Need You for Mine (Heroes of St. Helena) (6 page)

Harper stood in silence, her heart thudding against her sternum as she took in a deep breath. Then ten more to be sure she didn’t look as if she were interested.

Which she so wasn’t.

“Hidden depths my ass,” she mumbled as she watched him drive away. The man was as shallow as a puddle in the summer. Not that this should have surprised her.

St. Helena’s notorious playboy made no apologies, no promises, and no excuses for his frat-boy take on life. Women knew it. Men knew it. The whole town knew it. It was only Harper, and her see-the-good-in-everyone outlook, who had forgotten.

Harper turned to walk into the shop and nearly bumped into Chantel, who had come out to watch Adam parade his ego and engine down Main Street. And she wasn’t alone in the gawking. A half dozen other women remained crowded around the doorway as well, hollering for Adam to demo his hose for their followers on Facebook. Including Clovis.

Ignoring the crowd, the snapping cameras, and her grandma’s catcalls, Harper smoothed down the skirt of her dress and addressed Chantel. “Sorry about that. He was just looking for his jacket.”

“His jacket,” Chantel said loudly enough to be heard in New Zealand. She took in Harper’s newly tossed hair and lips and laughed. “That Honeysuckle must be one hot piece if he’s driving up on that engine just to get a peek.”

“What?” Harper asked, then saw the amused twinkle in Chantel’s eye. “Oh, no, Adam and I were just—”

“Looking for his jacket?” she said again with the laugh. “Look, I have to be honest, I came here to let you know that we’re looking to place our merchandise in stores that are trending, that speak to a younger, edgier woman. Our core customer is bold and driven, a trendsetter with a sensual side who’s dominating the boardroom and looking to dominate the bedroom”—Chantel pointed to the fire engine pulling down Main Street—“with a man like that.”

“Like Adam?”

“Well, not Adam specifically, but tall, built, all-American alpha males who wear testosterone and sex appeal like cologne. The fireman’s hat is a bonus.” Chantel leaned closer. “I shouldn’t be saying this, but Lulu Allure is getting ready to announce a new male line called Swagger. It will complement our new Flirt line for the fall and, unfortunately, with such a limited release and a huge marketing push, we’re looking for boutiques that can not only guarantee sell-through, but also generate buzz within the millennial generation. Which was why I was supposed to tell you that we’re no longer able to have you on as our Bay Area retailer.”

Harper’s heart swelled and hope beaded. “
Supposed
to tell me?” As in she wasn’t going to renegotiate Clovis right out of business?

“I still am.”

“Oh.”

“But . . .” Chantel took Harper by the arm and turned her to face the new display. “If you give your catalog the same fresh and flirty feel as you did with this display and the private party room, then find a way to convince my boss that men like
him
are your clientele, I might be able to convince her to reconsider.”

“How would I do that?”

“You appear to be a multifaceted artist,” Chantel said. “Your grandma showed me the charity calendar you shot with the local first responders.”

“Cuties with Booties?” Harper asked, referring to the charity calendar she’d helped create for her friend Shay. It had local heroes showing off their guns posing with adorable rescue dogs in need to help place them in Napa County.

“Real men, taking on real problems, while looking real hot?” Chantel’s eyes went wide with excitement. “Golden idea, and I heard it went viral.”

It had done more than go viral. Shay’s calendar had turned the men of St. Helena into sex-lebrities. Not to mention, it raised enough money for Shay to open her dream rescue center in town and helped place a record number of strays with their forever families.

The photos had become so popular—and effective—every month Harper shot a new set of hot heroes with homeless animals for Shay’s blog, and the Cuties with Booties calendar was in its third year.

“Getting the guys to volunteer for a good cause with their shirts off is one thing, but posing in underwear?”

“Well, when Adam comes home tonight, make sure you’re serving dinner in nothing but those heels and Honeysuckle. Then when he’s ready to play
find the jacket
, ask him if he’d be willing to do a little modeling of his own. In our underwear.”

