“It should be, but it’s not.”
Lacing their fingers, he moved them down the hall until they reached the door to the engine bay, which was as pristine as the rest of the house, but they kept walking. Until they reached a little patio on the back side of the building.
It was isolated and incredibly romantic, with little twinkle lights hidden in the shrubs and dangling from the umbrella. Harper’s heels clicked on the cobblestone floor as a warm evening breeze blew past, bringing the scent of rosemary from the small chef’s garden, which sat in the back corner. Right below a window into the kitchen, where she could see the guys pass by.
So if he didn’t want privacy, then what?
“So pinups, huh?” she asked.
He slid her a sideways glance. “You shouldn’t believe everything you hear. Those guys can make a timid brush fire out to be a bold blaze.”
“So you aren’t the type to run into a building and singlehandedly save someone you’ve never met?”
“Urban legend.” Adam walked them over to a wrought iron table and pulled out a chair, but didn’t sit. He also didn’t let go of her hand. He just stared down at her with a cool, assessing gaze. “And legends always disappoint.”
“Ah, so this is the whole the myth is better than the man warning?”
Harper had heard it before, but this time it felt different. She’d seen the way Adam had interacted with his men, how he took the ribbing in stride since it worked to blow off steam and bond the rest of the crew. How incredibly sweet and patient he’d been with her students. “In this case, I think the man is better than the myth.”
His lips curled up slightly. “Why is that?”
“First off, regarding that whole Five-Alarm Casanova business, they’re actually talking about the monthly game at Pricilla Martin’s.”
Harper knew this gathering well since Clovis regularly attended. Harper had even gone a few times with Clovis. It was loud, wild, and high stakes—but panty tossing? She couldn’t see it.
The Pi Etas were a secret society of bakers and poker players in wine country, who loved to mix playing cards with swapping crust recipes. Sure, when things got too vanilla they’d spice it up by betting coupons or tricks of the pie trade. But strip poker? No way. It was an apron-required kind of event.
Unless, however, they’d invited the Masonic Lodge for a tasting. Then all bets were off.
His laugh, which lit up his entire face, said it was one and the same, which meant that it had been a more pie enthusiasts and less pinup dolls type experience.
“Why don’t you just tell the guys the truth?” she asked. “The rumors can’t be helping any with the promotion.” He shrugged and Harper had a niggling feeling, similar to the one she got right before Clovis dropped a bomb—like, she needed someone to post bail or hide a body. “There’s more to the story.”
“A whole lot more,” he admitted on a sigh. “The call turned out to be from Aunt Connie’s place, where I found Selma Roux sitting at the kitchen table disoriented. The curtains were charred and she had no idea how she’d gotten there, or why she was in nothing but flour and her bloomers, holding a burned blackberry pie and a fire extinguisher.”
“She snuck out of the assisted living facility to bake a pie?”
“No, this was right before she went in, and she didn’t know where the pie came from. My best guess is she made it at my aunt’s,” Adam said. “I guess she’d wandered off before, but she’d find herself in the garden or her front yard, never a few blocks over. In the middle of the night. She was a mess, broken up about the thought of leaving her house and all the memories. And when she learned that Connie had called the fire department she started crying.”
“Oh, poor Selma,” Harper said, remembering how difficult that transition had been for the older woman. She’d lost her husband a few years back, and with him, her memories. It was as if her pain and sadness disguised itself as forgetfulness, and the woman who used to remember every kid’s name and birthday in town could barely remember how to get home. “So you made up a story so that you wouldn’t have to call Adult Protective Services?”
Adam shrugged. “I made her a deal—if she let me drive her home and promised to contact the assisted living facility the next day, my aunt would invite a few neighbors over. Selma agreed and the ladies showed up with pajamas, liquor, and an outpouring of compassion. Ended up staging what turned out to be the monthly Pi Eta strip poker party. With everyone in their skivvies, Selma didn’t seem so out of place when the crew arrived.”
“And you became Five-Alarm Casanova.”
“The guys razzed me some, and I think it cost me my first shot at lieutenant, but it didn’t matter. Selma was able to say goodbye to her home on her own terms. Not the department’s.”