“Thanks. Being a single parent wasn’t how I imagined this all going, and this last year has been rough, but I finally feel like I’m getting a handle on things. San Diego got me thinking that I should find a way to carve out some time for myself again. Like you said. Maybe even get back out there and start meeting people like—”
People like me? Harper wanted to ask, because when Clay had returned from his trip earlier that day, she may have only imagined the way he’d looked at her when he’d seen her in his bed watching cartoons, but she wasn’t imagining how he was looking at her now. As if he wanted to kiss her.
But a squeal erupted from inside, and Harper turned to find two students mixing all of the colors into one.
“You’d better handle that.”
“Yeah.” Harper stuck her head in the door. “William. Violet. What are the rules when we use acrylics?”
Both kids stopped to look at her, then their hands went behind their backs. Too bad their brushes were dripping paint all over the floor.
“No mixing,” Violet said innocently.
“Then what are you doing at the supply table?”
“Mixing black paint,” William said. Violet held up her brush and smiled in agreement.
“You both have black paint”—she lifted a brow—“at your easels. Which is where you should be standing.”
“Yes, Miss H,” they said in unison, then moped back to their respective places.
Harper closed the door. “Sorry about that.”
“Not a problem.” Clay laughed, a warm and understanding laugh, and she felt everything inside her go soft. Clay understood kids, understood her job. Being a single dad made him the perfect match for her. Yet she didn’t feel any tingles today. “I came by to say thanks for watching Tommy today. He really had a great time.”
“I did too. Tommy’s a great kid and we had fun.”
“Which is why I wanted to give you this.” He held up the bag and smiled. “I asked around and found out that you have a sweet tooth. And since you’ve been so slammed, I wanted to indulge you a little, for saving my hide.”
“I do like sweets. A lot.”
Blaming the lack of tingles on stress and knowing it was now or never, Harper licked her lips to bring Clay’s attention there, then thought of a sexy scene from a book she’d just read and flicked her hair. Because, according to rule six in creating lasting appeal, feeling sexy makes one appear sexy—and with being covered in finger paint and glitter glue, Harper needed a little help in the allure department.
She wanted Clay to see her as more than a friend who was good with his son. She wanted him to see her as a sexual being who would be good in his bed.
Lowering her voice, she leaned in and rested a hand on his arm, making sure her head was tilted in case he wanted to aim that cheek-kiss somewhere more central. “You know what else I like a lot?”
Clay shook his head.
“When it’s a little dirty?” a voice cut in.
Before Harper could respond, she was spun around and two full lips crashed down on hers. Hard and demanding and with enough irritated male to have her staggering back. Because it wasn’t Clay cashing in on those benefits she was so eager to dole out—it was her very own kissing bandit there to steal more smooches.
Smooches meant for Clay.
Harper pushed back, surprised to discover just how many packs Adam had under his shirt. A twelve-pack for sure.
“What was that?” she demanded, wiping her hands across her lips, painfully aware they were tingling.
Dang misfiring tingles.
“Me, missing my girl,” Adam said, holding up a to-go bag of his own. He also held the paintbrush that had been holding her curls back, which meant her hair probably looked like an electrocuted Q-tip.
“Your girl?” she asked, a sinking feeling settling in her gut.
“According to Facebook you have some big status change you’re dying to announce.”
Harper felt her hands start to sweat. There was no way he could know she had a favor to ask. A favor she had been putting off asking because she didn’t know what she’d do if he said no. A favor that, if she asked in front of Clay, would make everything awkward.
She looked at Clay’s expression of shock and snorted. After that kiss, awkward would be a welcomed state. “It’s nothing, really.”
“Huh,” Adam said. “Aunt Luce has placed ten-to-one odds that it is a ring-required kind of status change. Which is why I thought I’d drop by and let you know I’m a size fifteen.” He wiggled a brow. “Special order.”
“You wish,” Harper mumbled.
“Ring required?” Clay said, not as horrified as Harper would have liked. In fact, he seemed excited to be chatting with Adam. “I didn’t know that you two—”
“We’re not,” Harper clarified, right as Adam said, “She had me at hello.”
Clay’s eyes bounced between the two of them like he was watching the final set at Wimbledon. Adam’s eyes? They were firmly affixed on Harper’s cleavage.
“One look at her Parisian peek-a-boos and, pow, it was like witnessing a goddess being born.”
“Parisian peek-a-boos?” Clay asked, his brows folded in on themselves.
“You peeked at my Parisian peek-a-boos,” Harper clarified.