Triple Dare

18

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“CADE ALEXANDER HARDESTY! Get your half-naked ass out here before I come back there and strip you myself!”

Cade stared at the outfit in his hands. If you could call a red satin G-string an outfit. Did Ivy seriously expect him to wear this? He figured she’d photograph him in his turnout gear, maybe shirtless with his bunker pants unbuttoned and riding low on his hips. After all, the “Hunks of Burning Love” calendar was an annual institution, featuring Stockton’s finest firefighters in various states of undress, each year for a different charity. This time it was the local animal shelter, a cause he supported 100 percent.

But a G-string? What the hell did she think he was, a Chippendales dancer?

“I’ll be way more than half-naked in this thing.” He dangled the undersized jockstrap from a finger and held it over the top of the changing screen.

“I’m not kidding, Mr. December. I haven’t got all day. Put it on and get out here.”

Cade groaned and kicked off his sneakers.

“You’ve got to the count of three. One...”

He stripped off his T-shirt. “Two...”

His pants and boxer briefs hit the floor.

“Three.”

Cade stepped gingerly into the G-string. Shit. The ridiculous scrap of fabric barely hid anything. He tried adjusting himself without much success.

“Uh, Ivy? We have a problem.”

“Damn straight we do. I distinctly heard myself say ‘three’ and you’re still hiding back there like a whore at a church social.”

Cade chuckled in spite of his predicament. Ivy had always been able to make him laugh. They’d done lots of crazy things together as kids—him, Ivy and his best friend, her twin brother, Gabe. Sticking crayons up their noses in kindergarten. Smoking behind the high school gym. Stealing their football rival’s mascot, an uncooperative goat they tried—and failed—to hide in the Nelsons’ treehouse.

Okay, so the last two had pretty much been him and Ivy. She was fearless, willing to take any dare they threw at her if it meant she could tag along. Hell, she’d even seen him naked. Of course, they’d been six at the time and running through the sprinkler in her backyard.

“All right, big guy. Ready or not, here I come.”

“I’m ready, I’m ready.”

Cade took a deep breath, reminding himself for the hundredth time that this whole thing was for charity, and stepped out from behind the screen.

“Hang on. I almost forgot.” He caught a glimpse of Ivy’s apple bottom as she darted into the tiny office in the corner of the studio. She’d been in there when he arrived, too, yelling out instructions for him to change and wait for her.

He frowned, surveying the room. Wood floor, bare walls, white backdrop, a few umbrella lights. Her camera sat on a tripod in the middle of it all, ready for action. What else could she need? “Forgot what?”

“The final touches to your costume.”

“You mean there’s more to this getup than dental floss?”

“Not exactly.” She emerged from the office with a Santa hat in one hand and a gray-and-white calico kitten in the other, cradled against her chest. But it wasn’t the cat or the hat that had Cade’s attention. It was Ivy.

Holy three-alarm fire.

It’d been twelve years since she’d left Stockton. And almost three since he’d seen her on one of her rare visits home.

Those years had treated her well.

“What are you wearing?” His heart rate kicked up a notch as he took in the short shorts and tight V-necked T-shirt that clung to her lush curves. I Like To Flash People was emblazoned across her breasts. Where the hell were the usual baggy jeans and oversized sweatshirt? Even her hair was different, the normally wild, auburn curls restrained in some sort of messy bun that women seemed to think was sexy. He’d been inclined to disagree, until now.

“A damn sight more than you.” She handed him the kitten and put the hat on his head, adjusting it so it sat at an angle, away from his eyes.

“Don’t blame me. You’re the one who picked this thing.” He plucked at the waistband of his skimpy G-string with his free hand. The kitten squirmed in the other, its soft fur tickling Cade’s palm. He rested it against his shoulder and it burrowed under his chin.

“Actually, it was Hank.” Her brows knitted at the mention of the photographer who’d done the calendar for as long as anyone could remember. He’d thrown his back out, and thankfully Ivy had been in town to step in. “I’m just finishing what he started.”

“None of the other guys had to dress like strippers.”

“None of the other guys has a body like yours.” She turned to fiddle with her camera but not before he caught her eyeing his package. Interesting. She’d always thought of him like a brother. Hadn’t she? There was that one time senior year...

“I heard they’ve been trying to get you to pose for years,” she continued, interrupting his thoughts. “What finally made you do it?”

He shrugged and stepped in front of the backdrop, where he assumed she wanted him. “My mom wasn’t comfortable with the garden club seeing her little boy in the buff. But she and Dad retired to Chapel Hill last year, so...”

Ivy chuckled. “What they don’t know won’t hurt them?”

“Something like that. And if they find out, at least they’re a thousand miles away.” Although, knowing his mother, she’d find some way to punish him long-distance.

Ivy peered through the camera lens, focusing on who knew what, then straightened, hands on her hips. The movement thrust her already prominent breasts out even farther. Hot damn. Had she always been so...well-endowed? Is that what she’d been hiding under all the loose-fitting clothes?

Whoa, slugger. Don’t go there. She’s practically your sister. Of course, there’s a big difference between practically and actually.

“Well.” She let out a puff of air, ruffling the loose tendrils of hair that had escaped her bun. “Let’s get this show on the road, then.”

Cade stroked the kitten with his index finger. “Where do you want us?”

She waved a hand. “You’re fine right there for the moment. I have to aim the lights.”

He shifted from one foot to the other, petting the cat and trying not to stare at the junk in her trunk while she fine-tuned first one light, then another. “What’s the cat’s name?” he asked to break the silence.

“Bilbo.”

“Someone’s a Tolkien fan.”

“The warden.” Her Chuck Taylors—the lone holdover from her teenage wardrobe—squeaked on the varnished floor as she moved on to the third light. “He’s up for adoption.”

“The warden?” Cade asked, smirking.