“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.
Harper was well aware of the connection between her job and her personal life. Growing up with an actress for a mother, who was happiest when center stage, and being overshadowed by her had become a way of life. No matter how boldly she behaved or dressed, Harper had never managed to find her own spotlight.
Something she was determined to change.
The shop door opened and in blew a warm gust of summer air—and her second chance. Clay was no longer in the dark suit and tie he’d been wearing when he’d returned home from San Diego a few hours ago. It seemed Dr. GQ had shed his professional attire for something more date-like—dark jeans, blue button-up, and a to-go bag from the Sweet and Savory bistro—too big for a party of one, but not big enough to be leftovers.
“Hey,” she said, walking over to meet him, happy she’d worn her favorite dress. It wasn’t red, but it was a bold teal and bohemian, and it made her butt look amazing. Not that he was looking at her butt right then, but if he did she knew it would look its best.
He smiled and then the most wonderful thing happened. He leaned in and kissed her. Not on the mouth, but on the cheek. A sweet and charming greeting that felt safe and warm—and encouraging.
“Am I interrupting?” Clay asked quietly, taking in the ten sets of eyes curiously aimed in their direction.
“Eyes on your own canvas, I’ll be right back,” Harper said, and after some disappointed grumbling, paintbrushes were moving again. She slipped off her smock that read FLOWER POWER, in case Clay wanted a better view, and ushered him outside. “They should be fine for a few minutes.”