Harper did her best not to giggle, but it was hard. That tingling she’d been feeling all week spread to encompass her entire body.
“Lulu Rous agrees. She said the concept was inspired.”
Harper nearly passed out. Lulu Rous was the founder and artistic genius behind Lulu Allure. She was one of the most creative minds in lingerie, and she thought Harper’s ideas were inspired?
“Thank you,” Harper said, sure she was gushing, but she didn’t care. “I had amazing designs to work with and a subject who is a natural in front of the camera.”
Adam was a natural at everything, it seemed. Modeling, cooking, firefighting . . . sex. He was a real sex ninja—and the idea of sparring with him again was tempting. The thought of doing more with him was dangerous, but dangerous had never seemed so alluring.
“That might be, but your style is in every photo you sent, and the concept sets them apart. It’s so refreshing to see a real man, the kind whose muscles come from hard work and not the gym. I am so tired of these metro-sexual models who know more about fashion than me.”
Harper smothered a laugh, because that was exactly what Adam had said. “I wanted to capture the kind of magnetism a guy puts off after a hard day’s work. Then shoot him in his element to show that swagger is earned, not bought off a rack.”
“‘Swagger is earned, not off the rack,’” Chantel said slowly, as if she was writing it down. “I can’t wait to see the final mockups. And your window display is probably as edgy as your photos.”
“I can send some pictures of the window when it’s done.” Which, based on Harper’s mental calculations of just how long it would take to redo the entire display to match the mood of the photos while putting together the online catalog, helping out with Beat the Heat, and doing her day job, would be Friday night. That was, if she skipped all meals and learned how to sleep standing up.
“Great. If they’re anything like these, Lulu will flip. I can just see the taglines you used on these images. Real Men Work. Real Men Sweat. My favorite is Real Men Wear Swagger. Brilliant.” Chantel paused, and Harper could hear her thinking through the phone. “Wait. I have a better idea. What if we came to you?”
“Here?”
“Photos can be underwhelming, so this way nothing can be lost in translation. Seeing the whole concept, how the store, the new display, the campaign, and Swagger all work together to create a singular vision would be helpful.”
Harper looked inside past the three bobbleheads, to the girdles on the floor, the boxes of new sleepwear still needing to be shelved, and felt the panic settle around her neck. “Ah, when were you thinking?”
“We’re launching the line on National Underwear Day, so what if we came the day before? A little prerelease where I can bring Lulu and the entire team, and if it goes well we can wrap this up before the launch.” Chantel’s voice went serious.
“If you like what you see, then you would offer us the same territory, same exclusive terms?” Harper asked, unable to mask the excitement in her voice. This would change everything for her grandmother. It would also change things for Harper. Just a few weeks working on this project and already look how much her life had changed.
How much she had changed.
“What I experienced when I was there changed my mind about you and the Boulder Holder. I know it will change Lulu’s. She’s looking for a reason to say yes to you, Harper. So am I. Your grandma was one of our first retailers.”
“The first. And would Lulu really want to celebrate her prelaunch here?” Harper asked, because in-person didn’t seem to be her forte when it came to people between the ages of eighteen and fifty-five. The idea of negotiating with a roomful of runway-ready trendsetters and executives made her palms sweat.
“Absolutely,” Chantel said with so much confidence that Harper felt her own lift. “I just got word that Lulu will be flying out for the launch and wanted a work retreat away from the office with the team to finalize things. Wine country is sexy, romantic, enticing, and the perfect place to get in the right mindset. Plus, it’s the perfect timing to showcase the new, beautiful, fresh face of the Boulder Holder.”
Any concerns Harper had vanished. Meeting Lulu was the next logical step, and she had no need to be worried. Making friends was what Harper did. It was how she’d survived eight different schools before the third grade. Sure, she was quirky and sometimes a bit awkward, but she was real, knew how to listen, and, most importantly, she had heart.
Lots of it.
Obviously, that was what Chantel saw in her. It was why she was giving her a shot to prove herself. And Harper wouldn’t let her down. She was going to make that shop and display come to life. She was going to take her concept, which she’d dubbed real women want real men, to the next level, and make sure Lulu saw that same potential and determination as Chantel.
“And what a face,” Chantel said, her voice going breathy. “One wink from Adam and I wouldn’t be surprised if Lulu agreed on the spot. Oops, that’s the other line, I have to go. Have Adam wear plum—it’s Lulu’s favorite color and the accent for Swagger.”
Thrilled at the idea of spending more time with Adam, and terrified of pulling off their ruse for even longer, she said, “You bet. We’ll see you soon.”
“I don’t care how big your banana is, that dipstick is not welcome anywhere near my booth or my houses,” Nora Kincaid said to Ida Beamon, all piss and vinegar, jabbing her cane toward her handcrafted mailboxes that resembled miniature Victorian houses, and nearly poking out Adam’s left eye. Adam managed to dodge it and took in the remaining chaos at the registration table.
