BVC Announces The Calendar Heroes by Michele Dunaway
The Calendar Heroes
by Michele Dunaway
Welcome to the Sexy Public Servants Charity Calendar, where True Love is Only a First Responder Away.
Mr. September
Mr. December
Mr. July
and bonus novel featuring Mr. August,
The Good Girl’s Fake Date
Featuring St. Louis’ finest firefighters and police officers, these men might be bare chested pinups, but there’s far more to them than being eye candy. While the books do have a time sequence, each stands alone and can be read in any order. Expect Hallmark sweet with some spicy heat.
The Calendar Heroes omnibus edition!
REVIEWS
About Mr. September: “This book took me totally by surprise, yes you get a hot fireman in Joe Marino, but there is so much more to the story between him and Taylor Krebs. his is a nice fluffy romance, but it is also a little deeper than that, I didn’t think I’d find myself in tears reading this book, but I was and more than once. I didn’t expect to find that the author took these characters and their pasts and developed their story as well and as seamlessly as she did, as well as merge their futures together into such a cohesive and wholly engrossing read, it is safe to say all of my expectations were met and exceeded with this one. If you are looking for a beautifully written, entertaining story, with a great supporting cast, a little drama and a bunch of firemen, then you can’t really go wrong.”
About Mr. December: “Michele Dunaway has sprinkled quirky characters, a small town attitude and two amazing characters together over a sugar cookie sweet tale of romance, togetherness and love, while sharing the plight of a young puppy and all animals in need of their perfect forever home. Not your cookie cutter Holiday read, this author understands the spirit of the Holidays!”
About Mr. July: “The third book in Michelle Dunaway’s Man of the Month series continues in the stellar tradition of its predecessors. The author manages to take well used tropes and give them a fresh spin, with plenty of love, romance and entertainment for the reader to enjoy.Have a few tissues handy, what with a healthy dose of survivor’s guilt and unaddressed grief on both sides, flowing through their story, and a couple of letters towards the end that bring a massive lump to the throat, I was a bit of a blubbery mess when I finished!”
About Mr. August: The Good Girl’s Fake Date is a fun contemporary Jacobson romance starring two likable protagonists. The story line focuses on Olivia trying to throw off the “shackles” of her family so that she can enjoy life just a bit. Garrett is attracted to the good girl as much as the bad girl. Readers will enjoy Michele Dunaway’s latest Jacobson romantic caper due to the feisty heroine.
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Michele Dunaway, a best-selling contemporary author and retired award-winning high school journalism teacher, loves creating hometown sweet romances with a hint of spice. A mom of two grown daughters and several rescue cats, Michele never wants to stop creating fiction, baking treats, or traveling to new places.
Buy Calendar Heroes at the BVC bookstore
Read a Sample from Mr. September
Chapter One
Ten, no, twelve rogue pirates surrounded her, the hot, humid air one of the reasons for her flushed skin, the men surrounding her the other. She trembled, for there was one in the midst who stood out over the others, who captured her full attention, held a magical power. He was strong. Dashing. A cad. He’d sidetracked her mission, yet as an illicit thrill stole over her, she wanted him to swoop in, scoop her up, and carry her away, help her escape from all this. His lips would fall on hers, taking her to never imagined heights . . .
Taylor Krebs blinked. Focused. Cleared her head, fading the Walter Mitty fantasy world she created, one she’d gleaned from reading bestselling Lalita Crane’s latest historical romance novel. Last night Taylor had turned the pages until three a.m., a foolish choice in hindsight, as she’d had to be awake, dressed, and at the hotel by seven.
Now midafternoon, she was tired, hot, and—finally—almost finished with the job she hoped would ignite her career.
She had to get her head out of the clouds, although fantasy was almost always better than reality. Case in point, she was surrounded by twelve of St. Louis’s sexiest bachelors and it was fast becoming her worst nightmare. She would much rather read about being surrounded by gorgeous guys, and hey, in her fantasy, maybe one of them could help her with the applied project due for her master’s degree, the other task constantly taking up brain space.
