“Well, the one with the tight tush promised it to me,” Peggy said, looking right at Seth. “I’m teaching people about proper summer safety to keep their animals cool, and selling my Beat the Heat–inspired doggie couture. I called my supplier and ordered extra hat fans this year after I found out I was in booth one.”
“Well, as I’ve said, I’ve been setting up in booth one since the first year of this event, and as a veteran vendor I have dibs!” Ida flapped her form in the air.
A wave of frenzy took over the crowd as women started pushing forward to be next in line. Seth and McGuire barricaded themselves behind the table.
Shaking his head at his first responders, Adam stepped forward. “Settle down.”
When that didn’t work he let out an ear-piercing whistle that had people zipping their lips. Then he thought about Harper’s lips, and wished he’d made time to grab a quick kiss before starting his day. Because he knew that quick kiss would turn into more if he allowed it. And instead of playing mediator to a bunch of grandmas, he could be wrapped around Harper, playing hide the banana. “How many people were promised a street-facing booth?”
Nearly every hand went up. Which was impossible. There were ten street-facing booths and at least twenty women claiming them. “Keep your hand in the air if Seth here promised you one of the ten street-facing booths.” Half of the hands remained. “Now, if it was McGuire you spoke with . . .” The other half went up.
Adam glanced back at his men, who were standing behind separate tables, with separate plot maps, and looking at the ground like two kids caught with their hands down their pants.
“I didn’t know Freshman over there was giving out the same booth numbers,” McGuire said, as if it were all Seth’s fault.
Adam sighed, long and hard, because Ida was right. He was surrounded by boneheads. Of course, he could be a card-carrying member, considering he’d been the one to make the executive decision to place Seth and McGuire in charge of booth registration. He’d also chosen to spend that past hour watching Harper flutter around town again instead of keeping watch over his team.
First, because Harper was a hell of a lot more fun to look at. But mostly, being under someone’s thumb never helped Adam any. And he didn’t think it would help these two.
When he was younger, and an FNG himself, being under someone’s thumb only made him squirm. It wasn’t until Roman let him screw up enough to learn, but not enough to get singed, that he became the firefighter he was today.
He figured that Seth and McGuire needed some direction, maybe a little example of how to manage a situation, but he didn’t think they need their fucking hands held.
“Freshman or not, he is your teammate, McGuire, and you, as the senior member, should have had his back,” Adam said, wondering why he sounded like his old man.
“I’ll remember that, sir.” McGuire gave a single, tense nod. Translation: order received and understood, now go fuck yourself.
Adam opened his mouth to tell McGuire he was already doing a good enough job of it, when something hit him. What his men needed was a positive example, the guy who Harper swore she saw when she looked at him. The shit of it was, he needed that guy right then too.
Adam placed a hand on McGuire’s shoulder and leaned in so only the two of them were privy to the conversation. “I know you don’t want to be here, man. I don’t blame you, this is a shit assignment, but it’s important to the town and the department, which was why I requested you.” McGuire’s shoulders lifted at the praise. “You have a lot of expertise to share, expertise that I think this event and Seth can benefit from. He needs to be shown how things work, and I am counting on you to make sure there’s open communication among the crew. That he fits in. Can you do that?”
McGuire’s chest puffed out about four thousand feet and he smiled. “Yes, sir.”
Adam clapped him on the shoulder, then turned to the crowd and plastered on that Baudouin smile women loved so much. “I apologize about the mix-up. Unfortunately, we have ten street-facing booths and twenty of you claiming them.”
“Too bad, those booths are rightfully owned by ten veteran vendors,” Ida hollered.
“I’ve been at booth seven since sixty-eight,” someone in the back yelled. “And now those yahoos from the yoga studio are claiming it’s theirs!”
“Sixty-eight sounds like it’s time you gave someone else a shot!”
All at once, everyone began shouting. It started with locations versus sales, quickly moved to how smooth last year went, and took an ugly turn at “If I don’t get my booth, I want a refund!” Which meant the event would fail. Under his direction.