by Tracy Wolff
“I just wanted to prove that we took the photo today.” Lyric made it sound like the most logical thing in the world.
“What are people saying about it? Has anyone noticed that I’m not Lyric.” Harmony tried to read over his shoulder. “I need credit for the mess last night.”
“That was you?” Tre sounded so relieved. “I thought Wonder Woman had lost her mind.” He crossed his legs. “Wait a minute, why on earth would you want credit for last night?”
She told him all about Momma, the bakery, Food Network, and winning Cupcake Cage Match.
“Hold the honey buns, that was you?” He looked her up and down. “It was you. Those chocolate pecan pie espresso cupcakes looked fantastic.”
“Wait, you were at the finals in Las Vegas?” She’d never met anyone in real life who knew about Cupcake Cage Match. It had only aired on TV once as an hour-long special.
“Of course. My ex was an underground baker. He wasn’t very good so he didn’t even make it to the state championships.” Tre sighed dramatically. “He was so pretty to look at but so dumb. Perfect abs, though. I’m a sucker for a six-pack.”
Harm threw out a fist. Tre was good people. “I hear ya.”
Lyric nodded. “So do I.”
His phone buzzed with a new notification.
“Uh oh.” He pressed the phone to his chest so no one could read the screen. “I’m afraid I have some bad news.” He tilted his head to the left and then shook it. “The media thinks the photos are faked. TMZ just reported that they’re photoshopped.”
Harmony threw her hands up. “This is crazy. How is this even possible? I can’t catch a break.”
“Calm down, Super Girl, I’ve got this.” His eyes raked over her dirty T-shirt and comfy short-shorts. “First, we need to go shopping.” He waved his hand up and down her body. “This, needs some coverage. I get the whole femme-fatale-meets-badass thing you’re trying to pull off, but it most certainly is not working. Second, we’re going to call a friend of mine who works for the morning news program, Wake Up Fort Worth. We need to get you on TV ASAP.”
“Really?” Normally Harmony had a hard time accepting help from anyone, but there was just something about Tre that made her feel better already. And if he’d managed to fix Lyric’s plane disaster, she was more than willing to give him a shot at fixing her mess too. “Lyric was right about you, you’re just the right person at just the right time.”
He put his arm around Lyric. “I do what I can.”
“I can’t go shopping. I have work to do.” Lyric started typing again. Clearly, astrophysics involved lots of typing since that seemed to be all her sister freakin’ did.
“Your family is in crisis.” Tre looked down his nose at her. “Family first. Shopping second. Work third.”
“I don’t know if ruining my sister’s reputation is actually a crisis, but I guess this can wait.” Lyric closed her laptop.
“Good, now we need to think couture. I feel like we need to establish your different personalities through your clothes.” He looked at Lyric and then Harmony and back to Lyric. “Correction, it looks like you’ve already done that. We need to establish the personalities I’m going to assign to you through your clothes.” He put a hand on top of Lyric’s. “I appreciate the Kat Von D meets Betty Crocker thing you’ve got going on, but I think we need to glam it up. There’s a fine line between sexy and trashy.” He patted her hand. “You’re just south of sexy.”
“That’s harsh.” Harm brushed some flour off of her T-shirt. “These clothes don’t define me.”
“Well, thank God for that. You look like a hobo hooker.” Tre stood. “Now, someone point me in the direction of a guest room with a shower, because I just got off a red-eye I worked with Jolinda. She’s a little heavy-handed with the perfume, so I smell like old lady.” He pointed an index finger at Harm and then at Lyric. “You two need to get dressed.”
“I am dressed.” Lyric pointed to her T-shirt.
“Sure you are, Wonder Woman, but I meant in something that didn’t come from T-shirts.com. Did your parents dress you like that and that’s why y’all don’t know any better?” He sounded like he was honestly trying to figure it out.
“You should meet our mother.” Harm rolled her eyes. “She’s just like you, only a little taller, a lot bitchier, and way meaner. And she only wears Chanel.”
