The Hotter You Burn
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.”
“I understand,” Beck said with an indulgent smile, “which is why we’ll put the books on my card. After I fill out the proper paperwork, of course.”
Several beats of silence passed before the librarian gave another stiff nod. “I hope you know what you’re doing, young man.”
As she walked away, Harlow peered up at him, wide-eyed with awe. “Beck,” she whispered, and threw her arms around him, hugging him.
He didn’t hug her back, not at first. The softness of her breasts pressed against his chest, and an instant blast of heat suffused him, his entire body practically going up in flames.
“Thank you. You’re the best. Thank you,” she repeated.
Slowly he wound his arms around her and held on tight, probably too tight, but she didn’t seem to mind. “Anytime, sweetheart.” The hoarseness of his tone embarrassed him. When he began to tremble like a puss, he knew he had to end the contact. He set her away with a swift, almost jarring movement and cleared his throat.
A bell tinkled over the door, saving him from having to come up with an excuse for his behavior, and a feminine voice suddenly called out, “Beck! You’re really here.” An attractive brunette strolled toward him, grinning. “I noticed your car out back and came in to say hi.”
How did he know her?
Well, one guess. “Hey, pretty.” He winked, reassured as he sank back into an old habit.
Harlow snorted. “While we’re here, you might want to check out a few books on the consequences of he-sluttery.”
“You mean extreme fun and temporary pleasure?”
Her mouth curled with distaste. “When it comes to matters of the heart, the only thing you should want to be temporary is an STD.”
Deep down, he’d known she would balk at anything fleeting. Now he had to bite the inside of his cheek to combat a blistering surge of something akin to disappointment.
The brunette reached him, scowling at Harlow before schooling her features and raking her nails down his tie. “A few weeks ago you asked me out. Do you remember?”
“Do you really think I could forget?” he replied smoothly, still drawing a blank.
She shook her head, relieved, and said, “At the time, I told you no, but I’ve regretted it ever since.”
The words jogged his memory. That’s right. She’d played hard to get, turning him down flat, and he’d moved on to someone else. No harm, no foul.
“You two deserve each other. I hope you’re happy...temporarily.” Harlow kept her attention squarely on Beck, glaring daggers at him. “Meanwhile, I’ll be outside. I’ll give you ten minutes to get your card and whatever books you want me to follow while tending your garden, and then I’m gone. I have places to be.”
He didn’t want her to leave, didn’t want her out of his sight, but he said, “If you want to leave, leave. I won’t stop you.” Not now, not ever.
As he spoke, the brunette linked her arm through his, a clear attempt to stake a claim. He almost shook off her hold, but the feeling was so new, so unexpected—so different—he locked his limbs in place.
Harlow looked from him to the girl, the girl to him, the severity he’d noticed in the later-childhood pictures soon masking her features. “Forget the books, and screw you,” she spat, turning toward the door. “Screw you both.”
He knew. In that moment, he knew beyond any doubt. She liked him, and not as a brother. Jealousy was the only reason she would lash out this sharply.
“Harlow,” he called.
“What?” she snapped.
“Stay close. I’ll be coming for you.”
CHAPTER FIVE
HARLOW PACED BACK and forth in front of the library’s front door. Old wood planks creaked and whined, a warm breeze actually cool against her damp neck. Her mind churned.
How dumb was she? Suzie Quaid had walked into the library, and Harlow had nearly erupted into flames of jealousy. All because Beck had smiled and turned on the charm. But the great he-slut of the Southwest always smiled and turned on the charm. He’d even softened the hard-as-stone Ms. Cavanaugh.
Why should Harlow care that he’d stayed true to form and paid attention to the girl once voted Most Likely to Become a Professional Jell-O Wrestler?
Beck might be gorgeous, and nice, and gorgeous, and charismatic, and gorgeous, but he still wasn’t the man for Harlow. He would never be the man for her. Even temporarily. Especially temporarily. Learn the bliss of being his woman, only to lose him? No, thanks.
Her eyes remained on the prize: stability. Falling in love, creating a home and starting a family. Her desires would never align with his. Best to tend to his garden, as owed, and then move on.
Right on time, he sailed out of the library and smiled his most devastating smile. He handed her the books he’d checked out.
“Catch you later, honey.” He ambled away, whistling a happy tune. Sounded like “Baby Got Back.”
Seriously? That was it? He was just going to leave her here?
Had he made a lunch arrangement with Suzie? Or maybe dinner—followed by bedroom dancing?
Irritation flourished, and in an effort to distract herself, Harlow hugged the books to her chest. The three hardbacks had to weigh a thousand pounds each, and her arms began to shake. As she motored forward, she did her best to remain in the shadows. Mr. Porter and Mr. Rodriguez were no longer playing checkers. Jessie Kay Dillon and her sidekick, Sunny Day, occupied the chairs, drinking whiskey from a bottle and scoring men as they walked past.
