The Hotter You Burn (5 page)

Pretty? Like calling an ocean a puddle. “She's gorgeous.”

West straightened and grinned. A genuine grin, and it was good to see. The past few weeks had been rough for him, the anniversary of Tessa's death taking a toll. “Are you about to wax poetic about Harlow? Because I don't have bad poetry penciled into my schedule.”

West lived by the clock, and if he had his way, he would die by it, too.

“I wax poetic about nothing,” Beck said. “Except pie. And cake. Maybe cookies in a pinch, but that's only on a case-by-case basis. Anything with raisins should be stuffed in a box and delivered to hell with Return to Sender stamped over the top.”

Jase snickered. “How's this for poetry? ‘Roses are red, violets are blue. Beck wants Harlow, I know this to be true.'”

Beck, in the process of lifting the bottle to his mouth, went still, nearly swept away by a tide of shock. Jase hadn't cracked a joke in damn near forever, and until that moment, Beck hadn't realized how much he'd missed the playful side of his friend.

“Beck, my man,” Jase said, frowning at him. “Don't look at me like I'm some kind of mythical creature. Not after I told you to let go of the past. I have.”

“I know. I'm sorry. I freaking love you, that's all.” Beck set his beer aside and swiped his cue from West. He lined up his own shot...and like a loser, failed to sink a solid. Usually he could win the game blindfolded with both hands tied behind his back.

Yes, he was
that
good.

“I freaking love you, too.” Jase patted him on the shoulder before going for one of the only remaining stripes. “But I still want you to admit you're into Harlow.”

Guy didn't know his own strength and nearly pounded Beck into the floor, but damn if Beck didn't adore every second of it, the affectionate gesture somehow drilling through all kinds of dark emotion.

“I'm into her, okay,” he said. “Happy now? I'm curious and concerned about her. I can't get her out of my head.”

“Well, that's new,” West said.

“You're telling me. But she wants nothing to do with me.”

“Dude. You sound just like Jase when he first met Brook Lynn.” West hit another shot and of course, two solids flew into their slots. “You're all ‘woe is me' with zero nut power. Just suck it up and make a play for her. She'll fold. They always do.”

Maybe. But then what? He would casually mention he planned to finance the rest of her life, before walking away from her? He would forget her like all the others and move on to his next conquest, his next moment?

That was where things got tricky. He didn't want to forget her. He wanted to hang around her, wanted the right to check on her anytime the urge hit, to make sure she had everything she needed... Damn it, he wanted the right to protect her.

Protect someone other than himself? Please.

The ache in his chest returned, a pesky fly he couldn't kill. He wanted her to have what he never would: a happily-ever-after. But as he well knew, money and security could only do so much. Women like her usually wanted more. They dreamed of falling in love, connecting emotionally as well as physically. Something he'd never done and wasn't even sure he could do.

He saluted his friends with the beer bottle, then drained the contents.

Jase took pity on him and changed the subject. “You'll be pleased to know Brook Lynn has claimed responsibility for the soccer banquet.”

“We're in good hands, then.” The best. For the past eight years, Beck and West had financed and coached a soccer team for underprivileged kids, always ending a season with a big blowout celebration. While they loved the interaction, they hated the planning.

“Brook Lynn is pretty much a unicorn at the end of a double rainbow,” West said. “And since we're on the subject of parties, I should warn you. I got a call from Charlene Burns. She's in charge of the annual Berryween Festival, some kind of Strawberry Valley play on Halloween. She asked us to set up a booth.”

“For?” Beck asked.

“Kissing. And if not that, anything we want.”

“Someone doesn't know us very well,” Jase said. “Otherwise she would have given us a ten-page list of restrictions. To start.”

“I told Charlene we wouldn't be setting up our own booth, but we would be happy to pay for
all
the booths,” West said, “as long as You've Got It Coming is allowed to cater the event exclusively.”

Jase gave West a pat—drill—on the shoulder. “Good man.”