“So your wardrobes are some sort of rebellion, then.” He thought about it for a second. “I admire rebellion, but this,” he pointed to the T-shirts, “has moved into mutiny territory. And the only people you are hurting are yourselves.”
“I take it back. Mom’s not half as bitchy as you are.” Harm stood and stretched. “I’ll show you to the guest room across from mine.”
“It will be good to get into some civilian clothes.” He grabbed the handle of his rolling bag as they walked past it. “I feel like I’ve been wearing this uniform for a month.”
“Just so you know, I have other clothes … different clothes.” Harmony didn’t know why she was so hell-bent on people-pleasing Tre.
“A gold-lamé bikini doesn’t really count, Super Girl, but I’ll give you points for trying.” His rolling bag got caught on the lip of an area rug. She didn’t feel the need to help him.
“No, I really do.” She opened the door to her room and led him to the walk-in closet. “See.”
He looked at the handful of dresses from Talbots, Ann Taylor, and Chico’s that she’d brought with her. Then stared just as hard at the black leather mini and red catsuit.
He sighed dramatically. “I got here just in time. You have multiple wardrobe personality disorder. I know a cry for help when I see one.” He one-arm-hugged her. “Don’t worry, Sybil. I promise we’re going to put all of your humpty-dumpty personality pieces back together again.”
An hour later, they all walked into the garage. Lyric hit a button on the wall, and the garage door rolled up. Sunlight backlit Cherry Cherry.
Was it Harmony’s imagination, or did Cherry Cherry have an ethereal glow? Then again, hellfire could give that same glow. Lyric would probably tell Harmony that she was glowing because Heath had had her waxed the other day, but Harmony wasn’t so sure—even if she was parked to show off her shine, like she was staged for a car show.
“What in God’s name is that?” Tre’s nose was pinched up like he’d just drawn the short straw and had to change a stinky diaper.
“It’s Cherry Cherry.” Lyric opened the driver’s-side door. “She’s kind of temperamental, so you need to be nice to her.”
Tre glanced at Harmony. “Is she for real?”
“Unfortunately. Cherry Cherry loves three things: Heath, a hand wax, and Neil Diamond. Not necessarily in that order. It’s best if you flatter her.” Harmony wasn’t ready to acknowledge Cherry Cherry as a conscious being, but she’d stopped discounting her as one after she’d been locked out one time too many.
“You do know that cars aren’t alive,” Tre stage whispered.
“You’ve never met anything like Cherry Cherry.” Lyric climbed in and closed the door. Harmony took the passenger’s seat.
“Why can’t we take the Porsche?” Tre looked longingly over at the Porsche Spyder.
“Are you planning on riding on the hood?” Harm pointed to the two-seater. “Two seats and no cargo space. Where would we put all of our shopping bags.”
Tre wilted in defeat. “You have a point. Well, if I must.” Reluctantly, he opened the back door and slid into the seat. “It’s really roomy back here. His eyes darted around like he was looking for the spirit of Cherry Cherry. “I can respect another Diamond Head.”
Cherry Cherry seemed to sigh in relief.
“Why does it smell like marijuana in here?” Tre relaxed back against the seat like he was a billionaire waiting to be driven around in his limousine.
“Her last owner could have given Bob Marley a run for his reefer.” Harmony buckled her seat belt.
Lyric turned the key and nothing happene
d. She placed both hands on the dash. “Come on, Cherry Cherry. We have to go help Heath.”
She glanced over at Harm like she needed some help convincing the car of the lie. Harmony nodded. “That’s right. He needs our help.”
Tre leaned forward between the seats. “I can’t allow you to lie to another Diamond Head. It’s just wrong. Cherry Cherry, we’re going shopping. We need you to get us there.”
Tre’s door opened.
“I think she wants Tre to drive.” Lyric looked back at him. “Is that okay?”
“I don’t drive. I Ubered over. I like to be driven around. When I make my fortune as a designer, I’m going to hire a driver.” He closed the door. “Cherry Cherry, please let Lyric drive. I’ll buy you a brand-new air freshener.”
The engine started right up.
