by Kate, Jiffy
“Oh, no, that’s okay. I thought my driver would be here. I just need to make a call…” I pause and look up at him. Being nearly six feet tall, that’s something I’m not used to. But this guy has me by about half a foot and now that I’m looking up at him, his baby blues are hitting me full force. He’s really got everything going for him. “Thanks, though.” I smile to show my genuine appreciation and he doesn’t argue. He simply nods his head in understanding and continues waiting for his car to be delivered.
Now, I feel like an asshole for turning him down, but I can’t get in a car with a complete stranger. I don’t know what I was thinking. It’s not safe for any woman to accept an offer like that, no matter how nice it is to receive.
And no matter how gorgeous the man offering is.
When the roar of a vehicle approaches, I notice out of the corner of my eye that he’s hesitating. “You sure you don’t need a ride?”
I glance back up and see Mr. Sexy Suit waiting beside the passenger door to his car and it’s not what I expected.
A Toyota?
And not like a new, sporty type. A Corolla, maybe? And I’m talking early two thousands model. Not that I’m a car snob or anything, but this guy in this tux driving this car does not compute. I expected him to be in some fancy sports car or luxury SUV, not a mid-size sedan.
How does he even fit in that thing?
All I know is for the first time in a long time, I am genuinely intrigued by a guy. He’s not someone Terry fixed me up with. He’s not on the payroll. He’s an unusually handsome guy asking a girl if she needs a ride home.
I should say no.
I should walk away.
But instead, against my better judgement, I decide to throw caution to the wind and be what everyone thinks I am: wild and reckless.
Hoping my bright smile covers the nerves I’m feeling, I step toward the car. “You know what? I do, in fact, need a ride,” I say, sliding into the passenger seat and getting my first whiff. All man—spicy and clean. I watch as he expertly folds himself into the car, filling it, both figuratively and literally, with his body and manly scent.
He waits while I buckle up, keeping my bag in my lap because it irrationally makes me feel safe, as if it’s the protective layer that will keep me alive if this seemingly nice man turns out to be an axe-wielding murderer. I’m distracted from my self-preserving thoughts when he asks, “Where to?”
Glancing over at me, I take a brief second to drink him in. He’s younger than guys I normally date. His blue eyes are so pale they seem translucent. Before looking back to the road and pulling out of the drive, he gives me a warm smile. “I’m Bo, by the way.”
My stomach uses that moment to remind me where I was headed before this serendipitous encounter. Laughing self-consciously, I place my hand on my stomach to silence the bear.
“Didn’t eat at the party, huh?” He looks back at me and gives a sly grin. And once again, I’m mesmerized. There’s this unspoken, understated confidence that rolls off him and it’s single-handedly the sexiest thing in the world.
“No worries,” he continues when I go mute. “I could still eat. They never feed you enough at those fancy shindigs, which is a damn shame considering how expensive the tickets are.” He pauses to look over his shoulder before pulling out onto the one-way street. “Wanna grab a bite before I drop you off? I promise I’m not a serial killer.”
He laughs and it’s glorious.
“I would say trust me,” he continues. “But that’s what all the serial killers say, so I won’t.”
Now, I’m laughing and the small amount of tension that was lingering in the car dissipates.
I was not expecting him to be such a talker and a laid-back one, at that. This man has me captivated and there’s no way I’m passing up an opportunity to spend more time with him.
“Yeah, let’s eat.” I return his smile and relax back into my seat, ready for whatever—dinner, drinks...more. Deep down, I’m just a girl looking for adventure.
What everyone else interprets as recklessness abandonment is really just that—my sense of adventure. It’s what’s fueled my entire career. When I was a kid, my mom took me to an audition for a commercial and the rush of adrenaline from walking into the unknown was addictive. It’s what keeps me going back on that stage and writing songs. I love to feel my heart pound in my chest, proving I’m alive.
“I’m Charlotte,” I say as the sights and sounds of New Orleans swirl around us. “Sorry I didn’t introduce myself sooner, but I don’t normally accept rides from strangers.”
