“Yeah, well, I’m not looking for a hookup,” she mumbled, snatching her dress back. And because he already knew the truth, just like he knew one more frustrated huff would have her popping right out of that bra, he let her take it. Even turned his back when she slipped it back on. Because getting a boner for Pollyanna wasn’t a smart move.
“But if I were . . .” she said so quietly he turned back around to see if she’d even spoken. She was once again in the yellow jumper, zipped up to her sternum, and fiddling with the little silver heart charm dangling from her necklace. “Are you saying I have to change how I look to get a guy?”
“No.” He actually liked the crazy cutie exactly like she was. Her blinding fashion sense was loud, quirky, and kind of adorable. Except, he remembered, those of the crazy cutie variety tended to want more than he was willing to give. So he checked himself, then gave a silent lecture that she wasn’t asking about his preferences, but Dr. Dildo’s. “However, if you want that guy with the kid, then yeah, you’ve got to up your game.”
Her confusion apparent, he reached for the front zipper of her dress.
She smacked his hand away. “Hey.”
“You asked for my help, so let me help. Here.” He grabbed a red belt off the silk robe and tied it around her waist, cinching it in to showcase her flat stomach. With Harper no longer looking like a chewing-gum wrapper, Adam tugged the zipper south, far enough that the collar of her dress opened and slid down one arm. Her shoulder was now exposed, as well as a nice hint of her copacabanas. “Sexy is in the accessories. Oh, and you need new lipstick.”
“My lipstick is not the problem. This is the third color I tried this month, and the saleslady at the drugstore guaranteed it is the perfect shade.”
“The first problem with your statement was drugstore, since we both know that the saleslady in question is Mrs. Peters, who hasn’t changed lip color since Carter left office.” He undid her hair, which was secured by a chopstick. Not a decorative one, but a wooden one from the takeout joint down the street.
“I wouldn’t do that. My curls are out of control,” she said, her hands moving up in a defensive action that had him laughing.
He intercepted them, mid helmet pose, and set them back at her sides, squeezing her wrists so she knew to leave them there. And miracle of miracles, she actually listened.
“You have slept-in bed waves, not curls,” he corrected. One pull and all of those soft brown waves came tumbling down to her midback. Like walking sex, he thought. “Back to the lipstick. Are you really wearing pink with glossy shine and glitter?”
She shifted on her feet. “So?”
“So, it’s a problem.” He handed her a tissue and waited while she wiped it off. Then he put his fingers in her hair and gave it a little shake, stepping back to study his work. “Better. But still missing something.”
“Wow, you sure know how to sweet-talk a woman,” she mumbled, and that’s when he realized what it was. Sunshine was looking self-conscious, which he’d never seen before. She usually marched to her own beat and flashed those pearly whites at anyone who looked at her strangely—the good-girl version of flipping the bird. But right then, standing there looking bed rumpled and sexy as hell, she was uncomfortable.
So Adam did the only thing he knew would work. What he wanted to do wouldn’t be appropriate, so instead, he slid his fingers deeper into her hair, and then he kissed her.
And holy shit, Harper Owens with her warm smile and rainbow dreams might have looked like the kind of girl one would bring home to Sunday dinner at the parents’, but she kissed like she’d rock your world on the car ride over.
And back.
She made a soft little mewling sound that drove him crazy, because it was half surprised and wholly aroused. Without warning, she pulled his lower lip with her teeth, sucked on it for a good minute, and he manned up in the most embarrassing way. But then her hands were on him, threading through his hair, playing with the ends at the back of his neck, and he forgot what the problem was.
Forgot why crazy cuties were a bad idea.
Forgot every hard-learned lesson that had gotten him through fifteen years as a smokejumper for Cal Fire. Such as: the key to not getting burned was you had to get in, scratch some line, hook it, call it good, and cut out before catching too much heat. It was a technique that had saved his ass a dozen times over in wildfires—and with women. Only he was too busy enjoying the flame to notice it had gotten out of control. Until he heard his name being called.
“Adam?” she purred, and he started walking them backward into the dressing room when he realized Harper wasn’t moving with him. She also wasn’t kissing him anymore. In fact, she looked all prickly.