Harper looked around at the crowd of ladies who were feigning interest in the new flowers Harper had planted in the window boxes, and lowered her voice. “You only want Adam to model. In skivvies?” Harper could almost see the amused look on Adam’s face when she asked him.

Then her heart sank at the implications and gave a familiar twinge at the idea that she wasn’t sexy enough, her star bright enough, her ideas alluring enough. The sad truth was Chantel thought that Harper, on her own, wasn’t enough. And that made her replaceable.

A role she was tired of being cast in.

Mistaking her irritation for concern, Chantel added, “Nothing formal, just a few shots of your guy in Swagger to use in a mock campaign for social media or a sample catalog layout. Something Boulder Holder could use to promote our line. Oh, can you capture that same rugged, everyday-hero feel like in the calendar, so I could show it to the marketing team?”

The correct answer was no.

No, Adam was not her
guy
. No, she wouldn’t boost his ego by shooting him in his briefs. And no, she definitely did not get a secret thrill at the idea of someone mistaking Adam as her boyfriend.

Unfortunately, there were two things more important than thrills and ego that Harper could never say no to. Ever.

Her grandmother. And a noble cause.

That this was her grandmother’s noble cause was the only reason Harper leaned in and whispered, “As long as it’s informal, I don’t think Adam would have a problem.”

After all, he had offered to help. Right after he’d stolen her spotlight.

“Beat the Heat Festival?” Adam asked, his right eye twitching as he looked down at the list of responsibilities that were outlined in the binder—a three-inch binder filled with color-coded tabs, approved vendors, and a phone tree like it was created before the invention of the Internet and e-mail. “No way. I’m a firefighter, not an event planner.”

“Have you seen the dent?” Captain Roman Brady sat back in his chair, his feet plopped up on the desk, one ankle crossed over the other, looking for all the world as though this wasn’t a big deal. “When Lowen found out it was from a bunch of tampons, he about shit a brick. So when his recommendation was something other than firing you, I agreed. You should be thanking me.”

Adam wanted to punch that smile off Roman’s smug face, but at the station Roman was his superior, and Adam would always honor that. Come Saturday, when they were boxing at the gym, he’d hand him his ass because Beat the Heat wasn’t just a day, it was a destination.

The annual picnic had started out as a laid-back afternoon of fun and games designed to promote fire awareness and prevention. But because it was held in a town that loved its community events, over the years it had morphed into one of the most anticipated weekends of summer. The picnic raised funds for the station’s Back-to-School Pack project, which provided kids with the right shoes, supplies, and books they needed to be successful in school. It was a great pay-it-forward project, allowed firefighters to connect with residents, and was a gigantic headache for the person tasked with its planning.

“I guess all that’s left to say is congratulations, Baudouin. You’re the official go-to guy for all things Beat the Heat.”

“Come on, man.” Adam cupped the bill of his SHFD hat with both hands and pulled it low on his head.

He didn’t want to do this. It was a responsibility usually tasked to someone’s wife or a rookie, not a senior member of the crew. “Give it to Daugherty. His wife loves all that Martha Stewart stuff.”

“Daugherty’s wife is pregnant, which is why we are short a planner. Plus, you’re more connected than Martha and have more game than the entire NBA.” Roman snapped his fingers. “Your family owns half the vines in this county. Hell, just a bottle of your sister’s wine could raffle off for as much as a thousand bucks.”

“I’ll call Frankie about the wine,” he said, knowing that when it came to his baby sister, it could cost him. Big-time. “But I’m not a party planner.”

“You have to have some kind of planner in your phone. Call them.”

A hot blonde with big blue eyes and an even bigger rack popped in his head. “Megan,” Adam said, clapping his hands. “She would be perfect.”

Megan was cute, had a hot little bod, and loved to party—which worked well since she was the senior event planner over at Parties to
Go-Go. She and Adam had done a little flirting on New Year’s Eve,
and a little more after the ball dropped, but she’d been called away for a
party emergency before they could get better acquainted. She had apol
ogized, given him her private number, and told him to call—
anytime
.