I want to add that I don’t normally even talk to strangers—occupational hazard, I guess. Being a public figure, it’s hard for me to know who I can trust, who’s out for their own personal gain.
“I know who you are,” Bo admits shyly. “But don’t worry, I don’t normally offer rides to strangers, so we’re even.”
Chapter 3
Bo
I’m not quite sure how I went from wanting to go straight home after the gala to going out to eat with Lola Carradine.
I’m not even sure what made me talk to her. It’s not like me, but I can’t say I’m regretting my decision.
When I said I don’t normally offer women rides, I wasn’t lying. Even though I get approached by women before, after, and even during games, I never take them up on it and I don’t initiate. Too many of them are just after what my future contract could give them.
During my first year in the minors, a teammate who was called up, found out a that a girl he’d been with two months earlier was pregnant. He claims he wrapped it up. Who knows whether he did or not, but she ended up taking him to the cleaners. Of course, he wanted to take care of his child, but it was more than that. She had him in and out of court, always causing drama. I don’t want to take that kind of risk.
Tonight, standing in that ballroom, Lola Carradine captured me. The way she moved on stage and owned that entire fucking room full of stuffy suits was something I’ve never seen before. Everything from her gritty, soulful voice to her tousled dark hair is a complete fucking turn on.
Even though I was ready to bail, I couldn’t move. I stood in the back of the room and watched her every move, feeling every note down to my bones. When her set was over and I finally made my way out to the underground valet and she walked up beside me, there was a current in the air. It felt electric, like I was being pulled to her.
That’s when I stopped seeing Lola Carradine—the rock star—and Charlotte came on the scene.
Hearing her plea for privacy and escape to whomever she was talking to on her cell reminded me of myself and the next thing I knew, I was opening my car door for her and speeding down the road.
“Where are you taking me?” she asks, breaking the silence and my pulling me out of my thoughts. When I chance a glance over at her, the look on her face isn’t scared or worried; it’s more like…curious. Intrigued, maybe?
And her eyes, God, those eyes—dark, deep, and rimmed in black. I have to force myself to look back at the road and I’m struck with the reality that Lola Carradine is in my car.
Maybe I should’ve chosen a better place to eat?
I didn’t really think too hard on it; I just started driving to my favorite place on autopilot. It’s away from the Bourbon Street Crowd, a few blocks from the French Quarter. One of the guys from the team introduced me to it on my first trip down here last year. It’s a bit out of my way but totally worth it.
“It’s this crepes place I love. It’s not technically a restaurant, I hope that’s okay. I guess I should’ve asked what you wanted.”
“Crepes sound perfect.” The smile she flashes my way has my mouth going dry instantly and I have to clear my throat to ask a very important question. “What should I call you?” I decide to address the elephant in the car. I’m not going to pretend I don’t know her. Everyone knows her. Well, unless you’re over fifty or you’ve been living under a rock. Even then, I bet at some point, you’ve heard the name
Lola Carradine.
“You introduced yourself as Charlotte,” I continue, “but I know you as Lola. So, I was just wondering what name you prefer?”
She hides her smile by looking out the window, before finally answering. “You can call me either,” she finally answers. “And, just for the record, I wasn’t trying to trick you or anything. Charlotte is my real name. Lola is my stage name.”
At the next stop light, I glance over to find her openly checking me out.
“You seem like someone I can trust with my real name,” she says quietly, like she’s trying to convince herself as much as me.
I decide to think about what she just said later because we’ve arrived at our destination and all I want to do right now is eat. I park my car and reach Charlotte’s door as she steps out, offering my hand for help. Even though she doesn’t really need it, she accepts it and holds onto it while I shut her door.
The feel of her hand in mine is oddly comfortable, especially for someone I just met. Knowing that I’m not that guy and this won’t be ending with a fuck session, I drop her hand as casually as possible. I don’t want to give her any mixed signals, but I also don’t want to come off as some psycho.
“Wow, you weren’t lying,” Charlotte says with a sarcastic chuckle. “Definitely not a restaurant.”