She sighed, doubting very much that any of the sexy guys in front of her could help. And she needed the master’s degree, for if she couldn’t make it as a full-time photographer, a degree meant she could get a job teaching at the college level. As her mom kept harping, “You need a fallback plan, dear.”
As it was, Taylor was so far behind on getting her project approved that entering it in the college’s annual juried photo contest, the one with a thousand-dollar cash prize, would take a miracle.
“No, no. He needs a more seductive smile.” Virginia Barker Edwards, calendar committee chair, clapped her hands until the poor man complied. “Much better,” she called.
Taylor took the last shots and let the grateful man escape. She stifled a yawn.
Where was a rogue pirate when you needed one?
She made an adjustment to the camera, readying it for the next frame. At first, being chosen to photograph the Sexy Public Servants of St. Louis calendar sounded delicious. Who knew that St. Louis had such a bumper crop of handsome men?
There was Mr. December—cop Jack Donovan—in his Santa hat and low-rise jeans; Mr. January—park department’s Blaine Johnson—in hat, tails, and tuxedo pants that fit like a glove; Mr. July—former Navy Seal turned SLFD marine rescue, Brad Silverman—wearing a pair of swim trunks and a smile; Mr. April—assistant District Attorney Liam Rogers—the only male wearing a shirt, although the partially unbuttoned white oxford had the same effect as if he was posing without it. Some of the female onlookers had actually swooned.
But for Taylor, it had been Mr. September—Joe Marino—who’d turned her insides into gooey marshmallow. She hadn’t really paid much attention to the sexy firefighter. Not at first. Mr. Tall, Dark, Dangerous, and Brooding was so not her type. She liked them shorter. Blonder. Safer. More like ADA Liam Rogers, although the ADA hadn’t made her heart race, hadn’t made her do a double take like Joe Marino had.
Why was it she dated shorter, blonder men when heroes like the long-haired Duncan MacGregor from Crane’s Burning for the Rogue Pirate kept Taylor reading until the wee hours, way past what was sensible?
She frowned as she swapped out the dead battery, using a backup one she’d forgotten to charge fully and prayed it would hold. She had one more month to photograph—September.
Her initial heated reaction to Joe had happened right before taking the group shots, when she’d peered through the viewfinder and zoomed in on Mr. September’s eyes. Blue melded with light gray and a hint of green, forming a color that defied description. Which being without words kind of pissed her off, especially since she prided herself on description—it was part of being a photographer.
Worse, as if sensing her perusal, he’d winked. She’d zoomed out, caught, feeling as if Joe somehow knew what she was doing. Impossible. Still, her insides turned to oatmeal-like mush, and an indeterminable moment passed before her erratic heart slowed.
For Mr. September’s portraits, Joe wore only his boots, turnout pants, suspenders, and coat—and a cheeky grin that well-intentioned mothers warned her about. Before Taylor had started Joe’s individual shots, his second blatant wink had sent raw heat scorching straight down to curling toes clad in black and white striped high-top Converse.
Her tennis shoes were a concession to being on her feet all day, a downside to being a photographer. Camera settings adjusted, she was ready. Joe stood in the middle of the dance floor, in front of the bright green background. After the long day, his earlier cheekiness had vanished. She couldn’t blame him.
“How much longer?” His impatient tone indicated his tolerance was wearing thin.
“Not too much. Just a few minutes more,” Taylor replied, grateful the other months were complete. Because of Virginia’s endless directions, each shoot had run over allotted time, and the men had ended up waiting around.
“Only a few more shots, I promise.” She took them. “There. All done.”
“I want his coat adjusted,” the calendar committee chair called out as Joe began to move. He checked himself mid-step, turned back.
“Well, maybe we’ll need a few more,” Taylor amended wryly as Joe scowled, those full, dark brows knitting together.
However, his surly frown was lost on Virginia Edwards Barker, the calendar chairwoman and the one who had everyone dancing to her tune. This was her pet project, and perfect silver hair remained frozen in place as her head tilted while she studied Joe over hot pink designer reading glasses. Her lips puckered. “He needs to show more chest. Definitely more chest.”
