Anything but Love

celebrities.

She’d texted back: WILL DO. And Sam had pulled away from the farm feeling as though they’d at least had some sort closure on the night and that it wasn’t just some twisted rendezvous. It helped to put him in a better place as he drove to pick up his kids. He’d put the liaison out of his head as best he could, including the bit about Daisy’s text, as he segued back to real life. His life as a single father. He’d managed through the night and morning by focusing on the kids. Not to mention being in his own house, a house filled with memories of his sweet wife had pretty much snuffed erotic thoughts about Harper.

Rae’s phone call had put an end to that.

Sam texted Harper. YOU HOME?

ON A CONFERENCE CALL

COMING OVER

BAD TIME

MAKE TIME

Sam was learning that the only way he got anywhere with Harper was by bulldozing his way in and over. She was always busy, always headstrong, and always taking control. Yes, sir, he’d gotten a good dose of her domineering ways last night. Sam had allowed so much of it because, hell, it was stimulating, before he reversed roles—even more stimulating.

Five minutes into his drive and he had an erection. What would she be wearing? Skintight jeans or clingy workout clothes? Red lipstick? Pink? Hair loose and wild or swept off that beautiful face? Now that he was out of his house and away from his kids, one erotic thought after another slithered through his brain.

The first thing he noticed when he pulled up to the house was that Leo had repaired and returned her car, which, turns out, she’d rented from the local mechanic and garage owner to begin with. The second was that whoever had shoveled her walk after last night’s late snow had done a poor job. Surely not Leo. Maybe Harper herself. Sam could imagine her hurriedly scraping a path just wide enough to navigate while she yakked on that damn phone. He made a mental note to clear a better path, throw down some salt. He didn’t want her, or anyone else, to slip and fall.

He knocked on the door. Wasn’t surprised she greeted him with a phone pressed to her ear, or when she held up a finger to bid him silent. She waved him inside, engrossed in conversation with someone named Gabby. From what Sam could make out, the woman, girl, whatever, had spent a wild, drunken night in Vegas and someone had snapped compromising shots that showed up on Twitter. Sam wasn’t into the social networking scene but he knew a lot of people who were and he knew that once something was on the Internet it was there forever. If something went viral it was either a blessing or, in this Gabby girl’s instance, a curse.

“Where was your bodyguard when this wild bunch talked you into playing strip pool in their suite?” Harper asked. A beat later she rolled her eyes. “I was afraid you were going to say that. First thing you need to do is to fire that irresponsible reprobate. His job is to keep you out of trouble, not to incite it or, in this case, play along. I don’t care if you begged him to. I don’t care if you’d been dying to see him naked. Yes, I know. Most bodyguards are built. Listen to me Gabby. Gabby! We need to concentrate on damage control. I’ll handle the bulk of it, but here’s what you’re going to do.”

Sam slipped off his coat and sat on the edge of the same red chair Mina had settled into yesterday. Rather than lose patience, he listened while Harper took calm control of a disastrous situation. Apparently Gabby was an up-and-coming star, a featured actress on a show being touted as the next Glee. She played a bubbly cheerleader type, a good girl, and that’s how her fans perceived her to be in real life. Salvaging her now-tarnished reputation struck Sam as a PR nightmare. Yet Harper was on fire, looking as though she were eating up every second of the challenge.

He didn’t get her. At. All.

When she finally signed off, her cheeks were pink, her eyes bright. “What’s up, Rambo? I’ve got a crisis to spin.”

Sam rose, not quite towering over her, but making his presence known. Holding Harper’s attention was a challenge in itself. “That text I sent you last night.”

“You don’t have to thank me. It was nothing. Seriously. I sent a couple of e-mails and texts, pitched the story with an heiress-turned-philanthropist angle. Cake. Caught on like wildfire. Did you see the flurry on TMZ?”

“What the hell is TMZ?” Every time she mentioned it his brain went to DMZ (demilitarized zone). He was pretty sure they weren’t connected.

She scrunched her brow. “What world do you live in?”

“The real world?”

She snorted then took off toward the kitchen. “Did the kids enjoy my cupcakes?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“Did you try one?”

“No.”

She tossed a narrow-eyed glance over her shoulder. “Why not?”

“About this media hype revolving around Rae. I need you to snuff it.”

“What? Why?”

“Because the Cupcake Lovers are contracted to release that recipe book with a New York publisher.”

“The text specified self-publishing.”

“I know. This isn’t your fault, precisely. It’s mine.”

She whirled then, hands on hips. “What do you mean precisely?”

“Why didn’t you check with me before you took action?’

“Why would I? You said you needed a favor. The text you forwarded me was pretty clear.”

“It was?”

“Clear on wanting to promote buzz regarding Reagan Devereux’s goodwill projects—the school, the recipe book—capitalizing on her mother’s name and her father’s fortune. Drawing attention to Sugar Creek in order to increase tourism. Drawing attention to the Cupcake Lovers to increase sales of their book and inspire additional contributions to their charitable work.”

“You got all that from Daisy’s text?”

“Didn’t you? Look,” Harper said as she turned toward her coffee maker. “Is Rae relocating to Sugar Creek?”

“Looks like.”

“Is she purchasing the local day care center and launching additional educational programs for the local kids?”

“The plan as I know it.”

“Are the Cupcake Lovers in the process of publishing—one way or another—a recipe book that will benefit various charities as well as our troops?”

“Yes.”

“Then I don’t see a problem.” She turned and handed Sam a mug of coffee. “If the club decides to go with the publishing company then I’ll shift the spin. Let me know when you know.”

Sam watched her stir raw unrefined sugar into the mug, watched as she sipped, and tried not to obsess on where those lush lips had been last night. His cock twitched in memory. “How much is this PR spin going to cost us?”

“Nothing.” She glanced at the ceiling and beyond. “I think Mary’s smiling down on me and the fact that I did something in support of the Cupcake Lovers. That’s enough for me.”

“What is it with you and your fascination with Mary Rothwell?”

“Why didn’t you taste my cupcakes?”

Sam was still focused on her mouth and distracted by the sexual tension pulsing between them. When she met his gaze, Sam felt a full-body zap. “About last night—”

“Uh-uh.” She took that as her cue to leave. “Off to save Gabby’s ass,” she said as she pushed away from the counter, mug in hand. “Love the designs you left on the table for the vintage-looking cabinets, by the way. Can you really build those from scratch?”

“Yeah.”