“My dipped bananas are the crowd favorite. Grabbing one on the way into the fair is tradition for families all around town,” Ida argued, pointing to the TOWN FAVORITE star on her I TAKE MINE DOUBLE-DIPPED AND WITH NUTS shirt. “Veteran vendors get first dibs on last year’s booth. Last year I had booth one, like I had it the thirty years before. And just because some bonehead didn’t consult the map doesn’t mean you get to run me out of my booth.”
“The hell it doesn’t,” Nora said, raising her cane to smack-down level. “I was here early so I could get in line first, then I turned in my form. First!” She shot up a finger, then pointed a more appropriate one at McGuire. “Where that bonehead there assigned me booth one.”
Adam grabbed the cane before it struck bone, and when someone lobbed a chocolate-dipped banana at the registration table, he put himself between the blustering old biddies. After a few kicks to the shin, an elbow in the ribs, and someone goosing him from the sidelines, he knew he had to change tactics—and fast.
A mob of ladies swarmed the registration table, demanding to see if they still had their promised street-facing booth.
Not just ladies—angry old biddies with a bone to pick. It was as though every quilter, crafter, and banana-on-a-stick master, from the dawn of time until the present day, had been promised a street-facing booth. Adam felt genuine fear take over.
“One more elbow flies and I will give the entire front row of booths to the Gardening and Flower Club.”
A collective gasp came from the crowd, but the elbows lowered and everyone took a step back. Everyone, except Ms. Moberly, the town’s librarian. She stepped forward and looked over the rim of her glasses at Adam in a move that was pure velvet and steel, and had silenced rowdy kids for over four decades.
“Well, that would make for some interesting talks at home,” she said. “Since the garden club is doing a presentation on orchid pollination, th
ey will be selling their giant white asparagus by the bunches.”
“So?” Adam said, pinching the bridge of his nose, not making sense of any of it.
“This year’s crop has been quite the talk. It’s bigger than normal and quite impressive with its thick stalks and bulbous crowns,” Ida added, the if you know what I mean clear in her voice.
“Oh geez,” Adam said, holding his hand up.
Ms. Moberly pushed her glasses farther up her nose, and suddenly Adam felt as if he were twelve again, slipping The Joy of Sex in his backpack. “Putting the bananas and asparagus together would negatively influence the topics for the Build Your Own Book project I have planned.”
“Like her dipped bananas and melons won’t give Dick and Jane a whole new spin,” Nora argued. “Which is why my wholesome mailboxes will be street facing.”
“I’m selling my apple pie by the slice,” someone else said. “It doesn’t get more wholesome than apple pie.”
“Well, that young man there promised me booth one,” Nora said, pointing to McGuire again, as though there would be no further argument.
McGuire smiled. Ida did not. Neither did Peggy Lovett, owner of the Paws and Claws Day Spa.
“Well, the one with the tight tush promised it to me,” Peggy said, looking right at Seth. “I’m teaching people about proper summer safety to keep their animals cool, and selling my Beat the Heat–inspired doggie couture. I called my supplier and ordered extra hat fans this year after I found out I was in booth one.”
“Well, as I’ve said, I’ve been setting up in booth one since the first year of this event, and as a veteran vendor I have dibs!” Ida flapped her form in the air.
A wave of frenzy took over the crowd as women started pushing forward to be next in line. Seth and McGuire barricaded themselves behind the table.
Shaking his head at his first responders, Adam stepped forward. “Settle down.”
When that didn’t work he let out an ear-piercing whistle that had people zipping their lips. Then he thought about Harper’s lips, and wished he’d made time to grab a quick kiss before starting his day. Because he knew that quick kiss would turn into more if he allowed it. And instead of playing mediator to a bunch of grandmas, he could be wrapped around Harper, playing hide the banana. “How many people were promised a street-facing booth?”
Nearly every hand went up. Which was impossible. There were ten street-facing booths and at least twenty women claiming them. “Keep your hand in the air if Seth here promised you one of the ten street-facing booths.” Half of the hands remained. “Now, if it was McGuire you spoke with . . .” The other half went up.
Adam glanced back at his men, who were standing behind separate tables, with separate plot maps, and looking at the ground like two kids caught with their hands down their pants.
“I didn’t know Freshman over there was giving out the same booth numbers,” McGuire said, as if it were all Seth’s fault.
Adam sighed, long and hard, because Ida was right. He was surrounded by boneheads. Of course, he could be a card-carrying member, considering he’d been the one to make the executive decision to place Seth and McGuire in charge of booth registration. He’d also chosen to spend that past hour watching Harper flutter around town again instead of keeping watch over his team.
First, because Harper was a hell of a lot more fun to look at. But mostly, being under someone’s thumb never helped Adam any. And he didn’t think it would help these two.
When he was younger, and an FNG himself, being under someone’s thumb only made him squirm. It wasn’t until Roman let him screw up enough to learn, but not enough to get singed, that he became the firefighter he was today.
He figured that Seth and McGuire needed some direction, maybe a little example of how to manage a situation, but he didn’t think they need their fucking hands held.
“Freshman or not, he is your teammate, McGuire, and you, as the senior member, should have had his back,” Adam said, wondering why he sounded like his old man.