I shake my head and smile. “Nope. More like a taco truck,” I offer, hoping she’s okay with it. I don’t know where rockstars usually eat and I’m trying to not overthink this entire situation or make any more of it than it is. Two random acquaintances, pushed together by fate, sharing a meal. “But they have the best crepes in town and they’re open late, which makes it even better.”
A few people order in front of us, none of them giving us even a second glance, which is a relief. It really didn’t dawn on me that Charlotte might not come to places like this for lack of privacy until just now.
Walking up to the window, we look over the menu that’s painted on the side of the trailer. I already know what I want, but I’m enjoying Charlotte’s oohs and aahs as she peruses the menu.
“Gah, I can’t decide,” she says, biting at her thumb nail like she’s choosing wall paint. I love her intensity and how serious she’s taking this decision. “What are you getting?”
“The Chicken Florentine. It’s one of my favorites.”
The way she scrunches up her nose at my answer is so damn cute and in the warm glow of the lights hanging above us, I can make out a few freckles splattered across her nose and cheeks. Fucking adorable.
“I’m sorry,” she scoffs. “But that sounds way too healthy. I’m sure it’s delicious, though, no offense.”
I laugh at her obvious distaste for healthy. “None taken,” I tell her, thinking her disregard for healthy food is kind of a breath of fresh air. My body is a well-oiled machine and I have no desire to mess that up, but good for people who want to indulge, there is zero judgment here. “What are you trying to decide between?”
“Well, I know I’m getting one with Nutella but I can’t decide if I want the Nutella and fruit or Nutella and bacon,” she debates. “Oooh, maybe I can do both...oh, hell, they make crepes stuffed with eggs, bacon, and cheese? That settles it. I’m getting a breakfast crepe and a Nutella crepe for dessert.” Her excitement over the crepes is doing something to me that I can’t exactly put my finger on at the moment. However, my dick has a pretty good idea. To say his interest is peaked would be an understatement.
“You’re a fan of breakfast foods, I take?” I ask, clearing my throat and inconspicuously adjusting myself.
“Shit, yeah. I could eat breakfast foods for every meal.” This is said with a roll of her eyes and I’m, again, reminded of how similar our lives are. “How about you? Are you always so healthy?” I don’t so much see her gaze on me, but feel it. “You don’t have people telling you to lose weight, do you?”
“No,” I say with a chuckle. “It’s more for keeping my energy up, performing at the top of my game.”
She’s giving me a thoughtful expression, but before I can say more, it’s our turn to order.
“We’ll take a Nutella and Bacon,” I say, glancing at Charlotte for confirmation and earning a wide smile in return, “a breakfast crepe, and a Chicken Florentine,” I tell her. “Oh, and two bottles of water.” Once again checking with Charlotte, she gives me a nod. After paying for our food, we step to the side to wait. The other cool thing about this place is that every crepe is made fresh right in front of you thanks to the windows in front of the griddle. I always get a kick at watching the magic happen and by the look of awe on Charlotte’s face, she’s enjoying it, too.
“Ever tasted Nutella?” Charlotte asks, as the guy behind the glass spreads what looks like chocolate onto the hot crepe.
“I don’t think so,” I admit.
“Well, hold onto your bowtie,” Charlotte muses, her voice taking on that same seductive tone it has when she’s on stage, “because you’re getting a taste of Nutella and I predict it will blow your mind.”
I swallow as my dick immediately hardens, getting stuck on the words taste and blow. I am a gentleman, my dick is not. Now is not the time to be getting a boner, for fuck’s sake.
Thankfully, the cook calls out our order and when I step up to collect the food, a look of recognition crosses his face. “Bo Bennett, right?” he asks, pointing at me. “Is the team back from Spring Training already?”
I wasn’t expecting that at all. I assumed if anyone would be recognized tonight it would be Charlotte, not me. She must notice my shock because she elbows me lightly in my side to get me to answer him. “Um, just for the weekend. We had a fundraiser to attend but we’ll be back in Florida tomorrow.”