The six or seven inches already exposed had sent Taylor’s imagination into overdrive. The curly hair on Joe’s chest matched the thick layers atop his head, and those glossy untamed raven waves kissed the edges of his turnout coat collar—bad boy, rock star hair that he wore better than her favorite lead guitarist.
“Taylor! Stat! Time is money. Let’s not delay the poor man further,” Virginia called.
The loud series of claps she added jolted Taylor to attention, and her face flamed. Betty White’s younger doppelganger had awarded Taylor the assignment, so Taylor did Virginia’s bidding. No wasn’t an option.
Her fledging photography business desperately needed this break and the subsequent exposure the calendar would bring. Her bank account, drained from undergraduate and graduate school loans, needed the cash jolt.
So she trotted dutifully out onto the brown parquet, the white soles of her Converse making nary a squeak. Joe waited in the last pose: right knee bent, boot planted on a wooden crate, hands on hips. She reached for the worn mustard-colored edges of his turnout gear and pushed the sections of the heavy fire retardant material toward his sides. Her fingertips grazed rock hard abs covered with those tempting silky strands and her breath hitched, causing her to emit a tiny hiccup.
Twinkling blue—no, gray—no, blue eyes drilled into her. “Want some help?” Full, kissable lips inched upward, amusement clearly evident.
He was enjoying this!
Sensing her hesitation, he covered her trembling hands with his and, with his touch branding her unsteady, shaking fingers, he eased the coat off his shoulders so that more of his perfectly sculpted torso showed. He moved her right hand to his bare chest, and Taylor’s mouth dried as her fingers resisted the urge to palm with abandon. She bit back the next threatening hiccup—her often-uncontrollable nervous reaction—and tugged her hands free from his firm grip.
Laughter lined those wicked eyes. “Like that? That work for you?”
Oh Lordy. He definitely worked for her, and having turned into a silly, childish puddle, she could only nod because her normally loud voice had vanished. Being she stood five foot five, he towered over her by at least a foot, maybe more. He was tall, lean, ripped. With a body carved from real life, he shamed all the sex-on-a-stick men gracing the covers of the Lalita Crane historicals she devoured.
Forget hot, he was smoking—a man’s man—the irresistible kind that gave women extremely erotic dreams.
“That should work,” Taylor finally managed, praying no one watching had heard her exhaled whoosh of edgy breath. She and Joe stood toe-to-toe—every one of Taylor’s nerve endings on high alert. She wasn’t a naïve teenager, but she’d never been so physically aware of a man—especially one like Joe. Her brain screamed run, but her feet clung to the ground. Her hands desired to fully feel his chest, test the texture for herself, curl her fingers into the silk.
“What about his hair?” Virginia called. “Don’t you think we should fix that? He has some hat head.”
Joe reached up, dragged his hand through his hair.
“No, that’s not what I want,” Virginia returned, her lips puckered in clear disapproval. She held her hands up and wiggled her fingers in the air. “Muss it up. Make it sexier. Do you know what I mean?”
Unfortunately, Taylor did. She inhaled patience and composure and called back, “Yes, I’ve got it.”
A sexy black eyebrow arched, curiosity evident. Joe’s lips moved, capturing her dormant libido’s complete attention. “You do?”
Taylor blew out a deep breath, which was followed by a hiccup. She winced. “Stand still.”
She rose on tiptoes, her plain red T-shirt inching up to reveal a sliver of pale stomach. Threading both hands into Joe’s hair, she pushed the wayward locks off his forehead. “Sorry about this.”
The thick strands caressed her fingers—no grease or residual gooey product here. Just shampoo and natural waves. Her skin heated like an inferno. His breath hitched as she pushed his hair up and over, patting any loose pieces to make them stay. “There.”
“Am I good?”
Uhhh, he was more than good.
His eyes had darkened to blue steel, held a hint of something. . . . “Didn’t know we knew each other so well. Not that I minded. Was it good for you? If not, I could make it good.”
“I said I was sorry.” Taylor gave another embarrassing hiccup.
His deep, suggestive voice caressed over her in a smooth wave. His lips twitched. “Don’t be sorry. I’m not. Who knew modeling could be so . . . hands on.”
“Uh . . .” Her tongue tied into knots. In her favorite novel, the hero would have kissed her now. He’d lower his mouth to hers and . . .