Jessie Kay whistled. “Oh, baby. I’m giving you a ten. You look like you’re into commitment. Come give me a taste of that!”
“Oh, sugar, sugar,” Sunny called. “I bet you’ve got a healthy relationship with your mom. Marry me?”
While the guys soaked up the attention, Harlow did her best to escape unnoticed.
She failed.
“Look who just entered my territory.” Sunny fist-pumped the sky. “Catfight, anyone?”
Keep walking. Harlow wasn’t male, but she was given a score anyway. Both girls held up big fat zeros.
I wrote the word slut all over Jessie Kay’s locker on more than one occasion. I dated Scott, Sunny’s ex-boyfriend, only to dump him a day later. This is deserved.
Bad choices, nasty results. No exceptions.
“You’re lucky we don’t have negative numbers, Glass,” Jessie Kay shouted.
Maybe if Harlow tried being nice for once, she’d see better results? “You look real pretty today, Sunny,” she said, flashing a smile. Forced, yes, but also sincere. The blonde was a knockout. “And Jessie Kay, I think you’re more beautiful every time I see you.”
Sunny gasped. “You dirty, rotten bitch. How dare you imply we’re ugly!”
Ugly? You’ve got to be kidding. Would no one ever give her the benefit of the doubt?
Her five-step plan might need a little tweaking.
Head down. Shoulders in. Gait fast. When she turned a corner, she noticed Mr. Brooks struggling to hang an oversize 10% Off sign in the window of his antiques shop.
Harlow hurried over. “Here, let me help you.” She placed her books at her feet and reached for the sign.
Mr. Brooks nearly fell over in an effort to keep her hands off his property. “Trying to steal from me again, Harlow Glass?”
“No, no. I just wanted to—”
“Desecrate the sign and stake it in someone’s yard. I know.”
“Give me a break,” she practically begged, picking up her books. “I’m not that girl anymore. I just wanted to help you.”
“Oh, I know exactly who you are. Now get. Get!” He kicked at the air.
“Fine. Enjoy your back strain.” She tromped off, spotting the elderly Mrs. Winthorp carrying a bag of groceries across the street.
Their eyes met. Mrs. Winthorp turned and walked in the other direction.
Nice.
Maybe Harlow should have stayed in school rather than choosing a home-study program. By the time she’d dropped out, she’d already changed, and the kids would have been forced to spend time with the new Harlow and eventually, they would have grown to like her. Physically, however, she’d been unable to sit still for long periods of time. She’d been in too much pain.
Her fingers itched to rub her scars, the habit ingrained. Think about the attack, feel the proof she’d survived it. But all she could do was squeeze the books tighter.
By the time she’d been strong enough to venture outdoors, her friends had wanted nothing to do with her.
They just need time, her mother had told her. You’re a good girl who was raised in a volatile home, and that’s my fault. I should have left your father the moment he showed his true colors. But I didn’t, and you paid the price. Now I’m going to make it up to you. As long as there’s breath in this body, I’m going to do everything in my power to take care of you.
True to her word, she’d woken Harlow every morning with breakfast and a hug. She’d encouraged Harlow in her studies and praised her every accomplishment. She’d left notes on Harlow’s pillow every night, positive affirmations meant to build her confidence.
You are a bright light.
There is nothing you cannot do.
You are a true beauty, glowing from the inside out.
“I miss you so much, Momma,” she whispered to the sky.
Martha Glass had fallen from a stepladder, and though she’d merely seemed bruised at the time, the impact had knocked loose a blood clot and she was dead by morning.
Harlow’s chin trembled, a lone tear streaking down her cheek, as hot and stinging as the sun. As much as she looked forward to a cooldown in temperature, she wasn’t looking forward to a cooldown in temperature. There were four seasons in Strawberry Valley, but unlike the rest of the world, those seasons were classified as “hotter than hell,” “tornado,” “a brief moment of intense, icy cold” and “the warm-up before hotter than hell.” Her tent often felt like a sauna, but when the snow and ice came, it would feel like a freezer.
Footsteps sounded behind her, and she swung around, arm lifted to defend herself. A scowling Scott Cameron barreled in her direction, and she stepped out of his way. He simply angled toward her, giving her shoulder a purposeful shove with his own.
“Watch where you’re going,” he spat.
She stumbled, saved from falling flat on her face by the wall of the post office. “Why don’t you grow a pair of testicles and act like a man,” she called, unable to hold back the words. A girl could be a punching bag for only so long before she had to start punching back, no matter the consequences.
Scott swung around, the muscles in his shoulders bunching, and for a moment she thought he would return to her and...what? Hit her? She didn’t want to think the worst of him, but he wasn’t giving her much choice. In the end, his gaze moved behind her and widened, and he spun to motor on.
Finally, something had gone in her favor, but it only depressed her more. The fact that a guy hadn’t punched her or called her a horrible name was the highlight of her day? Wow.