“That’s my girl.” He blew her an air-kiss.
“It makes sense that you two would get along.” Lyric rolled her eyes.
“Like-minded people should always stick together.” Tre patted Harmony’s headrest.
Harmony wasn’t sure how long two divas could share the same space, but for now all seemed good.
“Where are we headed?” Lyric glanced in the rearview mirror before she backed out.
“Neiman’s of course. It’s my mecca.” He checked his watch. “We have just enough time to make it there for lunch. Their café has the best club sandwich in the world.”
Harmony wasn’t sure whether Tre was going to make things better or worse, but at least he was interesting. And anyway, she was out of ideas.
* * *
Chapter 17
* * *
Dalton had never had a longer day in his life. Minutes lasted for hours, and hours took days to pass. As he sat at his desk doodling on the ink blotter, he glanced at the clock on his computer monitor for the billionth time. It was only two seventeen. Was he in some sort of time loop like Groundhog Day?
He doodled some curly cues and a couple of music notes. He glanced at the clock. It was still only two seventeen. It wasn’t like he didn’t have a million things to do, but well, he missed Five-Alarm Harm. She was something special. He not only understood, but actually enjoyed, her brand of crazy.
And that was when it hit him—so hard that he dropped his Mont Blanc and sat up.
He was falling in love with Harmony.
Holy shit.
He was falling in love with Five-Alarm Harm.
He didn’t know whether he should be terrified or elated. Probably both, now that he thought about it. Because one thing was for sure, if he could get her to love him back, his hopes for a sane, peaceful life would go right out the window.
As he sat here counting down the minutes until he could see her again, that didn’t seem to matter. Just like it didn’t matter that she wasn’t wife material. All that mattered was that he was crazy about her, and he wanted her to be crazy about him too.
Which he thought she might be. How else could he have lived through handcuffing her in his office? But just because she cared about him too didn’t mean that she was interested in trying this out for the long haul.
But he wasn’t ready to let her go. Not even close. He just wished he knew how exactly this was going to play out.
Should he tell her tonight that he was falling in love with her? Or would that just scare her off? The last thing he wanted to do was put Five-Alarm Harm on the offensive … or to make her run in the other direction.
Nerves played Pac-Man with his insides. This was a nightmare. He wanted happily ever after just like the next guy, only Harmony wasn’t a happily-ever-after kinda girl.
How stupid could he be?
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, told himself he could do this.
He ran the reigning Super Bowl champion football team and negotiated multimillion-dollar deals for breakfast. He could handle one adrenaline-junkie baker with a short fuse, no matter what she decided to throw at him. It wasn’t like he didn’t deal with spoiled athletes every day of his life.
He’d just have to accept the fact that he wasn’t going to be able to control her. She was too unpredictable. Of course, that was one of the things he loved most about her.
Life with her, he smiled to himself, would never be dull.
Three hours later, he was home and wishing for a little dull. He poured himself a tequila shot and chased it with a lime. Not that he was a big drinker, but right now he needed a shot. Or several shots.
All six burners of his stove had pots full of cooking food. He sniffed the air. Something was burning. He juggled pot lids trying to figure out what was wrong, but everything looked fine-ish. Why the hell had he volunteered to cook for Harm? He didn’t cook. Well, besides microwave popcorn and the occasional egg. This morning it had seemed manly to prepare food for his woman, especially if he was going to ease around to a define-the-relationship discussion, but now he realized it was one of the worst ideas he’d ever had.
One more shot to steady his nerves—hell, he wasn’t driving. Maybe he’d take two.
He was just reaching for the bottle when the smoke detector started screeching. The kitchen filled with smoke. And that was when it hit him. The oven. Crap, the turkey.
Goddammit. This was the worst idea he’d ever had.
But he’d wanted to do something special for Harmony, something to show her that he really cared. At his house, that thing had always been Thanksgiving dinner.
Growing up, it was the one time of the year his mother ever cooked. So to him, this was what a home-cooked meal should be. But now that he thought about it, that might have been a little ambitious to try for his first home-cooked meal.