“So, that’s why you and your lady friend are all dressed up,” he says with a wink. “Well, y’all be sure to take some extra napkins with ya so you don’t get food on your fancy clothes. Have a good night!”
I give the cook a quick nod before following Charlotte to a nearby picnic table. She wastes no time sitting down and unwrapping her breakfast crepe, biting into it with a moan. I, in turn, focus on my own food so I don’t stare at her like a fucking creeper.
Halfway through our meal, Charlotte sets down her crepe and takes drink of water. “Sorry I haven’t been great company while stuffing my face...totally ladylike, I know.” She twists her full lips and then bites down on the bottom one. Again, I can’t peel my eyes away from her. Everything she does seems to be shooting signals to every cell in my body. “I didn’t realize how hungry I was until I started eating,” she says, her voice low.
“These crepes are amazing, though, right?” I ask, trying to keep my mind out of the gutter.
“God, yes. The best I’ve ever had,” she declares as she unwraps the Nutella and bacon crepe, the smell of chocolate and hazelnut filling the air. “You have to share this one with me. There’s no way I can finish it.” Pausing, she looks up at me and when our eyes make contact, I feel like there’s some unspoken conversation happening.
I’m into you.
I want to kiss those fucking delicious lips.
Where did you come from?
“There are still starving children in Africa,” she says absentmindedly, her eyes still on mine. “Wasting food is a travesty.”
She smirks, taking her first bite of what I’m sure is nothing short of amazing. “So, baseball player, huh?” she asks after a few moments.
“Yeah,” I reply, still trying to make my brain work. “Do you, uh...do you like baseball?” The question sounds dumb, but I can’t think of anything more intelligent to say right now. Charlotte Carradine has officially made me stupid. “It’s totally fine if you don’t.”
Like earlier with the decision on what to order, she takes her time, really thinking about her answer. I love that she doesn’t immediately reply, giving me what she thinks I want to hear, but instead going for total honesty. “Yeah, I guess,” she answers with a shrug. “I don’t really know a lot about it. The Revelers weren’t
around when I was younger. So, I’m more of a football kind of girl because that’s what I was raised on.” Her eyes meet mine and there’s a glimmer of something there, something that makes me want to spend hours investigating it.
“Go, Saints,” she eventually says, giving me a wicked grin.
“Who Dat,” I reply, returning the gesture. I’m not sure mine comes off quite as lethal as Charlotte’s though.
“So, are you new to the Revelers? You seemed surprised someone recognized you.”
“This’ll be my first year in the majors, if I can make it through Spring Training.”
“So, no pressure then?” she asks with a wink.
“Absolutely none at all.”
“Well, if you were under pressure,” she continues, “what would you do to...relieve it?”
And there we go with everything that comes out of her mouth sounding like sex. I’m not certain it’s intentional, but it still causes me to choke a little on my water and I have to clear my throat.
She continues, “I just mean, you don’t eat junk food and you don’t seem like a party-guy, so what do you do for fun, Bo Bennett?”
“I work out.”
“No, I said for fuuuuuun.” She exaggerates the word and I chuckle. I’m used to this kind of ribbing from my teammates and my family. It seems to be their mission in life to get me to loosen up.
“I like movies, books, video games...but I don’t do much else because I like to stay focused on my career. I’ve wanted to go pro for as long as I can remember and I’ve worked damn hard to get here. I’m not gonna mess it up by changing my habits or work ethic.” Once I stop talking, I worry I might’ve offended Charlotte. I know she wasn’t trying to insult me but I felt the need to explain myself. I’ve only known her for a couple of hours but I want her to like me.
“I admire that,” she says thoughtfully, her eyes roaming my face. For the first time tonight, I feel a little uncomfortable, like she’s seeing deeper than my skin—the rookie, the athlete, the baseball player. “I think you’re a good guy, Bo Bennett. So good, in fact, that you might not want to be seen with me. I kinda have a reputation for being a bad influence.” I can’t tell if she’s still teasing or if she’s being serious, but I’m very curious about what her idea of a bad influence is.
