The Hotter You Burn. Gena Showalter
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him to the fridge, where he slapped together the ingredients for a turkey sandwich.
“Here,” he said.
“No, no. I couldn’t.” She backed away, though her gaze remained on the food, longing darkening in her eyes.
“You can steal my pie, but can’t accept my sandwich?”
“Allegedly stole. And maybe I learned a lesson about the perils of taking from others.”
“Maybe I don’t want to eat alone.” Though he’d had dinner with Tawny, he made a second sandwich. “Did you ever think of that?”
“Oh! In that case.” Harlow nabbed the offering so fast she probably had whiplash. At first, she tried to eat daintily, a nibble here and there, but she soon gave up the pretense and ripped into the bread with a savagery that broke his damn heart.
Why had she stuck around Strawberry Valley so long? True, the rolling hills and colorful Main Street could have come straight out of a Thomas Kinkade portrait, and the public barbecues, block parties, swim parties, festivals and celebrations for everything from a kid’s orthodontic work to a teenager’s first date were charming enough to seduce even someone like Beck. But Harlow couldn’t support herself here, so why hadn’t she moved to the city and started fresh?
Roots? Something he was only just beginning to understand.
As a young kid he’d lost his mother to cancer and, soon afterward, his father to plain ole selfishness. Daddy Dearest had dropped him off with an aunt and just never come back. After Aunt Millie got tired of him, she’d passed him on to another family member. Rinse and repeat five times over until there was no one left, the entire lot refusing to take him in permanently. He’d become a ward of the state, shuffled from one foster home to another. While some had been nice, others had been bona fide hellholes.
The back door opened, hinges creaking. Jase Hollister stepped into the kitchen with Brook Lynn in tow, the two pink-cheeked and breathless.
“Hey, man.” Jase bumped fists with Beck.
“Hey.”
Jase and West had been stuck in the system with him, and they’d understood him in a way he hadn’t understood himself. They’d bonded at meeting one, and they’d become each other’s only family, sticking together through good times and bad. He loved them. Hell, he would die for them.
Brook Lynn noticed Harlow and frowned. “What’s she doing here?”
Harlow must have endured her limit of insults for the day, because she flipped her hair over her shoulder and said, “Beck saw me and chased me down. He insisted I spend private time with him here at the house.”
He rubbed his fingers over his mouth to hide his grin. “This is true.”
“Beck.” Brook Lynn radiated concern. “You don’t know her or the evil she’s capable of. Don’t sleep with her, please. She’s—”
Jase spoke over his girl, saying, “This is where we part ways,” as he dragged her away.
The past few months had softened him, the man many would call “a hardened criminal.” For once, Beck had to admit a change had been for the best.
After Jase’s nine-year prison stint, he’d needed a fresh start in a new place. He’d picked Strawberry Valley, enamored by the wide-open spaces and community support.
Moving with him had been a no-brainer for Beck, despite the challenges. Being without his friend for so long had been bad enough, but he and West owed Jase more than they could ever repay. And really, that debt was the reason Beck had never complained when Jase renovated the ramshackle farmhouse. The reason he grinned as his surroundings were altered bit by bit.
“I should be going,” Harlow announced.
Beck focused on her. “Nice try, honey, but we still have unfinished business. How did you get inside the house?” He hadn’t seen a single sign of forced entry. Not that he’d been paying much attention before or after he’d chased her down.
“Well...I kind of have a key.” She plucked at an invisible piece of lint on her shirt, adding, “Is now a bad time to mention I don’t like the repairs you’ve made on the house?”
“You do not have a key. Jase changed the locks our first day here.” The guy was distrustful of strangers. They all were. They’d learned to be.
“Well...he may or may not have left the new keys on the porch while he ran to the backyard to get his tools.”
And she’d just happened to be nearby, watching? And none of them had noticed? “As of tomorrow, your key won’t work.”
A flash of fury in her ocean-blues, quickly extinguished by defeat. She put her chin down and hunched her shoulders, the same pose she’d struck in so many of the pictures. “Yeah. I figured.”
Damn it. His chest began to ache. How many knocks had this girl taken in her young life?
And why did he even care? Yes, her pictures had intrigued him. Yes, she was hot as hell. But devoting so much time and energy to one woman wasn’t his MO.
“If you were hungry, why didn’t you come to the door and ask us for food?”
She went ramrod straight. “I didn’t—I don’t—need your help.”
Ah. Pride. The downfall of so many. He’d once tried to convince himself he didn’t need anyone, either, that he was fine on his own. Meanwhile, anytime he’d spotted a happy family, he’d felt as though he were being run over by a car.
“You did—you do—need my help, or you wouldn’t be here.” As she glared at him, he added, “How’d you lose the house, anyway?”
“That’s none of your business,” she stated flatly.
“You blew through your mother’s insurance money. Got it.” The day of the purchase, the broker had prattled on about the Glass bully losing her mom earlier in the year and refusing to lower herself by getting a job. Beck had only half listened at the time and had regretted it with every fiber of his being since finding the box of photos. Now he tried to dredge up any other information he might have heard without any luck. “What are you, Harlow Glass?”
Her lips pursed, drawing his gaze and holding it hostage. Those lips were better than the pictures had promised. Plump and red, the kind every man fantasized about devouring...and being devoured by. She shifted from foot to foot, more nervous now than when she’d first arrived.
“What do you mean? What am I? What kind of question is that?”
“The legit kind. What do you do for a living? Are you a life coach? Accountant? Underwear model?” He looked her over, careful to avoid the dangerous beauty of her face—but the rest of her proved just as detrimental to his mental health. “Femme fatale?”
“I’m not a heartbreaker, that’s for sure. Not like some people I’ve recently met.”
“Meaning me?”
“Yes, you,” she said with a nod. “Who else? You’ve never dated the same woman twice. Not since you’ve been here, at least.”
Or ever. “So?” Yes, he slept around. But why not? Sex felt good and for a few hours, he could drown himself in pleasure. No thoughts. No problems. No worries. His version of therapy.
“So. I wasn’t finished. You’ve got a woman in your bedroom right this second, but you’re still out here—” she waved her arm around the kitchen “—flirting with me.”
“This isn’t flirting, sweetheart. This is an interrogation.”
“Ha! An interrogation implies I’m being threatened, but the only part of me currently in any danger is my mouth. You’re staring.”
Was he? “Am I scaring you...or exciting you?”
Her