In the Mood for Love (16 page)

“Not comfortable in the spotlight,” Harper said. “Got it. But surely if someone … say as big as Brice and Kaylee called … if they wanted to book the Cupcake Lovers for their talk show…”

“I don’t care if David Letterman knocked on my door. I’ve never been one of those people who craved their fifteen minutes of fame.”

“A phrase coined by Andy Warhol back in the late sixties,” Harper said as she checked her phone for more messages. She was trying for nonchalant. Meanwhile she flashed on the time one of her top (and most arrogant) clients refused to sign for another season of a popular reality show, determined to move on to more highbrow entertainment. Like
that
had a chance of happening. Between Harper and the client’s agent, they’d enticed Tatiana (Tah-Tah) Remington to re-up via a publicity campaign designed to stroke her monumental ego.
That
Harper could spin. Sam didn’t care about recognition or adoration. It was almost beyond Harper’s scope. “Warhol spoke of notoriety in the future, only he had no notion of social media. Today, most people would kill for
five
minutes of worldwide fame that could be achieved in a 140-character tweet if tweeted and retweeted by the right people.” She glanced over at Sam who always seemed at a loss or annoyed when she was immersed in social networking—a necessity given her line of work. “Do you even
have
a Twitter account?”

“No.”

“Facebook?”

He shook his head.

“Instagram? Tumblr? MySpace? I heard MySpace is making a comeback. Google Plus?”

“There’s such a thing as sharing too much information,” Sam said. “Especially personal information. What would I
tweet
about?”

Harper shifted in her seat, jazzed by the turn in conversation. Social media. Publicity. Her comfort zone. She saw a way to not only benefit the Cupcake Lovers, but Sam. “It doesn’t have to be personal, although the personal touch helps. Your primary focus could be your work. Carpentry, furniture-making, renovation. You could post pictures of your designs, your creations.”

“I do that on my Web site.”

“I’ve seen your Web site. Your furniture is stunning but the site … It’s static and boring and the Web design borderline amateur.”

He raised a brow.

Oops.
“Tell me you didn’t design it yourself.”

“I wasn’t going for flashy.”

Two or three snarky retorts came to mind; instead Harper said kindly, “If you don’t have the time or desire to create an eye-catching, user-friendly site, you should hire a personal Web designer. Then choose one social media outlet. Just one, and start interacting—”

“Why?”

“Because you’d be building a platform and potential future clients. It’s a tool, like advertising. A way to get people talking about your furniture. It could increase business.”

“Business is fine.”

“It could be better,” Harper said with confidence. “Not that I know your financial situation—”

“Also fine.”

“But if you contacted more buyers for your custom-made furniture, you could concentrate more on your own projects rather than hiring out your services for renovation and roofing jobs, right? Work from home rather than away from home.”

He slid his shades to the end of his nose and shot her an enigmatic look. “Since you do most of your work from home wouldn’t that put an additional strain on our relationship? Twenty-four/seven under the same roof?”

“Except we wouldn’t be under the same roof. You could convert the barn into a workshop and storage unit. I’ll keep to the house. That way we’d both be there for Ben and Mina this summer instead of relying on a battalion of sitters.”

“I don’t have a battalion of sitters. I have,
had,
three. Pretty sure Bridgett is on her way out.”

“I’m just saying, this marriage thing, it’s going to be a big adjustment. Not just for us, but especially for Ben and Mina. If you thought they had issues before … What if they hate living at the farm? What if they grow to hate
me
? What if Ben crawls further into his shell and Mina clings even tighter? I’m thinking if we’re both around as much as possible maybe we could head off any catastrophes or at least watch each other’s backs. I just … I want to make this as easy on them as possible. It’s not their fault that I’m facing deportation.”

Harper fingered her bracelet—
twirl, twirl
—and cursed her recent penchant for “what-ifing” herself into a frenzy. Usually she used that quirk in a more positive way.

What if I pitch a story to TMZ and it goes viral? What if it gets so huge that it lands in a broadsheet? What if the massive hits garner my client a feature on
The Today Show
or better yet, a guest appearance on
Late Night with Jimmy Fallon?

