otherwise have to buy. The idea is to funnel as much profit back into the program as possible, right?”
“Absolutely.” The timer for the jets clicked off, but for once his attention didn’t go to her suddenly much more visible body. He gave her a puzzled look. “How do you know so much about this?”
“I’ve had a bazillion temporary jobs, and one of them was taking over an auction coordinator position for a private school when the one they had was put on bed rest during the final trimester of her pregnancy.”
“And you just—what?—knew what to do?”
“No.” She gave him a rueful smile. “Far from it. I didn’t have the first notion how an auction was run. Luckily for me, several of the parents who’d spent their PIP hours working on the auction did, and they taught me.”
“What the hell are PIP hours?”
“Oh, sorry. It stands for Parent Involvement Program. Most private schools designate a given number of hours parents are expected to volunteer at their kids’ school.” She stood up and water cascaded down her. “Hand me that towel, will you?”
Sweet Mother Mary. His good intentions went up in smoke, but screw it—he claimed the guy defense again. Fumbling for the towel folded near his feet, he handed it over, then simply stared as she patted herself dry. He’d assumed she had on a bikini, which until tonight he’d pretty much considered the gold standard of sexy beachwear.
The one-piece suit that molded faithfully in all the right places was hands-down sexier. The band beneath the black-and-white bra part tied around her neck and behind her back like a bikini top, but was attached to a solid black body that was cut in toward her waist, low on her back and high on her thighs. And its wet spandex clung to every luscious inch it covered.
“Hooyah,” he breathed when she turned three-quarters away from him, propped a foot on the edge of the tub and bent to dry her lower leg. He had to physically restrain himself from reaching out to stroke the sweet, firm curve of her ass. He cleared his throat and sternly recalled the topic they’d been discussing before her rise like Venus from a fucking shell had blown it from his mind. “Why didn’t one of those parents just take over?”
She glanced over her shoulder at him. “You’re a logical thinker, aren’t you? And hiring someone familiar with the program would make sense...if even one of them had been in the market for a short-term job that was about to transition from part-time to ten-hour days.”
That got his mind back in the game. “I thought you said it wasn’t that difficult!”
“The scenario I propose for Cedar Village isn’t. But the kind of auction I did for the school was held in an Atlanta hotel, featured a sit-down meal and included enough items to fill a ballroom. It also employed an auctioneer at a live auction for the high ticket items. That’s a much more time-consuming endeavor.”
She climbed from the tub and balanced gracefully on one foot while raising the other to towel it dry. Upon finishing both feet, she turned, crossed her arms beneath her breasts and pinned him squarely in her sights. “So, have I demonstrated enough experience to volunteer at the Village?”
Luckily for him, it was dim out here, so the blood he felt surging up his throat and onto his face likely didn’t show. He’d inferred that she might have nothing the home could use yesterday—or that the boys would make mincemeat of her, because he’d been rattled by the microsecond spent all but wrapped around her when he’d stepped in to help with the leaning tower of glasses. Rattled—and wanting nothing more than to avoid running into her at the one place he felt most like himself.
But he’d known when she’d made Brandon squirm with nothing more than a look that she could hold her own with the Cedar Village boys. “Yes,” he said honestly. “And then some. Do you want a regular schedule—” which he’d prefer so he could arrange, for both their sakes, to be elsewhere “—or—”
“I’d rather come when I can, if that works for you. My hours at the inn change week to week and sometimes even day to day.”
“Sure.” He pulled out his wallet again and searched through it for a Village card. Locating the one he knew was in there somewhere, he pulled it out and extended it to Harper. “Sorry this’s so battered, but the director Mary-Margaret’s name and number are on it. She’s the one to talk to, but I’ll let her know about our conversation on Thursday, which will be the next time I’ll be there, so she’ll know who she’s talking to when she gets your call.”
“Thanks, Max.” She pulled a vivid red cover-up over her suit and slid the card in its pocket, then gathered her room card and the still half-full can of pop from the little shelf. “I’ll give her a call on Friday.”
“Are you headed back to your place?”
She nodded. “Yeah. It’s been a busy day—I’m going to call it a night.” She looked him over. “You have to be pretty whipped yourself. You slaved over a hot stove and rode herd over teenage boys for a good part of yesterday, and have obviously worked today.” She indicated his department uniform and holstered gun.
He shrugged. “What can I say—I’m tough.” One hand hovering just above the small of her back, he gave her an after you sweep of his free fingers. “Come on. I’ll see you to your place, then I’m gonna head home, myself. I’ve got a beer calling my name.”
“You don’t have to walk me home.” She grinned up at him. “But you’re going to anyway, aren’t you, ’cause you’re Mister Responsible.” She turned in the direction he indicated and headed down the path that intersected with another that led to her cottage, getting ahead of his hand, which he dropped to his side.
“That’s me,” he agreed. “And for a woman I’d lay odds on being pretty damn independent, you’re being suspiciously easy to steer.”
“Never get between a man and his beer, I always say.”
“No fooling?” Tucking his hands in his front pockets, he strolled a scant inch behind her. “I just might have to marry you.”
He thought he saw her step falter, but maybe not, because he blinked and she was walking with hip-swinging ease. Not to mention the wry smile she shot him.
“You don’t think you might have kind of low standards for a future wife?” she inquired.
“Hey, I’m pretty serious about my beer.” And damn amazed that for this moment, at least, he felt downright at ease with her.
“Ah, well, then.”
They arrived at her cottage, and she turned to face him. “Thanks, Max. You truly are a nice guy.”
“No, I’m not!”
Her dark brows furrowed. “That’s not an insult.”
Except for the part where being a “nice” guy was usually the kiss of death when it came to getting laid.
He straightened. What the hell difference did that make? It wasn’t as if a woman like Harper was going to sleep with a guy like him anyway.
“You’re right,” he said, giving her a stiff smile and falling back into the professionalism he’d used from day one as a shield against his attraction to her. “It was a very nice compliment—it’s
