Throwing Heat dad-3

by Jennifer Seasons

  “Goodnight, Leslie.”

  Turning her head, she caught sight of Megan, one of the servers, as she headed toward the back door. Waving, Leslie smiled and said, “Night, girl.”

  Just a few more loose ends and then she could head out too. When she’d taken over management of her brother’s nightclub, Hotbox, almost two years ago it had barely been functional. She’d taken the old brick warehouse and turned it into a thriving business. All of which she took pride in. Of course she did. But she missed owning her own business like hell.

  It was one of the things that grated so much, even after all this time. Leslie was good at public relations and her firm had made big waves, putting her name right up there alongside elite members of the industry. She had been going places.

  One bad lapse in judgment and her life had crumbled like the Berlin Wall.

  And here she was, after turning her brother’s club into a hot spot for local music. In two years, no less. That wasn’t a small feat. She knew that.

  But she wanted more. She wanted Hotbox to be hers.

  Which was why she’d been scrimping and saving every spare penny for a down payment to buy the club out from Mark. It was her new dream, her goal. When she’d first approached him about selling it to her, he’d offered just to give the business to her. But she couldn’t do that, couldn’t simply take it. He’d already done so much for her.

  Besides, she needed to do this on her own.

  After finding out that her credit wasn’t in good standing and that no bank would offer her a loan without a huge down payment, she’d had to face the fact that doing it alone could take a long, long time. Still, she’d rather that than have something given to her that she hadn’t earned.

  And if she could finally get Kowalskin to perform with his guitar at the club like she’d been after him to do for the past two years, his presence would draw so much attention that it would put Hotbox on the map for big-name artists and turn it into a real music destination. But the jerk kept refusing her offers and saying no. So all she could do was sit idle while life sorted itself out.

  Leslie grabbed a pen and tapped it against her notebook, that restless, searching feeling hitting her again. It made her feel impatient, edgy. Yet it was undeniably there. A nagging feeling that there was supposed to be more to life than what she was doing—this whole waiting thing.

  Puffing out a breath that fanned a few stray strands of hair from her face, she looked at the second-story balcony with its tables and carefully arranged couches. Lights hung suspended on long iron poles from the exposed brick ceiling. Copper ducts ran along the top, adding an industrial touch to the overall open, rustic space.

  The main floor was wide open and uncluttered, the long bar taking up one wall and the large stage another. An area in front of the stage had become the dance floor and tables dotted the perimeter. In the daylight the warmth of the old red bricks made the place feel almost cozy. Which was good, considering it was her second home.

  Seth grabbed her attention. “I think I’m done here, boss.”

  With a sigh, Leslie set down her pen and went to assist him. It took another fifteen minutes, but they got it sorted out, and in another five she was back in her heels and locking the back door behind her.

  The freezing autumn air surprised her as it nipped her cheeks. Just last week it had been almost ninety. Some days she wondered if she would ever get used to the unpredictable weather in Colorado.

  Huddling into her thin black jacket, Leslie pulled the zipper up to her chin and fumbled with the keys, her blood still thin even though she’d been in the state for two winters now. Her fingers had gone cold and her dexterity was almost nonexistent. Stamping her feet against the frigid temperature, she finally got the club locked up and turned to the parking lot at her back.

  Longing filled her as she glanced down the back alley to her right. Her apartment was just around the corner in another old brick warehouse, a wonderful two-minute stroll away.

  She was real big on her conveniences.

  Knowing that she couldn’t simply go home because it was one big construction zone right now was a real morale killer. Having her own space, a place that was all hers where she could relax in and let the barriers down, knowing she was safe and surrounded by her things, was priceless. Not having that made her feel adrift and irritable. And staying with Peter didn’t help. Just being in the same house as him put her on edge.

  Rubbing her palms together to keep them warm, she made her way to the red Mini sitting alone in the parking lot. That little car was her one extravagance in this new beginning of hers. Hell, she thought as she climbed inside, she’d even learned how to cook thanks to Rachael Ray. Before that woman’s recipe books, boiling pasta had only been a lesson in frustration.

  Now she made a mean clam linguine. For one.

  It was always for one.

  And she wouldn’t have it any other way. Men were the root of all the problems in her life.

  Thinking over the past three years of her life kept her occupied as she made her way through late-night Denver traffic. Once she pulled into the driveway to Peter’s house she felt the tension of the day melt from her shoulders. Not that she’d ever tell him, but she loved his home. It was big and private, with huge trees and a great swimming pool.

