“Like Adam?”
“Well, not Adam specifically, but tall, built, all-American alpha males who wear testosterone and sex appeal like cologne. The fireman’s hat is a bonus.” Chantel leaned closer. “I shouldn’t be saying this, but Lulu Allure is getting ready to announce a new male line called Swagger. It will complement our new Flirt line for the fall and, unfortunately, with such a limited release and a huge marketing push, we’re looking for boutiques that can not only guarantee sell-through, but also generate buzz within the millennial generation. Which was why I was supposed to tell you that we’re no longer able to have you on as our Bay Area retailer.”
Harper’s heart swelled and hope beaded. “Supposed to tell me?” As in she wasn’t going to renegotiate Clovis right out of business?
“I still am.”
“Oh.”
“But . . .” Chantel took Harper by the arm and turned her to face the new display. “If you give your catalog the same fresh and flirty feel as you did with this display and the private party room, then find a way to convince my boss that men like him are your clientele, I might be able to convince her to reconsider.”
“How would I do that?”
“You appear to be a multifaceted artist,” Chantel said. “Your grandma showed me the charity calendar you shot with the local first responders.”
“Cuties with Booties?” Harper asked, referring to the charity calendar she’d helped create for her friend Shay. It had local heroes showing off their guns posing with adorable rescue dogs in need to help place them in Napa County.
“Real men, taking on real problems, while looking real hot?” Chantel’s eyes went wide with excitement. “Golden idea, and I heard it went viral.”
It had done more than go viral. Shay’s calendar had turned the men of St. Helena into sex-lebrities. Not to mention, it raised enough money for Shay to open her dream rescue center in town and helped place a record number of strays with their forever families.
The photos had become so popular—and effective—every month Harper shot a new set of hot heroes with homeless animals for Shay’s blog, and the Cuties with Booties calendar was in its third year.
“Getting the guys to volunteer for a good cause with their shirts off is one thing, but posing in underwear?”
“Well, when Adam comes home tonight, make sure you’re serving dinner in nothing but those heels and Honeysuckle. Then when he’s ready to play find the jacket, ask him if he’d be willing to do a little modeling of his own. In our underwear.”
Harper looked around at the crowd of ladies who were feigning interest in the new flowers Harper had planted in the window boxes, and lowered her voice. “You only want Adam to model. In skivvies?” Harper could almost see the amused look on Adam’s face when she asked him.
Then her heart sank at the implications and gave a familiar twinge at the idea that she wasn’t sexy enough, her star bright enough, her ideas alluring enough. The sad truth was Chantel thought that Harper, on her own, wasn’t enough. And that made her replaceable.
A role she was tired of being cast in.
Mistaking her irritation for concern, Chantel added, “Nothing formal, just a few shots of your guy in Swagger to use in a mock campaign for social media or a sample catalog layout. Something Boulder Holder could use to promote our line. Oh, can you capture that same rugged, everyday-hero feel like in the calendar, so I could show it to the marketing team?”
The correct answer was no.
No, Adam was not her guy. No, she wouldn’t boost his ego by shooting him in his briefs. And no, she definitely did not get a secret thrill at the idea of someone mistaking Adam as her boyfriend.
Unfortunately, there were two things more important than thrills and ego that Harper could never say no to. Ever.
Her grandmother. And a noble cause.
That this was her grandmother’s noble cause was the only reason Harper leaned in and whispered, “As long as it’s informal, I don’t think Adam would have a problem.”
After all, he had offered to help. Right after he’d stolen her spotlight.
“Beat the Heat Festival?” Adam asked, his right eye twitching as he looked down at the list of responsibilities that were outlined in the binder—a three-inch binder filled with color-coded tabs, approved vendors, and a phone tree like it was created before the invention of the Internet and e-mail. “No way. I’m a firefighter, not an event planner.”
“Have you seen the dent?” Captain Roman Brady sat back in his chair, his feet plopped up on the desk, one ankle crossed over the other, looking for all the world as though this wasn’t a big deal. “When Lowen found out it was from a bunch of tampons, he about shit a brick. So when his recommendation was something other than firing you, I agreed. You should be thanking me.”