West tried to play it cool, but his ear-to-ear smile gave him away. “You're just now noticing? You kind of suck.”

The front door creaked open and closed, a patter of footsteps soon following. “Jase?” Brook Lynn called.

His friend lit up so brightly Beck actually had to look away. “Back here, angel.”

The footsteps quickened, and Jase moved forward. The couple met in the doorway, their arms winding around each other automatically. Beck and West shared a moment of unspoken envy, but also of contentment. Jase deserved this kind of happiness and it was amazing to see.

“Finished with your breakfast deliveries?” Jase asked her.

“Finally. We had eleven more than usual.”

“Word is spreading.”

A part of Beck hated the resounding success she'd made of her business. The more she worked, the less time she had to bake for him. Like another casserole named Just for the Halibut.
Mine!
A selfish mentality, sure, but anyone who'd ever tasted her food would understand.

If only Harlow could bake...

What the hell did that matter?

“By the way,” Brook Lynn said, peeking around Jase. “I saw Harlow Glass in town.”

Beck lost all interest in the game. Not that he'd had any to begin with. “Where is she?”

“Well, well. I thought you might be interested,” she said and shook her head. “I just hoped I was wrong, that you'd—”

Beck spoke over her with a clipped “Where?”

“She was snooping around the library.”

The library again? He raced out of the game room, grabbed his wallet and called, “I'll be back in a bit.” He didn't need keys. His car had a push-button start, which activated with his thumbprint.

His friends' laughter followed him all the way outside, but he didn't care. He drove so fast he left skid marks on the road, breaking speed records as lush trees, rolling hills and wild strawberry patches whizzed past, nothing but a blur. Only when he reached the town square did he slow to a crawl. Pedestrians strolled along sidewalks, and kids too young for school played chase underneath a large red-and-white-striped umbrella.

Everyone who spotted him smiled and waved, and it did something odd to his insides.

He parked in back of the library, the lot empty. There was no sign of Harlow. If she'd already taken off...well, he might just tear the town apart looking for her. He stormed around to the front—and finally felt as if he could breathe.

She stood at the door, muttering to herself. “I can do this. I can. I have lady balls, and they're big. Huge.”

He fought a grin. Lady balls?

She hadn't yet noticed him, so he took a moment to drink her in. The gleam of her dark hair. The glow of her skin, now scrubbed free of dirt, revealing more freckles for him to count...to trace with his tongue. But her cheeks had hollowed a bit, he noticed with a frown. Had she eaten today?

There went what remained of his amusement. She wore another too-thin shirt, and a pair of jean shorts too big for her, bagged low on her waist. Her sandals were frayed at the buckles.

Just how poor was she?

“Harlow,” he said, loving the taste of her name.

Nothing. No reaction from her.

“I can do this,” she muttered.

He closed the distance, ghosted his knuckles over the heated satin of her cheekbone. A mistake. Not only because she gasped and swung toward him, one of her palms fluttering to her chest while the other extended to push him away, but because the contact jacked him up. Made him desperate for another touch.
Any
touch, as long as it came from her.

Her panic morphed into consternation as his identity clicked. “Beck.” She took a minute to control her accelerated breathing. “What are you doing here?”

“What do you think I'm doing here? I've come to continue my study on the art of seduction.”

“Please.” Those gorgeous baby blues seemed to cut through a veneer he'd worked years to perfect, reaching the black soul he would have done anything to cleanse. “You're already an expert, and you know it.”

“So you've succumbed to my charms already?” A man could hope.

“Me? Succumb to you? Never!” She flicked her hair over her shoulder, saying defiantly, “You're like a brother to me.”

Careful to moderate his tone, he said, “Is that why you ran from me yesterday?” He even managed to adopt an indulgent expression as he leaned his shoulder against the doorpost. “Because I'm like a stepbrother you can't stop dreaming about?”

A pretty blush bloomed in her cheeks and even extended down her neck, under her collar. A blush like that gave him ideas. Bad, bad ideas. “I didn't run from you,” she admitted, “but from what was going to happen once I passed through those doors.”

