Need You for Mine (Heroes of St. Helena)(46)
“Size fifteen is usually a special order,” he said.
Her expression went from confused to understanding as she recalled his offhanded remark the other day in front of Clay about ring sizes.
“We’re not using any accessories,” she said, “just pajamas and underwear.” She held up his first outfit again.
He grinned big and bad. “Sunshine, when I said my ring size was a fifteen, I wasn’t talking about my finger.”
Adam didn’t want to talk about what was bothering him.
Noted—and understood. After the day Harper had had, it was probably a good thing. She was still reeling from her accidental matchmaking disaster, so partaking in a kumbaya moment in the middle of her grandma’s shop wasn’t a smart idea. Even if Adam did look as if he could use a real friend.
Only Adam didn’t do real—he did frat-boy-meets-beefcake. Which worked for her since Harper never did the sorority thing, and she wasn’t a big fan of red meat. Plus, they weren’t supposed to be getting to know each other better. Sure, he’d walked in looking sexy and strong and strangely lost—and Harper, being Harper, momentarily forgot the deal—but he wasn’t looking to be found.
And she wasn’t looking to add one more platonic guy to her collection. Only instead of taking a step back, like she should have, she stepped forward and into him, ignoring every warning bell blaring in her head. His face creased with confusion and a vulnerability so genuine that she wrapped her arms around his waist and just held on.
Adam might not want to talk about whatever was bothering him, but it was obvious he needed a hug.
She felt him freeze and everything in that moment stilled, as if the gesture were so foreign he wasn’t sure what to do next. It was a strange reaction for a guy who had canoodled with half the town’s female population.
Harper knew all too well that canoodling and connecting were two vastly different things. Mastering one didn’t mean receiving the other, so she rested her head against his big chest, right over his heart, and waited. Waited for him to give in, to take what she was offering.
Support and understanding.
She felt him let go, release a breath that seemed to go on forever as his body pressed in closer and closer around hers. When he didn’t have anything left, he rested his cheek on the top of her head and locked his hands behind her back.
Neither of them moved. They didn’t speak or think. Just accepted the give and take of energy as it passed between them.
A minute or fifteen might have passed before she realized that her eyes were closed, that his arms were holding on to her as if they were the only things keeping him grounded, and Harper wondered what would happen if she never moved, if she decided to stay right there. In his arms. Forever.
Reminding herself that connection and commitment also weren’t exclusive to each other, she gave a final squeeze and stepped back.
“What was that?” he asked after a long moment, his voice thick and raspy.
“Us not talking about it.” To make sure she didn’t do anything stupid—because hugging was one step away from loving in her world—she turned around to focus on the placement of the leather chair, positioning a glass of Scotch on the arm. “Now, go put those on. I cleared out the first dressing room for you.”
After Adam had texted her he could stop by after closing, she’d spent the evening turning Couture Corner into a studio, knowing it would take her mind off what was going on at the wine bar next door on her date with the doctor—though Liza was the one on it—and the space would work as the perfect backdrop for the shoot. It was sexy, sensual, masculine. Not that Adam needed any help in any of those departments.
He’d walked through the door wearing jeans, a T-shirt, and yesterday’s stubble, and managed to flip every one of Harper’s female switches. The man wore sexy like it was a cologne.
“I’m good.”
Harper looked over her shoulder as Adam fisted his shirt with a single hand. He drew it over his head in a move that was all bad boy and swagger, tossing the shirt to the floor and leaving him in boxers, bare feet, and enough male confidence that Harper forgot all about Liza and Clay flirting right then at Cork’d N Dipped.
In fact, she forgot a lot of things. Like how photographers shouldn’t openly gawk at their subjects. Or why taking a little time for pleasure was bad for business. Heck, she couldn’t even remember how to breathe.
Or why Adam was a bad idea.
Adam was gorgeous. Mind-blowingly so. He had miles of toned muscle and tanned skin that rippled as he moved. His chest was covered with just the right amount of hair, which fell into a vee before disappearing beneath a pair of boxers. They were more boxer briefs, which, like every other uniform he wore, he filled out to perfection.
And that stomach, sweet baby Jesus, those abs looked to be cut from stone—or perhaps they were from lifting ladders or parked cars, or whatever it was firemen did to keep in shape. He rested his hands on his hips, and his six-pack became an eight, rippling down and tightening, then a twelve—
Harper snapped her eyes to his, beautifully blue and twinkling with amusement. “You did that on purpose,” she said.
“Looked like you were waiting for a show.” He flexed harder. Damn, the man was built. A fact she’d accepted the first time he’d posed for her. But this time felt different. More intimate. “Who am I to deny a lady?”