Gena Showalter - The Hotter You Burn

Why should Harlow care that he’d stayed true to form and paid attention to the girl once voted Most Likely to Become a Professional Jell-O Wrestler?

Beck might be gorgeous, and nice, and gorgeous, and charismatic, and gorgeous, but he still wasn’t the man for Harlow. He would never be the man for her. Even temporarily. Especially temporarily. Learn the bliss of being his woman, only to lose him? No, thanks.

Her eyes remained on the prize: stability. Falling in love, creating a home and starting a family. Her desires would never align with his. Best to tend to his garden, as owed, and then move on.

Right on time, he sailed out of the library and smiled his most devastating smile. He handed her the books he’d checked out.

“Catch you later, honey.” He ambled away, whistling a happy tune. Sounded like “Baby Got Back.”

Seriously? That was it? He was just going to leave her here?

Had he made a lunch arrangement with Suzie? Or maybe dinner—followed by bedroom dancing?

Irritation flourished, and in an effort to distract herself, Harlow hugged the books to her chest. The three hardbacks had to weigh a thousand pounds each, and her arms began to shake. As she motored forward, she did her best to remain in the shadows. Mr. Porter and Mr. Rodriguez were no longer playing checkers. Jessie Kay Dillon and her sidekick, Sunny Day, occupied the chairs, drinking whiskey from a bottle and scoring men as they walked past.

Jessie Kay whistled. “Oh, baby. I’m giving you a ten. You look like you’re into commitment. Come give me a taste of that!”

“Oh, sugar, sugar,” Sunny called. “I bet you’ve got a healthy relationship with your mom. Marry me?”

While the guys soaked up the attention, Harlow did her best to escape unnoticed.

She failed.

“Look who just entered my territory.” Sunny fist-pumped the sky. “Catfight, anyone?”

Keep walking. Harlow wasn’t male, but she was given a score anyway. Both girls held up big fat zeros.

I wrote the word slut all over Jessie Kay’s locker on more than one occasion. I dated Scott, Sunny’s ex-boyfriend, only to dump him a day later. This is deserved.

Bad choices, nasty results. No exceptions.

“You’re lucky we don’t have negative numbers, Glass,” Jessie Kay shouted.

Maybe if Harlow tried being nice for once, she’d see better results? “You look real pretty today, Sunny,” she said, flashing a smile. Forced, yes, but also sincere. The blonde was a knockout. “And Jessie Kay, I think you’re more beautiful every time I see you.”

Sunny gasped. “You dirty, rotten bitch . How dare you imply we’re ugly!”

Ugly? You’ve got to be kidding. Would no one ever give her the benefit of the doubt?

Her five-step plan might need a little tweaking.

Head down. Shoulders in. Gait fast. When she turned a corner, she noticed Mr. Brooks struggling to hang an oversize 10% Off sign in the window of his antiques shop.

Harlow hurried over. “Here, let me help you.” She placed her books at her feet and reached for the sign.

Mr. Brooks nearly fell over in an effort to keep her hands off his property. “Trying to steal from me again, Harlow Glass?”

“No, no. I just wanted to—”

“Desecrate the sign and stake it in someone’s yard. I know .”

“Give me a break,” she practically begged, picking up her books. “I’m not that girl anymore. I just wanted to help you.”

“Oh, I know exactly who you are. Now get. Get!” He kicked at the air.

“Fine. Enjoy your back strain.” She tromped off, spotting the elderly Mrs. Winthorp carrying a bag of groceries across the street.

Their eyes met. Mrs. Winthorp turned and walked in the other direction.

Nice.

Maybe Harlow should have stayed in school rather than choosing a home-study program. By the time she’d dropped out, she’d already changed, and the kids would have been forced to spend time with the new Harlow and eventually, they would have grown to like her. Physically, however, she’d been unable to sit still for long periods of time. She’d been in too much pain.

Her fingers itched to rub her scars, the habit ingrained. Think about the attack, feel the proof she’d survived it. But all she could do was squeeze the books tighter.

By the time she’d been strong enough to venture outdoors, her friends had wanted nothing to do with her.

They just need time , her mother had told her. You’re a good girl who was raised in a volatile home, and that’s my fault. I should have left your father the moment he showed his true colors. But I didn’t, and you paid the price. Now I’m going to make it up to you. As long as there’s breath in this body, I’m going to do everything in my power to take care of you.

True to her word, she’d woken Harlow every morning with breakfast and a hug. She’d encouraged Harlow in her studies and praised her every accomplishment. She’d left notes on Harlow’s pillow every night, positive affirmations meant to build her confidence.

You are a bright light.

There is nothing you cannot do.

You are a true beauty, glowing from the inside out.

“I miss you so much, Momma,” she whispered to the sky.

Martha Glass had fallen from a stepladder, and though she’d merely seemed bruised at the time, the impact had knocked loose a blood clot and she was dead by morning.

Harlow’s chin trembled, a lone tear streaking down her cheek, as hot and stinging as the sun. As much as she looked forward to a cooldown in temperature, she wasn’t looking forward to a cooldown in temperature. There were four seasons in Strawberry Valley, but unlike the rest of the world, those seasons were classified as “hotter than hell,” “tornado,” “a brief moment of intense, icy cold” and “the warm-up before hotter than hell.” Her tent often felt like a sauna, but when the snow and ice came, it would feel like a freezer.

Footsteps sounded behind her, and she swung around, arm lifted to defend herself. A scowling Scott Cameron barreled in her direction, and she stepped out of his way. He simply angled toward her, giving her shoulder a purposeful shove with his own.

“Watch where you’re going,” he spat.

She stumbled, saved from falling flat on her face by the wall of the post office. “Why don’t you grow a pair of testicles and act like a man,” she called, unable to hold back the words. A girl could be a punching bag for only so long before she had to start punching back, no matter the consequences.

Scott swung around, the muscles in his shoulders bunching, and for a moment she thought he would return to her and...what? Hit her? She didn’t want to think the worst of him, but he wasn’t giving her much choice. In the end, his gaze moved behind her and widened, and he spun to motor on.

Finally, something had gone in her favor, but it only depressed her more. The fact that a guy hadn’t punched her or called her a horrible name was the highlight of her day? Wow.

She made the trek out of town, stopping occasionally to pick up trash on someone’s lawn while mosquitoes—aka flying vampires—attacked her in droves, hungry for a little Harlow dinner. As she slapped her arm to kill one of the fiendish suckers, a prickle at the back of her neck suggested she had an audience. Tensing, she studied the tangled landscape—trees, thick underbrush, dead piles of crispy leaves—but she found no sign of a pursuer.

Her brain must be melting. She continued on, not stopping again until she reached Virgil Porter’s house. A pile of brushwood had blown in front of his mailbox, and Mr. Fritz, the postman, was the cranky sort who wouldn’t make a delivery if he had to step out of his vehicle.