Relief drove him to reach for her. He couldn't have stopped the action if he'd tried—
Have to touch her
. He twined their fingers, the feel of her skin tantalizing and teasing him. Though she resisted at first, she soon stilled, a tangible spark erupting between them, burrowing into him, whirring through him. He shuddered with awareness and unwittingly erased what remained of her personal space, needing to be closer to her on the most primitive level. To take from her. To give to her.

“Beck?” she whispered, suddenly panting. “What are you doing?”

He didn't know. He couldn't seem to control his reactions to her, his body burning for hers.

Frustrated by her—and himself—he released her and stepped back. “You had a shift at the Bungalow last night? Is that why you didn't come over this morning?”

She rubbed at her wrist, as if she could still feel him there, and it only made him want to touch her longer, harder. “Uh, yep. That's right. Had trouble with one of the regulars.”

“He get grabby during one of your famous bump-and-grinds?”

“Yeah. Thankfully the bouncers kicked him out before he ever made contact.”

At least she was sticking to her story. “I promise to keep my hands to myself...at least for a little while...if you've changed your mind and want to give me that lap dance.”

“Sorry, but I still plan to garden for you. After I
learn
how to garden.”

“Why not research in the privacy of your own home, on a computer? You do have a computer, don't you? Or at least a phone with internet access.”
Tell me the truth, sweetheart. For once.

“Maybe I just prefer the old-fashioned way. Did you ever think of that?”

A supposition rather than a lie.
I'm on to you now, honey.
“Let's go inside, then.”

She nibbled on her bottom lip. “The librarian hates me for something I did as a teenager.”

“Ah. Fixing public relations problems just happens to be my specialty.” He flung his arm over her shoulders, ignored the rightness of having her softness pressed against his hardness once again and urged her forward. “Give me five minutes, and she'll love you.”

“Impossible,” Harlow said, but this time she allowed him to lead her past the door.

He felt the sweet intensity of her gaze lingering on his profile, and like everything else about her, it affected him deeply. “What will you give me if I succeed?”

“My eternal gratitude.”

“Well, that's certainly a good start.”

The room was small and crammed with dozens of shelves. The scent of old books and dust assailed him as a short, round woman with silver streaks in her slicked-back hair walked around the checkout desk with the precision of a military commander. Glasses hung around her neck, bouncing with her every step.

“Harlow Glass.” Her features pinched with displeasure. “You are not welcome here. You've been told repeatedly not to darken—”

“Ms. Cavanaugh,” Beck said, reading the name tag pinned to the collar of her dress. “It's so lovely to finally meet you.” He claimed her hand, kissed her knuckles. “Had I known a woman such as yourself guarded these precious tomes, I would have come much sooner.”

“Yes. Well.” She cleared her throat and returned her attention to Harlow. “You know you're not supposed to—”

“I hope you don't mind our intrusion, but Harlow hoped to take a moment of your valuable time and sincerely apologize for any and all trouble she once caused you,” he interjected smoothly. “As a woman who values knowledge, I know you'll be interested in hearing what she has to say.”

Different emotions played over the older woman's features, but in the end she nodded stiffly. “Very well. Speak.”

Harlow did just that. “I am so, so sorry for organizing a Students Against Stupid Books protest ten years ago. Someone caught me reading a romance novel, and I was embarrassed. The protest was my way of earning cool points, but I felt like I needed to shower on the inside the entire time, especially while the books were burning. Books are awesome. Go books!”

Students Against Stupid Books? Dude.

“Yes, well. Time will prove all truths,” Ms. Cavanaugh said, the starch staying with her.

“That it will.” Beck gave her knuckles another kiss. “Harlow, honey, why don't you tell Ms. Cavanaugh about the books you'd like to read and treasure.”

“That won't be necessary.” Ms. Cavanaugh placed her glasses on the bridge of her nose and stared up at him. “As Harlow is aware, she is forever banned from having a library card. I cannot change our policies. No card, no books.”