Except she wasn’t spinning the career path of a jaded celebrity. She was overseeing the lives of two innocent children. Fanciful Mina and misfit Ben. If seeing their rooms had tugged at her heartstrings, what would happen when she interacted with them on a daily basis? Would she rise to the occasion or drop the ball? The potential for failure was massive. And all because Harper was desperate not to return to Canada.

She stared out the front window, her phone dead weight in her hands, her heart heavy in her chest. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt so selfish.”

“Funny,” Sam said as they passed a slow-moving car. “I was admiring your sensitivity.”

Harper flushed. He thought she was
sensitive
? Most people considered her self-absorbed. Coworkers at Spin Twin Cities, but first and foremost Edward Wilson.

“
You cared more about yourself than my son
.”

Temples throbbing, Harper scrambled to change the subject, thumbed on her phone and pulled up her Twitter account. “That thing you said about spinning the birth of Chloe’s baby into something positive for the CL’s charities—I’m on it.”

Sam reached across the seat and palmed her thigh.

Harper swore his touch burned through the fabric of her jeans, scorching a path to her constricted chest. She tweeted like a madwoman intent on blocking tender thoughts regarding the man who kept chipping away at her iced-over heart.

“That thing you said about my Web site and amping my business,” Sam said. “Noted.”

*   *   *

By the time they reached the hospital in Pixley—a thirty-minute drive east of Sugar Creek—Sam was a little in love with Harper Day. He’d been primed to lose his heart for months. He never guessed it would be to her. Her rabid concern regarding Ben and Mina were his undoing. Although Harper was inexperienced with children and even though she’d claimed she didn’t want to be a mom, he knew she’d go out of her way to ensure they were cared for and, if she could
spin
it, happy.

She’d been silent for the last ten minutes of their drive, focused on her phone as she worked some sort of media magic via her social networks. Sam figured she’d fill him in once she had something to report. Meanwhile he’d stolen the occasional look, admiring her beautiful profile and aching to kiss that gorgeous mouth, a mouth that had commanded his attention since the moment they’d first met. A mouth that had skimmed and scorched almost every part of his body—most especially his favorite part. Yeah, boy, the woman was not shy.

By the time he parked the truck in the medical center’s crowded lot, Sam had a full-fledged hard-on. Luckily his T-shirt was untucked and hanging low enough to conceal the bulge in his jeans. Nevertheless, he blocked their former racy liaisons from his mind as he rounded the hood and helped Harper out of the cab. The plan was to walk off this damnable boner by the time they entered Pixley General. Which gave him less than a minute.

Good luck with that
.

“I texted Daisy who spoke to Chloe and Dev and then texted me back with a thumbs-up regarding my agenda,” Harper blurted, still focused on her phone as Sam guided her through a maze of cars. “I didn’t want them to feel exploited, so I waited for their permission. Which didn’t take long, and since I’d already prepped a release, I’m already off and running.”

“I can see that.”

“I’m doing a media blitz through my personal accounts as well as the Cupcake Lovers fan page.”

“I didn’t know we had a fan page.”

“On Facebook.”

“Oh, right. Rocky mentioned something about that a while back.”

“I can’t believe you’ve never been on it.”

“Rocky and Chloe manage it.”

“But as a CL member you should contribute.” Harper waved him off. “We’ll talk about it later. I’m busy hyping the fact that a new Cupcake Lover is on the way. Boy or Girl? Ideas for names? Stay tuned for a cybercupcake celebration. Every now and then I intersperse mention of the CL mission,” she said, talking and texting at the same time. “And I’ve shared links to Operation Shoebox and Soldiers’ Angels. Celebrate the arrival of our new little cupcake by supporting—”

“Toast.”

“What?”

“Thought I could walk it off, but, yeah. No. I’m toast.” Sam snaked his arm around Harper’s waist, steering her away from the front entrance and down the west side, into the hedges, behind a sign and a tree. Not perfectly secluded, but secluded enough.

