Need You for Mine (Heroes of St. Helena)(25)

“Is that a problem?” When she looked as if, yeah, it was a big freaking problem, he changed tactics. “This is a real job offer, Megan. One that comes with a paycheck. Not a big one—it’s probably what you received last time—but a legit check.”

“I want to help you out. I do. But you know how people talk in this town.” She rolled her eyes, then went serious. Dead serious. “I mean, that new pole dancing teacher just wore your jacket to class and all the biddies at the studio were sending her the stink eye. Not that I ever would have shipped you two.”

“Shipped?” he asked, because obviously this was one of those Mars versus Venus moments—and he didn’t even want to think about that jacket.

“You know ship, short for relationships, couples to get behind,” she said, as if that clarified things. “At first, when I heard whispers about Hadam, I didn’t get it—”

“Hadam?”

“Your ship name,” Megan said, clearly unaware that Adam’s understanding of this conversation was out to sea. “I mean you two are so different. Like never happen in a million years with you being strictly a friends-with-benefits kind of guy. A total BBD,” Megan said, and it didn’t sound like a compliment.

“BBD?”

“Bigger better deal, always looking for the next thing.”

Wow, was that how people saw him? As a guy who was unable to focus on something long enough to see it through to the end? Because if that was the case, then he had a whole lot more to prove than being lieutenant quality.

“And she’s that all around awesome, super sweet, best friend who guys want to marry,” she said, and Adam choked at the last word. “So I, like everyone else by the way, thought there was no way it would work, but then I read on Facebook this morning about the whole ‘Hadam at hello’ and I have to admit”—she reached across the counter and patted his hand, as if he were her gay best friend—“I’m totally Team Hadam.”

“Who the hell is Hadam?”

“Harper”—she held up one hand, then the other—“and Adam.” Then she married her fingers together and smiled. “Hadam.”

Adam felt the floor shift.

“Me and, um—” His windpipe collapsed and choking didn’t even cover the sensation.

“Harper,” Megan said in awe, as if she were talking about unicorns, Mother Teresa, and her favorite sorority sisters all wrapped up in one sunny package. Then she patted his hand. Again. “She is the sweetest. When my brother-in-law walked out, Harper stopped charging my sister for her kids’ art classes until she was back on her feet. She also helped me land my first client when I started working here, and never asked for anything in return. She’s just . . .”

“Awesome?” Adam deadpanned.

“Totally. I can see why you’d fall for her. It doesn’t get BBD than Harper.”

Adam wanted to ask if Harper gave birth to Jesus as well. And what the hell? He hadn’t fallen, and that kiss—although surprisingly hot—didn’t constitute a ship name. Not in his world anyway. But Megan wasn’t done.

“And since you and I, um, partied a little . . .” She threw up air quotes around the word and grimaced. Grimaced! “Well, working together now would just be weird, you know?”

No, Adam didn’t know. Because women didn’t grimace when recalling their time with him. And nothing about his parties were ever little. Pre-party or not, he was a closer. A fact he wanted to point out, except Megan was already closing the binder.

“Good luck with Beat the Heat,” she said. “Oh, and you should get your jacket back. Harper’s too sweet to be the crazy jealous type, but people are talking and it’s a total douche move.”

“Douche move?”

Placing the two cups in his hand and the binder under his arm, Megan ushered him to the door. “Tell Harper I said hi!”

The door slammed behind him, leaving Adam with no caterer, no planner, and no one to drink his Fifty Shades of Chocolate.

However, he had a few choice words to tell Harper. The first one was a heartfelt sorry for screwing up her week. The second would be exactly where she could stick all of her sunshine. Adam wasn’t the only one with some explaining to do.

He might have messed with her week, but she’d destroyed his game.





Later that day, Harper moved carefully through the rows of easels, taking the time to study each and every student’s Picasso-inspired self-portrait. Some had crowns, others had capes and laser guns, but all of them told a unique story.

It was why she loved art so much. Almost as much as she loved her pint-sized artists. Each and every one of them touched her heart—even the challenging ones. Especially the challenging ones. They usually had the most important stories to share, but were often overlooked.

Not by Harper. She glanced around the Fashion Flower, at the bright and expressive clothes cheerfully displayed, then to the Budding Artists Gallery that filled the shop’s windows, and a sense of pride welled up.

She understood that every superhero smock worn and finger—painted canvas made was a purposeful statement that her little customers were too young to put into words. It was important that their art was seen and appreciated—that the children felt seen and appreciated.