As if to prove his point, when he yanked the oven door open, flames shot out. He grabbed the fire extinguisher from under the sink and doused Tom Turkey until he was swimming in white foam.
Was blackened turkey the same as charred turkey? Blackened sounded so much better than charred. And it looked better too. Surely, he couldn’t serve this. It was burned all to hell and covered in—he looked down at the fire extinguisher—whatever was in there to put out fires.
To make matters worse, his whole place smelled like Five-Alarm Harm had already tried to burn it to the ground. He really hoped it wasn’t a bad omen.
He jogged over to the giant floor-to-ceiling windows that served as the exterior wall of his kitchen and living room space in the old mill turned condos where he lived and opened the heavy multi-paned windows in an effort to get the smoke out before the fire department—or worse, Harm—showed up.
When the smoke detector finally stopped screeching and he could think again, he took stock of what he had left for dinner. There was the cornbread dressing … He slouched against the cabinets next to the kitchen sink. It had been baking on the rack under the turkey, so that was out.
There were French-cut green beans on the stove. He lifted their lid. They looked like black dried-out worms. He glanced at the chicken stock he’d been about to add to them when the turkey had broken out in flames. Too late now. Green beans were off the list.
He lifted the lid on the macaroni and cheese. Because it was a special occasion, he’d bought the deluxe box kind instead of just the plain old mac and cheese. Just to make sure the noodles were cooked through, he’d let them boil for almost an hour. Turned out that wasn’t a great plan, since they’d fallen apart as soon as he added the cheese sauce. Now they kinda looked like bright-orange oatmeal.
The mashed potatoes didn’t look that bad—he was kind of proud of them. As he didn’t have a potato masher or a hand mixer, he’d ended up using a hammer to beat them into submission. Sure, they were kinda lumpy and—he peered closer—a little rust filled. But rust was okay, right? A little oxidized metal never hurt anyone. Or at least, had never killed anyone.
Shoulders slumped in defeat, he turned to look at the gravy. He lifted that lid and the smell was so bad it nearly knocked him over, so slammed the lid back down. When it cooled down, he was throwing that one away, pot
and all.
Finally, there was the chocolate sauce he was making to put on the ice cream he’d bought for dessert. He’d also been hoping to pour it all over Harmony, but when he lifted that lid, all that was left of his beautiful sauce was a gritty, smoking blob. He obviously should have gone with the brown plastic bottled stuff from Hershey’s.
Fuck. Just fuck. He’d ruined every damn thing he’d tried to make and nearly burned his loft down in the process. Five-Alarm Harm had nothing on him.
It was definitely time to order pizza.
Then again … He surveyed his kitchen. It looked like a bomb had gone off. Maybe they should go out for dinner and he should have a hazmat crew come in and hose everything down.
Resigned now, he grabbed a trash bag and was just starting to dump the mess—pans and all—when his buzzer rang.
He glanced down. Splotches of fire foam mixed with the other cooking muck splattered on his shirt and jeans. But if he took the time to change clothes, Harm might leave, thinking he wasn’t home.
Fuck it. He’d made the mess. Might as well own it.
He headed to the door and pressed the buzzer to let Harmony up. He opened the front door, and in a moment the penthouse elevator door rolled open.
And there stood Harmony, wearing nothing but killer black high heels, tiny black lace panties, a black leather motorcycle jacket, and a sinful smile.
His brain shut down and all he could do was stare. He ran his hand across his mouth checking for drool. No drool.
“I’ll take your slack-jawed expression as a sign that you like my new underwear.” She tossed a black dress over her shoulder and strutted out of the elevator. If he thought the front view was nice, the back was even better. An itty-bitty string disappeared between her perfectly round ass cheeks.
“I hope you were wearing the dress when you walked through the lobby, or my doorman probably had a heart attack and is dead on the front sidewalk.” He closed the door and leaned against it, just taking her in. Every square inch of her was perfect. Lucky, lucky him.
What a wonderful feeling it was to be in love with the person he was also lusting over.