“That’s better.” Virginia’s voice broke the intimacy, reminding Taylor that she stood in a rented ballroom, in clear view of the others, making unprofessional googly eyes with her subject.
“I’m much happier,” Virginia called out. “Very sexy Joe. Just what we’re looking for. Now get the shots, Taylor. Didn’t he say he had to leave? Why are we still keeping the man waiting?”
“Yes, let’s get this done,” Joe replied. Aware of their audience, his grin widened and he lowered full lips to whisper in Taylor’s ear. “But you just let me know if you need anything. I’m happy to oblige. Maybe we should explore what else those expert fingers of yours can do. I’m a very hands-on kind of guy. Comes with the job description.”
The seductive way his words rolled off his tongue made no secret that he meant the double entendre. “Yep, more than happy to help you.”
As Taylor scurried back to the safety of her camera, his low chuckle burned her ears. No way did she need more of him!
Joe Marino was bad news. The kind who ran into danger instead of safely away. If one glance, or one hand on that hard chest, had turned her into a heated wreck—and she prided herself on being a woman who was never, ever, out of control—what would touching him more do? He’d shattered her precarious control with mere words.
“He reminds me of that werewolf in True Blood,” her friend Marci whispered as Taylor refocused her camera. The black Canon SLR was like a security blanket, and she moved it in front of her right eye.
One thing was certain—the camera loved Mr. September. The lens captured all his hard angles, accentuating them and making them even more chiseled. Taylor swallowed the next hiccup, which came out as a faint, mouse-like squeak.
“You know, the actor. What’s his name? He also did that firefighter dance in Magic Mike,” Marci continued.
A movie Taylor had sadly missed. But she knew the HBO show. Had seen every episode with her girls’ viewing group, read all the Sookie Sackhouse books. “Joe Manganiello.”
Marci snapped her fingers. “Yeah, that’s him. See what I mean?”
Eye to the viewfinder, Taylor could perceive the resemblance Marci claimed—both men had the same dark hair and super-cut body—but really, the generalities were where the likeness ended. The Joe in front of her was clean-shaven. She could probably crack an egg on that sculpted jawline. He wasn’t as broad in the shoulders. He stood taller. His hair was longer, wavier. And his deep, sexy voice definitely hadn’t been the same. “He might even be hotter,” Marci said.
Marci was dead on, one hundred percent correct, but Taylor ignored answering her flirtatious friend, who’d only volunteered to assist on the photo shoot so she could hang out with twelve, hunky single men.
Taylor, being too poor to hire an assistant, had welcomed the help, even though that meant Marci flitting from guy to guy, her search for Mr. Right as fickle as the number of times she changed shoes per day. Marci had shed her earlier four-inch heels for a sensible pair of Sperry’s. Despite Taylor’s Converse, her feet screamed for a warm footbath.
Mr. September planted his hands on his hips and widened his stance as Taylor pressed the shutter, catching his poses. “Now if you could just move your helmet . . .”
“Here?” He dropped it directly in front of his crotch, and she flushed.
Virginia let loose a giggle. “Oh Joe! You are so bad.” Narrowing her gaze, Taylor frowned. She’d sworn some of the women in Virginia’s entourage had swooned.
“Under your arm will be fine,” Taylor returned briskly as his wicked grin split into devilish laughter before he complied. She pressed the shutter and the camera clicked rapid-fire. She issued a few more orders, and Joe executed the subsequent positions without complaint or comment, much to her relief. The man was danger personified.
“Okay, we’re finished,” Taylor called. “Unless you have anything else?”
Virginia shook her head. She appeared a bit flushed. “I’m satisfied. And it’s hot in here.”
“Great. I always make sure a woman is pleased before I leave.” Joe strode from the dance floor and headed their way.
“He’s going to be a favorite,” Marci observed.
“He will,” Taylor agreed. She had well over a hundred fifty photos—surely Virginia would find something she liked. Taylor wiped a drop of moisture from her forehead. The hotel’s air conditioning had failed miserably with keeping up with the unseasonably warm June day. The temperature outside was ninety-nine; it had to be at least eighty inside. The large fans designed to give the men the windblown look had provided some relief, but not nearly enough. She’d clipped her long auburn hair up off her neck and into a loose knot, but that hadn’t done much. Her unsecured natural curls had frizzed into a hellacious halo.