Maybe now was that time. A chance to be in “it’s go time” proximity with Megan for three fun-filled weeks was a tempting prospect—a prospect that should have had him smiling. Only instead he heard himself say, “Give the event to Seth and McGuire. They can share the duty and bond or some shit.”

“No can do.” Roman rested his folded hands behind his head. “The caterer is already on board, the date is cleared through the city, and the booth preregistration forms have already gone out. Now we just need someone to oversee the event. And Lowen wants the
someone
who dented his engine. So unless you want me to explain to the chief how you couldn’t have been driving the engine since you weren’t even at the station when the accident happened—”

“Nope.”

This was not how he’d envisioned spending his morning, sitting in the captain’s office, getting reprimanded for a mistake he’d fessed up to but hadn’t committed. Lowen had chewed Adam’s head off in front of his entire crew, threatening disciplinary action in the form of a letter to add to the colorful collection already in his file. And unless the chief was talking about an attaboy letter, which the pulsing vein in his temple had implied no, then it would sink Adam’s chances of lieutenant.

Roman was right—planning some picnic would be a lot easier than finding a new career. The dent was pretty massive, Seth hadn’t taken a step out of line since, and Adam’s file wasn’t going to get any larger. All in all, it had worked out.

“Didn’t expect you would,” Roman said with a smile. “Seth will make a good addition. The kid has good instincts.”

“When he starts thinking with the right head.”

“As the expert in that field, can you let me know when that’s supposed to start? Because I’ve been waiting for that to happen for years.” Roman pushed the screen of his laptop with his foot until it swiveled so Adam could see it. “Take this, for example. After the week-long course Lowen put us through on the appropriate and inappropriate use of social media with regards to the house, some jackass let his girl put this up on Facebook.”

Roman didn’t say anything else. He didn’t have to. Adam could tell, even before he peeked at the photo, that he was the jackass in question. Which made no sense since he was girl-less. Then he looked at the screen, and looked hard.

His stomach did a vertical drop straight to the floor.

On his Facebook timeline, right there for the world to see—okay, so his world of 3,287 friends—was a picture of Baby in heels, a floral-patterned G-string, and . . . his missing jacket.

Not that anyone could tell it was Baby, since the selfie was taken from over her shoulder into the dressing-room mirror. To him, though, the platinum ponytail and neon flower-studded floss were a dead giveaway.

“Ah hell,” Adam said, fishing his phone out of his pocket and swiping the Facebook app. “My jacket. I didn’t let her wear it. I forgot it, and she must have tried it on.” He’d been too distracted by that kiss with Little Miss Sunshine to remember to grab it.

“That’s some fitting,” Roman said, not knowing Adam had missed the show.

“Yeah, I’ll take care of it.” He gave a few more swipes. “And the picture is already down.”

“Make sure it stays down. I would hate for her to post it anywhere else.” Roman dropped his feet to the ground and leaned in. “The last thing you need right now is more of the wrong kind of attention. Especially from Lowen.”

“I know.”

“Do you? Because sometimes I wonder. I mean, I get that you had a rough start with Lowen, made a punk move, and got caught.”
In the utility closet, pants down, with Lowen’s goddaughter
went unsaid. “But you have worked hard to prove yourself.”

Now he had to work hard to overcome his reputation. Many of the stories were pure fiction, and the ones that were true had been embellished over time. Once word had spread about Adam and the chief’s goddaughter, and that he had somehow managed to keep his job, he’d become some mythical, urban legend among firefighters.

Adam wasn’t looking to point fingers or lay blame. He was as much a part of the problem as anyone. He’d never clarified fact from fiction, and he didn’t mind looking like a playboy. Adam was good with women, and they were good to him—because he followed the three A’s to dating: always treat women with respect, always make sure they have a good time, and always,
always
, make sure everyone is on the same page—meaning nothing deeper than a night or two. Which didn’t exactly scream the kind of commitment and leadership Napa County FD was looking for.