Need You for Mine (Heroes of St. Helena)(12)
Partly because Adam lived to walk the line, but mostly because when Adam had been an FNG he’d taken the chief’s goddaughter on the grand tour of the station—ending with a ride around town in the engine—where she’d rung his bell.
“Baudouin. Why am I not surprised?” Lowen barked, negotiating his spare tire around the steering wheel to get out of the truck and inspect the dent. Then he inspected Adam, who was about to take the blame for a collision he hadn’t caused—while wearing nothing but flip-flops, shorts, and a PLAY HARD tee.
“Chief,” Adam said, smiling. “How’s the family?”
“Still off-limits.”
Mondays had always been Harper’s favorite. There was something about the start of a fresh week, the unlimited possibilities the next seven days held, and the sounds and smells associated with Main Street coming alive. Monday had a rhythm, an ebb and flow of the unexpected and the familiar that brought her comfort.
Residual effects of the unconventional childhood she’d shared with an unconventional mother.
Today was the perfect Monday. The sun was out, the sky was clear, and the zinnias and morning glories filling the wine-barrel planters that lined downtown were in full bloom, painting Main Street with all the colors of summer. Even better, Harper had channeled her inner sexy to try to help her grandmother.
Maybe channeled was too strong a word, but she’d definitely acquired enough intel to fake it.
Harper pulled the “Fast Track to Seduction” article she’d discovered online out of her purse and looked at the first rule. According to the twelve-step article, sexy was a state of mind. So, contrary to popular belief, there was nothing wrong with faking it.
Harper gave herself a stern nod, then put the article back. If she wanted to save her grandma’s shop, then she needed to stop thinking like Suzie Sunshine and fake herself right into the role of a bedroom bombshell. At least until she got through this meeting with Lulu Allure.
And maybe got herself some adult cookies to go with a tall glass of yummy man.
Which was why, instead of wearing one of her go-to farm dresses with floral-patterned tights and Mary Janes, Harper had come to the shop early to dress for sex-cess.
Embracing rules number five, less is always more, and seven, the profound power of red, she’d purchased a body-hugging scarlet number that was sleek, sophisticated, and posed more questions than answers. Then, since sexy was in the accessories, or so she’d heard, she’d slipped on the naughtiest pair of panties in the shop, mile-high heels, and applied just enough makeup to appear flushed.
With one last look in the mirror, she fluffed her hair and hoped it looked more like bed-rumpled waves than corkscrew curls, then strutted out of the dressing room and into the shop. Where she nearly tripped over her feet.
The Boulder Holder, where she’d spent countless hours after work giving it a fresh, new, youthful look—a transformation, really—was packed full of customers. Women of all shapes and sizes—curvy, petite, willowy, and buxom—had turned out in a show of support. The problem was, they were all retired.
There wasn’t an arthritis-free or girdle-less gal among the group. Except for one—the runway-ready thirty-something with shiny black hair and perfect allure who stood at the entryway of the shop, a red journal in hand, frantically taking notes as someone asked where the banana-hammock display had been moved.
“Grandma,” Harper whispered, dashing over to the register, her head pounding each time she watched a customer rifle through the racks like it was the yearly bloomers blowout and not the most important day for the shop. “Why are all these people here? We have the Lulu Allure meeting today.”
“That’s why I called in backup. I figured if the rep saw how packed the store was she’d change her mind. All it took was me mentioning a free banana-hammock with every purchase of twenty dollars or more before noon, and the knitting club cleared out and the girls started lining up.” Clovis took in the crowded store and smiled, big and proud.
Harper took in Clovis with her blue eye shadow, coral lips, and emerald lace bustier she was wearing as a top and groaned.
“We wanted to prove we have a youthful edge. Flirty summer romance, boudoir sexy—that was the plan, remember?” It was a good plan. One that ten minutes ago Harper had been certain would sway the rep’s opinion of the shop.
“Oh, I remember all right. That’s why I told the girls no dentures or orthopedic shoes allowed.” Which explained why Mrs. Sharp was moving her lips like she was a ventriloquist.
“These aren’t girls, they’re grandmas,” Harper pointed out. “And call me crazy, but when I think of Summer of Seduction, saggy breasts and Bengay don’t really come to mind.”
“We might be up there in age, but we are all widow’s peak women,” Clovis chided, clearly offended.
“Widow’s peak women?” Harper asked.
“Women in their seventies who are embracing their sexuality. In fact, WPWs are enjoying the best sex of their lives, and enjoying it three times more often than you and your youngster crowd. Just ask Giles.”
Harper gagged a little. “I’ll take your word for it.”
Giles Rousseau was weathered, pushing eighty, and Clovis’s gentleman friend. They had both stubbornly circled each other for two decades, then last year Giles finally made his move, taking them from foes to frisky in a single night, and now they cohabitated in a quaint cottage off Main Street and co-parented their dog, Jabba.