Joe reached the set of chairs. He shed his coat, slid the suspenders down. Six-pack abs rippled as he pulled on a navy T-shirt embossed with the fire department logo. Then he sat down and pulled off the boots. Rising, he slid the turnout pants down, revealing the blue work pants he wore underneath. She knew he had to have been uncomfortably hot wearing all his gear. But he hadn’t complained once, unlike a few others. After realizing that Virginia hadn’t planned on providing food and drink, Taylor had sent Marci to the nearest convenience store for two dozen cold bottles of water, a Styrofoam cooler, and a bag of ice. Her charge cards already bleeding, what was one more unplanned expense?
As the group began to disperse, Taylor grabbed one of the last bottles. Unlike those TV modeling shows with multiple computer monitors on tables, Taylor’s reality was a used light kit bought off Craigslist, the green screen, and her camera. She’d work on her MacBook later and process the images. Shot against green, she’d easily be able to Photoshop the men onto the various St. Louis backdrop photos she’d taken previously. Then, once done, she’d bring the disk to Virginia.
“Tuesday, my office,” Virginia reminded Taylor of the upcoming deadline as she and her entourage made to leave.
“Ten a.m.,” Taylor confirmed. Today was Wednesday, so she had almost a week to get the images ready. As she had double shifts at Presley’s Friday and Saturday and thousands of photos to process, she’d need every spare minute. The hairs on the back of her neck rose as a rich, sexy voice said, “Can I see?”
Taylor turned. Joe stood there, towering over her in the T-shirt that fit like skin. He gestured at the camera, the small Maltese cross tattoo on the inside of his wrist clearly visible. She’d kept the tattoo out of view during the shoot. Virginia’s orders—and what Virginia wanted, Virginia got.
“There are hundreds of images . . .”
“I don’t want to see all of them. Just the last few will be fine.”
“No one else saw theirs . . .”
That sexy irresistible grin slid into place, and Mr. September turned into Mr. State the Obvious. “I’m not like everyone else.”
No, he certainly wasn’t. No one else made her heart skip or her face flame. Now in the clothes he’d wear around the firehouse while waiting for a call, Joe shouldn’t be so intimidating. Shouldn’t be so alluring. Shouldn’t be calling to something deep inside, something primitive she’d buried two years ago, something too dangerous to allow out.
“Besides, you owe me. You had your hands in my hair and on my chest. Surely that gives me some leeway, a little extra.”
Ooh boy. “Fine.”
The devilish grin widened. “See how easy that was?”
As Marci went to roll up the backdrop and put away the light kit, Taylor turned on the camera’s preview mode and scrolled through the last few images. Joe leaned over her left shoulder and watched as she did. “That’s good work.”
She paused, surprised. “Thanks. You’re not going to make a comment about how I had a good subject to work with?”
“That goes without saying.” His now trademark smile came and vanished. He shrugged. “Seriously, though, I can tell you’ve got talent. I hate being photographed. I never look good in them.”
Add lying to his list of talents. She scoffed. “Then why did you do this?”
He frowned. “Because I had no choice.”
Ha. Hardly. Somehow she couldn’t quite believe him. “Everyone has a choice.”
He opened his mouth, checked whatever he’d been about to say, and instead returned to the wide sexy grin found in all the photos. “Perhaps I just wanted to meet you. Get to know you.”
“Oh please. You’re being a cad. Be serious.” Taylor threw a hand over her mouth, realizing she’d sounded like the heroine in the book she’d clearly needed to put down last night. How embarrassing.
Hands went on hips. Eyebrows arched. “A cad? Where does that word come from anyway?”
From a romance novel. Face flaming, she turned the camera off, watched the screen go dark. The backup battery had done its job of allowing her to finish the shoot. She made a show of putting her Canon into the camera bag, but Joe didn’t take the hint. “I’m sure you have other places to be.”
“You called me a cad. That’s a low blow. I have to defend my honor.”