“What are you—”

“Hold that thought.” He pulled her into his arms and kissed her with the randy passion of his youth. Instead of resisting or tempering his attention, Harper matched his fervor, wrapping her legs around his waist when he lifted and backed her against the brick wall. She clung, she kissed, she grinded against his erection. They vied for control and his adrenaline spiked. Sam was vaguely aware that they were making out in the bushes like a pair of horny teens. Mostly he was thinking about getting in her pants, moving inside her, and rocking both of their worlds. He’d been hot for this kiss for hours. Hell, he’d been hot for a kiss like
this
for a lifetime. In this moment, Harper was all he knew. All he wanted. The intensity of his need shocked some sense into his lust-crazed brain. He was
not
going to nail her in broad daylight, in public.

Harper must have sensed his hesitation. They pulled back at the same time, staring at each other in stunned silence. Sam noted her smeared lipstick, flushed face, and mussed hair, thinking she was the most passionate and beautiful woman on this planet. Wondering how he’d gotten so lucky a second time around.

“Don’t look at me like that. Don’t…” Looking panicked now, Harper scrambled out of Sam’s arms. She dug in the purse strapped over her shoulder, passed him one of those individually wrapped towelettes. “You have lipstick on your face.”

“You, too.”

They both wiped at the smeared evidence of that mind-warping kiss. Sam tempered his breathing, sensitive to the tension in Harper’s shoulders as she tamed her hair into a tidy ponytail and reapplied her lipstick. He could almost see her erecting more walls. Donning more armor.

“That thing about us not having sex until after we’re married,” Harper said in a rush. “I want to revise that. I don’t think we should have sex at all. Before
or
after. We should probably nix the kissing, too. Yes, definitely. Kissing is out. Except maybe a peck. For appearance’s sake. Since we’ll have to sleep in the same room, maybe we should consider twin beds. Separate beds. Absolutely. Why tempt the devil? We agreed this was a business arrangement, right? We both have an agenda, a goal. So we should keep sex and feelings and stuff out of it. Keep it simple and civil and—”

“It won’t work.”

She blinked up at Sam with the dismayed gaze of a trapped animal.

“You can’t shut me out, Harper. I’m already in.”

She balled her fists at her sides. “I meant what I said about sex.”

“I’m sure you did.”

“I’m going inside.”

“Right behind you.”

She turned and pushed through the hedges. No graceful way about that but at least she managed not to take a header when her toe caught on a root.

Sam adjusted himself and followed, his heart pounding against his ribs. Harper was falling for him. They’d moved beyond
just sex
. They’d moved on to intimate. If she could, he was pretty sure she’d run. But then she’d have to return to Canada. Obviously, he was the lesser evil. His pride might have reared if he weren’t feeling so damned smug. And, oh, yeah.
Happy
.

His phone pinged with an incoming text. From Harper. Who was literally three steps ahead of him.

SCREW YOU
.

Sam’s lips twitched as he thumbed his reply.
ANYTIME
.

SEVENTEEN

“Are you sure you’re not overheated?”

“I’m sure. Just don’t let me walk into any carts or gurneys. My vision is limited.”

“Give me your paw.”

“I need it to wave to people.”

“Wave with your other paw.”

“Technically they’re hooves. Oh, never mind.” Daisy reached out and Vincent grasped her … whatever. She appreciated his help even though she was feeling prickly. She
was
overheated and her glasses had fogged up. But she didn’t want to take off her moose head in public and ruin the illusion. She’d just spent twenty minutes in the children’s ward spreading cheer as Millie the Moose. It was a heck of a lot better than twiddling her thumbs in the waiting room worrying about Chloe and wondering when it was ever going to be her turn to visit. She’d been hugging a little boy suffering from a kidney ailment when Vincent had nudged her saying the text she’d been waiting for had finally come through.

Tickled pink that she was finally going to have her chance with Chloe, Daisy waved her good-byes, the children’s giggly cheers ringing in her antlered ears as Vincent escorted her out of the ward and into the elevator. The only thing Daisy enjoyed more than working at Moose-a-lotta was her occasional jaunts as Millie Moose. Sometimes she felt like she’d missed her calling. Like she should’ve been a professional actress. Although Chloe (who’d lived in New York City and had dabbled in everything from acting to costume design) had assured Daisy the entertainment biz wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. It was most definitely a high-stress field if Harper’s hyper demeanor was any indication.