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Oh no! That dangerous grin has gotten us into way too many bars when we were underage.
“Fine, I will.” She turns and begins to walk toward them.
I grasp her arm. “No, you won’t. I have to live here, Harper. Don’t embarrass me.”
She pouts, “I never embarrass you.”
“Oh wait, let me just scratch that itch from the last crab bite.”
She rolls her lips and laughs like a circus clown. Relenting, she waves her hand, “Fine, I won’t ask them, but you can’t stop me from admiring those fine, fine asses.”
I follow her eyes and see an ass so sculpted it would make Michelangelo’s David look pudgy.
Dear god, help me!
“I’m soaking wet,” Harper comments.
I wipe the beads of sweat off my forehead, “It is one hundred and ten degrees outside. Let’s get going.”
“No,” She raises a brow, “I mean, I’m. Soaking. Wet.” She winks and looks back at the men.
“Harps!” I shriek, “Seriously, you are worse than a teenage boy. Get your hormones in check; let’s get going. Don’t make me regret asking you to help me move.”
We start to walk towards my truck. I see my movers who pale, literally, in comparison to the meat market next to them. Heck, even my movers, two middle-aged men with beer bellies, one with a cigarette hanging from his mouth, watch the newcomers in awe.
Right when I think Harper is going to behave, she sidelines towards the sausage feast. Targeting the last man who is getting a box from the truck. Tall, tan, and too handsome for anyone’s good. The rest have made their first trip inside, leaving him as her perfect prey.
Poor guy will never survive her. Nobody has.
If it weren’t for her NSA job, which scares the shit out of them, I’m sure she’d have a list of stalkers a mile long.
“Howdy,” She waves, adding a sway of her hips to her walk. She lets go of the luggage and hurries over to him.
Closing my eyes, I’m half tempted to run away.Howdy! Did she really just say that?
I watch in horror as she extends her hand, her eyes remaining on the man’s bare abs in front of her. He grins, knowing exactly where her eyes are.
“I’m Harper.”
Did her voice sound more Texan, or is she adding a fake Southern Belle accent to her tone?
He sets down the box, and kid you not, he takes her hand, raises it to his lips, and presses a kiss to it.
She glances over her shoulder and mouths, Oh, my god.
“Such a gentleman,” She giggles. The sounds would make schoolgirls proud.
“I’m Kent.” His eyes drink her in. She’s a tall glass to drink, all five foot ten inches of her. Her legs make a mile look short. Long blonde hair and sky-blue eyes. She’s the American dream.
“I’m helping my brother move in.” He adds with a lopsided grin.
She playfully touches his biceps, “That’s so funny; I’m helping my bestie move in,” she giggles. Turning, she points to me. “That’s Poppy.” She waves me over, looking like a PTA mother, plastering on a smile; well, she’s trying to drag her sacrificial lamb, I mean child, from the car.
Kent looks my way; a wide white smile that’s whiter than a South Sea pearl reflects back at me. “Hey, Poppy. I’m Kent.”
Of course, you are. Got a Superman cape hidden in one of those boxes because you sure fit the bill as a superhero.
I don’t want to walk over, but that would be rude. I’m not nearly as cute as Harper. I’ve got on old yoga pants and a baggy white shirt. My hair is in a messy bun and in need of a good wash or an entire bottle of dry shampoo. I didn’t dress for a Lululemon ad like Harper did in her brand-new teal green spandex and matching crop top.
