face pokers up as he works through my list. “Farm boy?”
He can’t be serious. “Princess Bride? The helpful, do-anything guy Buttercup keeps around her farm for fetching and carrying?”
Liam blinks at me. “Do I need to know more or should I just assume that everything I see goes back in your truck?”
“Farm boy grows up and becomes a really successful pirate.” I pat his arm, taking a moment to appreciate the muscles beneath his sleeve. “You have lots in common. Jars, hive, tables, chair, tent all go back in the truck.”
I point to each item as I rattle them off. Boxing things up seems like a big step down for a man who runs a billion-dollar company, but he offered.
“How much for the shirts?” He motions toward the small stack of Hey Honey Farm T-shirts on the far end of the table. They’re bright yellow with a frisky cartoon bee getting it on with a flower on the front. As usual, they’ve been my bestseller today.
“On the house.” Frankly, I’d pay to see Liam in one of those. He’s always so put together and dignified.
He groans and pulls out his wallet. “You can’t give things away, Hana. That shirt cost you money to produce, plus you have intellectual capital sunk in it.”
We both eye the copulating bee on the front, clearly coming to the same conclusion. That’s not intellectual capital sunk in my design. He hands me a twenty and I dutifully make change from my cashbox while he sorts through the pile for something that will fit.
When he finds one—of course it’s the XL—he sets it on top of the table and then his fingers go to his tie. Loosen the knot slowly while he watches me with his bedroom eyes. Undo his shirt buttons, one neat, orderly flick of his fingers after another. It’s just a shirt, Hana. You’ve seen him naked before. Even before our drunken lovefest at Château Sin, Liam had occasionally gone shirtless around me. Not as often as I’d have liked, but his chest wasn’t terra incognita. I could be totally cool, right?
Naked Liam.
I stare while he strips off the tie, and the dress shirt follows with a loose shake of his shoulder. Rats. He’s wearing a perfectly respectable white T-shirt underneath. While I mourn his not-nudity, he sets the tie on top of his suit jacket and then folds his shirt with retail-store-precision into a neat rectangle.
His fingers curl around the edge of the T-shirt and slowly tug upward. My breath catches and Mrs. Abernathy lets out a wolf whistle.
I clap enthusiastically because oh my God, playful Liam is the sexiest thing ever. He hums something as he teases the shirt up over his perfect abs and then pulls it over his head. For a moment our eyes meet and then he winks at me, giving the shirt a saucy twirl in the air, before he treats it to the same meticulous folding job.
The sight makes parts of me melt, and not just the sex parts, although those are definitely paying attention, too. He just looks happy and a little goofy and nowhere near as remote as he usually does.
“You’re hired.” I slip my fingers underneath his belt and his pants to tuck the handful of dollar bills from his change into the waistband of his boxer briefs.
I’m not surprised that he spends the next hour methodically working through my usual closing tasks. He charms the last few customers into buying honey. He loads the unsold jars back into their crates and then shifts those crates to the back of my truck. He breaks down my tables and awning, fitting the equipment neatly into the bed around all the crates, although my lack of tie-down cables concerns him.
His Hey Honey Farm T-shirt hugs his perfect chest and I spend more time admiring the way his biceps bulge as he effortlessly moves my stuff around than I care to admit. He may have a big, bastardy brain that’s disgustingly good at making money, but it’s not all he does. Finally, though, we have everything in my truck and the beehive strapped in the spot of honor in the passenger-side seat. I fidget, not sure what to do next.
“Thanks. I appreciate the help.”
He tips his head, acknowledging my thanks, and snags a honey-and-cracker taster from the tray on the table.
“Help yourself,” I say.
He winks. “Your honey tastes amazing.” I’m pretty sure there’s a dirty joke in there, but before I can respond, he snaps into