She made the trek out of town, stopping occasionally to pick up trash on someone’s lawn while mosquitoes—aka flying vampires—attacked her in droves, hungry for a little Harlow dinner. As she slapped her arm to kill one of the fiendish suckers, a prickle at the back of her neck suggested she had an audience. Tensing, she studied the tangled landscape—trees, thick underbrush, dead piles of crispy leaves—but she found no sign of a pursuer.
Her brain must be melting. She continued on, not stopping again until she reached Virgil Porter’s house. A pile of brushwood had blown in front of his mailbox, and Mr. Fritz, the postman, was the cranky sort who wouldn’t make a delivery if he had to step out of his vehicle.
Ten minutes into her work to clear it away, movement in Mr. Porter’s living room caught her attention. Her heart banged a song of panic against her ribs as she met Daniel Porter’s gaze, Mr. Porter’s son.
He’d left for the military a few years ago and, according to whispers, had only returned to Strawberry Valley a few days ago. And oh, wow, he was shirtless, ripped with muscle and tattoos, standing with his hands on his hips, watching her. About to storm outside to rail at her for trespassing?
Harlow grabbed her books and dashed off. About halfway home, her legs began to tremble so intensely she feared she would go down and never get up. Somehow she found the strength to troop onward, on the lookout for scorpions, listening for the telltale hiss of nearby snakes.
At long last, she reached her destination, dropping the books in front of her tent as her arms finally gave out. Her biceps trembled and burned, and she knew they’d be sore tomorrow. Sighing, she sank in front of the tomes and surveyed her home of the past however many months. A small blue tent with a faulty zipper sat beside an even smaller pond. She’d stacked a circle of rocks around a stack of twigs to create a fire pit where she boiled water in the only pan she had. There were gopher mounds everywhere, dirt flung in every direction, but at least multiple oaks offered shade...and branches for birds to poop from.
She imagined Beck showing up for “tea.” Sanitized pond water.
Oh, how far the queen bee has fallen. From the highest of highs to the lowest of lows. The lap of luxury to this. No real home. No security of any kind. No way to eat or drink whenever the urge struck. No comfy bed or modern conveniences of any kind.
She turned her attention to her new books...and blinked in shock. Gardening for the Super Ignoramus. 101 Ways to Seduce Your Dream Man. The Male Penis: What You Really Need to Know.
But...but...when had the small-town library begun carrying books like that? They’d nearly banned a paranormal romance series about supersexy demon-possessed warriors for being too racy!
She reached for the gardening book, really she did, but her fingers somehow curled around the spine of Seduce Your Dream Man and riffled through the pages—and oh, wow! There were pictures. She ended up “reading” until the last tendril of sunlight vanished.
Now, back to work. She started a small fire with the lighter she’d found—no one would notice the smoke at this time of night—and set a pot of water to boil. After she drank her fill, she called it a day and nestled in her tent. The tear in the top allowed her to gaze up at the stars, diamond pinpricks in a sea of black velvet. One of God’s finest creations, second only to Strawberry Valley. And speaking of Strawberry Valley, it was time to face the facts. Her five-step plan didn’t just need tweaking, it needed scrapping. At this rate, a hundred-step plan wouldn’t work.
If she wanted different results, she had to do something different. The most obvious choice was simple. Finally make the heart-wrenching move to the city.
Panic and heartache instantly converged. No. Not that. Not yet. This was her home, and the man of her dreams lived here. He had to live here. They would fall in love and raise their kids here.
But who would want her? As a military man, Daniel Porter was used to dealing with hostile people and situations. Could he forgive the past?
A few years ago, Jeffery James had moved to town. He’d heard rumors about her, sure, but he had no personal experience with her. Of course, she wasn’t attracted to him, but what did that matter? Love could grow from support, affection and stability.
There was that word again. Stability. The mother ship. The holy grail.
Who could give her something so precious? Lincoln West, maybe. Handsome, sweet and, like Jeffery, she had no real personal experience with him. Plus, he lived in her ancestral home. If they happened to fall in love, she could move back in. And promptly kick Beck out, she thought with a smile.
What she knew about West: he hadn’t dated anyone in town...which was kinda odd, now that she considered it. He wasn’t just handsome, he was handsome, and he had as many admirers as Beck. He just didn’t jump their bones at every opportunity. He was over six foot, leanly muscled and he was nice. He had a smile for everyone he came across, and he worked like a fiend, creating different kinds of computer programs.
She knew about his business only because she’d visited his office in town the day after it opened. His assistant from the city had been there, and Harlow had asked questions, submitted a résumé. And it had been a doozy. Past jobs: zero. Experience: none. Strengths: still searching. She’d hoped to decorate their walls with murals or, barring that, become their receptionist. Surprisingly enough—har har—she was never called in for an interview; she’d listed the number to the only pay phone in town and camped by it for days.