“Are you serious? I was joking. I’m sorry if I offended you.”
He shook his head, that lovely hair caressing his jawbone. Her fingers longed to touch the thick strands again, run her fingers through them, and draw them away from his face. Clearly, the book’s steamy love scene was wiggled into her subconscious.
“Humor me. You had your hands on my chest—and good hands, by the way.”
“Part of my job.”
“Why’d you become a photographer?”
“Why’d you become a firefighter?” she returned.
“Not for the reason you think, and do you always answer a question with a question?”
Her chin jutted forward. She was intrigued but tired. “Why? Does it annoy you?”
Deep laughter erupted, and shoving his hands into his back pockets, he disregarded the bad habit that sent most men she met running for the hills. “I like challenges; I don’t scare easily.”
Not expecting that answer, her next inhale went down wrong, and she coughed.
His forehead creased. “You okay? Need me to bang on your back?”
The thought of him touching her made all her nerve endings go haywire again. “I’m good. No need.” She made show of touching the base of her collarbone. At least the hiccups had stopped. “Hate when that happens.”
The easy grin returned. “You seem to have some breathing issues today. I’m a certified paramedic. I’m trained in mouth-to-mouth. Let me know if you require that.”
The thought of his lips touching hers caused her next breath to whoosh out. No man had made her react so viscerally. She would take charge. Put him in his place. “I’m fine. I really need to pack up. So if we’re finished . . .”
“Actually, I have another question for you.”
The directness of his answer made her stare, curious. “Oh? What is it?” Was he about to ask her out?
“I like the work you do, and today I saw how patient and kind you are with your subjects. I’m looking for photographer to help me with a pet project. Interested?”
Damn. For a millisecond disappointment filled her and she wiped the back of her right hand on her forehead, the lack of decent air conditioning starting to get to her, or maybe it was simply his dynamic proximity. Of course he didn’t want her—just her skills. But, she’d hoped. Anticipated. Get it together, she chided herself. He hadn’t even really been flirting—just more annoying, right?—and she certainly couldn’t turn down business. “I’m willing to listen.”
“Perfect. Card?”
His entire demeanor turned serious, and she remained frozen, the change so abrupt she was certain her head would be spinning if not attached. “Yes. Hold on.” She dug into the front of her camera bag, took out a tiny piece of heather gray cardstock.
He plucked the business card from her fingertips, studied the words, and tucked it into a front pocket, the movement creating a crease in the pants near his. . . . She jerked her gaze away. “Great. I’ll call you in a day or two. That work?”
“Uh. Um. Yes.” She forced herself to be professional.
“Good. Can’t wait to talk then.” He thrust his hand forward, and unprepared for the gesture, she shook it awkwardly. Like when he’d covered her hands earlier, a sizzle fused her fingers to his, forcing her to pull away quickly. All day he’d had her off her game. She was drawn to him but wasn’t sure she liked him. After the huge ordeal of her breakup with Owen, she avoided anything or anyone that made her feel out of control, which was how she felt since his first wink. But she needed work. “Talk to you soon.”
With that, Joe picked up his gear and strode to the exit. Taylor stared, stupefied, unable to rip away her attention as she tracked his progress. She was no match for this man, this gorgeous chameleon who could charm his way into getting whatever he wanted. As for exactly what he wanted, he’d led her one way and then switched directions so fast she hadn’t been able to keep up. Did he really need a photographer? But why would he pretend otherwise?
“He is so hot,” Marci said, approaching with the gear. Her enthusiasm bubbled. “He took your card. Did he ask you out? God, I wish he’d have asked me. Are you going to go? You should. Especially since he’s single and you haven’t had a real date in ages. Not since Owen. It wasn’t your fault he was such a jerk and . . .”
As Marci rambled on, Taylor pressed her water bottle to her forehead. She was getting a massive headache. Time to get some real food and into some actual air conditioning—stat. As for Joe Marino, she dismissed him from her mind, although it took more effort than she’d expected. No matter how much her body liked him, she was a girl who’d learned the hard way to follow her head and not her heart. And her head said to stay far away from Joe. Even if he did make her mushy. And hot.