“I’ll remember that, sir.” McGuire gave a single, tense nod. Translation: order received and understood, now go fuck yourself.
Adam opened his mouth to tell McGuire he was already doing a good enough job of it, when something hit him. What his men needed was a positive example, the guy who Harper swore she saw when she looked at him. The shit of it was, he needed that guy right then too.
Adam placed a hand on McGuire’s shoulder and leaned in so only the two of them were privy to the conversation. “I know you don’t want to be here, man. I don’t blame you, this is a shit assignment, but it’s important to the town and the department, which was why I requested you.” McGuire’s shoulders lifted at the praise. “You have a lot of expertise to share, expertise that I think this event and Seth can benefit from. He needs to be shown how things work, and I am counting on you to make sure there’s open communication among the crew. That he fits in. Can you do that?”
McGuire’s chest puffed out about four thousand feet and he smiled. “Yes, sir.”
Adam clapped him on the shoulder, then turned to the crowd and plastered on that Baudouin smile women loved so much. “I apologize about the mix-up. Unfortunately, we have ten street-facing booths and twenty of you claiming them.”
“Too bad, those booths are rightfully owned by ten veteran vendors,” Ida hollered.
“I’ve been at booth seven since sixty-eight,” someone in the back yelled. “And now those yahoos from the yoga studio are claiming it’s theirs!”
“Sixty-eight sounds like it’s time you gave someone else a shot!”
All at once, everyone began shouting. It started with locations versus sales, quickly moved to how smooth last year went, and took an ugly turn at “If I don’t get my booth, I want a refund!” Which meant the event would fail. Under his direction.
No booths meant no booth fees—and no Back-to-School Packs.
Adam counted at least seven women heading for the parking lot, seven registration fees he’d have to reimburse—and seven families who might not participate in the day’s events. Right then, he knew he couldn’t charm his way out of this.
Time to lead then.
“Hang on,” he said, picking up the Beat the Heat official binder off the table. He held it high in the air so everyone could lock their beady eyes on it. “Now, these guys here volunteered—on their own time, I’d like to add—to help make this community event a hit. For everyone. Not just a few booths.”
He paused to eye the most vocal protestors in the crowd and locked on until they knew he was good and done. “Being that this is their first year not only planning Beat the Heat but attending it, I was expecting a bit more help from you ladies. More of that St. Helena neighborliness you’re all so fond of bragging about.”
People stopped walking and a few of them even had the decency to look ashamed.
“In the past, we have always allocated spaces based on history with the event. People get the chance to register for the same booth every year, and only when someone forfeits their space does it go to someone else. Correct?”
That got a few heads to nod.
Adam clapped his hands. “Great. Then I need you to form a single-file line in order of your booth number from last year. Ida will take the front spot, since she and her bananas have been booth one since before I was born. And if someone is not present, or their form is not already on file stating they wanted to renew their spot, then it will go to the next person in line. Understood?”
There were a few grumbles, but people started lining up.
“What about my mailboxes?” Nora asked. “Do I get stuck in no-man’s land because she’s been hogging the same spot for all these years? I’ve lived here just as long as she has, but only started selling my wares after God spoke to me in the form of a naked statue of a no-good two-timer. I helped lop off his pecker, then got busy building my business. Should I be penalized for that?”
“You’re not being penalized for anything,” Peggy
said. “But Ida here has put her heart and soul into making those dipped bananas the Beat the Heat town tradition. It wouldn’t be right to take that from her either.”
“That’s why it’s up to Ida,” Adam said, looking Ida right in the eye. “If she wants to give up her booth or switch spaces, that’s up to her. That’s how the rules have been for years, so as the current tenant of booth one, it’s her call.”
“I wouldn’t mind sharing,” a sweet-as-sin voice said from the back. Adam watched as Harper made her way forward. She had on a flowy sundress, sexy heels, and that smile. “I’m not street facing, but the Fashion Flower’s face-painting booth will be stationed right next to the stage, which is a great location. Most of my kids’ moms do yoga at Get Bent, so our customers would cross over.”
“Thank you,” the owner of Get Bent said. “That would be great. I always get lost in the back, and people don’t find their way to my fruit smoothies until dark, and then who wants a cold treat?”
“That would take all the fun out of the event,” Harper said, releasing that smile on Ida. “Don’t you think?”
All eyes went to Ida, who was glaring back at Harper. Peggy had moved in too and was practically hovering over the other woman, giving her a reprimanding eye.
Not Harper. She didn’t crowd, didn’t badger, didn’t even raise her voice. But she also didn’t give the older woman an out. Just flashed some of that warm welcome and understanding she was so good at and waited, as if confident that with time and support Ida would reach deep and find her best behavior.
Ida took in a deep breath and began shaking her head vigorously, several times in fact, before letting out a disgruntled huff. “Fine.” She turned to Nora. “If you’d like, you can set your mailboxes up in the grass space of my tent. I never use that area.”
“I’m not asking for a handout,” Nora said.
“I’m not offering one. You want to share the booth, you pay for it. Ow!” Ida jerked her head toward Peggy and rubbed her foot. Peggy just smiled on.