  More than that, it was homey. Which was decidedly odd for a guy like Kowalskin.

  Speaking of . . . he wasn’t back yet.

  Noticing the lack of his obnoxious canary yellow FJ Cruiser in the oversized garage, Leslie drove her Mini in and parked. His metallic blue Ducati was there, but he never left it in the long-term parking at the airport. One of these days she was totally going to swipe it and take it for a cruise through the mountains. Yeah, one of these days soon. No doubt the aspens up in the park were stunning now that it was October.

  That was one of the things she liked best about living in Colorado. The change of the seasons. In Miami there was only hot and less hot.

  Once inside, Leslie changed out of her work clothes and pulled on a simple pale blue cotton cami and a pair of boy-cut printed panties. Briefly she considered throwing on a pair of pants, then dismissed the thought as the call of the refrigerator lured her and her stomach growled. God, when was the last time she’d eaten?

  It must have been around eleven that morning, she thought as she padded down the plush carpeted stairs. No wonder she was ravenous.

  Entering the large kitchen, Leslie flicked on the light over the center island as she made for the fridge. Inside were the remains of her dinner from the night before, and that shredded beef chimichanga was all hers. With any luck the guacamole hadn’t already gone all brown. It just didn’t taste the same after it had.

  Feeling the urge to sing, Leslie began humming an Amy Winehouse tune and swung the door to the fridge wide. Instead of the typical single guy’s fridge with beer and an expired carton of milk, Pete’s was super well stocked with fresh produce and fancy cheese. A bottle of expensive chardonnay chilled on the door and a small pile of Honeycrisp apples filled one of the bottom drawers, making her smile. Quality food was so nice.

  Mentally tagging a fat Honeycrisp as hers, she leaned into the icebox in search of her to-go box from the restaurant just as she hit the song’s chorus. Feeling it, her mouth opened and the words belted out as she shifted celery aside, perusing the middle shelf. “They tried to make me go to rehab. I said, no, no, no.”

  She was really into it by the time she’d spotted her leftovers way in the back, which always happened with music. It was a part of her, filled her up. She loved singing.

  Shoving aside a container of organic Greek yogurt, she grabbed the to-go box. “He’s tried to make me go to rehab, but I won’t go, go, go.”

  “Are you trying to kill me, girl?”

  Leslie jumped and rapped her head against the fridge hard enough to see stars. “Shit!”

  One hand holding the leftover box, the other rubbing the rapidly forming knot on her head, she spun around to f
ind Peter standing behind her with his duffle still on his shoulder. “Damn it, Peter. Why’d you have to go and sneak up on me? I nearly knocked myself out.”

  Something is his pale eyes flickered to life as he stared at her, a lazy half grin on his lips. “I woulda had you covered, sweets. I know CPR.”

  Her head stung like a bitch. “Well that’s a relief.” He’d probably just use it as an excuse to shove his tongue down her throat.

  Noticing where his gaze was lingering, Leslie was about to make a snarky comment when he said, “You seem to be missing your pants.”

  “Are my panties too much for you to handle?” She sounded tough, but the truth of it was she felt very self-conscious with Peter staring at her bare legs. Not like he hadn’t seen them before, but still. That had been an invitation.

  This wasn’t.

  “There’s so little of them that it must be a real waste of time to put them on. Really I’m just thinking about the economy of it all. For your sake.”

  Right. And she only drank wine for the antioxidants.

  “You’re such a giver, Peter. Always worried about the other person.”

  He flashed a wide smile at that. “It’s my curse.”

  They fell silent and she wasn’t sure what to do. Her whole plan for the next hour had been ruined. “Hey, why are you home now? Aren’t you supposed to be back in the morning?”

  Peter dumped his duffle on the floor and shrugged out of his leather jacket. The muscles in his shoulders rolled with the movement, but she pretended not to notice. Just like she pretended not to notice that he had some darn good chest muscles, too.

  “We got pushed to an earlier flight.”

  Trying not to feel crestfallen that her plans to veg alone were smashed, she yanked open the silverware drawer and grabbed a fork. Taking a big bite to stop her from saying something she shouldn’t, Leslie made a face. Cold chimichanga was really not good.

  Peter tipped his dark head to the side, his baby blues dancing. “You know I have a microwave, right?”

  Yeah, but it meant she had to walk directly in front of him in her underwear. Wasn’t going to happen. She was just going to put up with cold Mexican leftovers. “I’m good.” To illustrate her point she shoved another forkful into her mouth.

  Creases at the corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled, making his blue eyes pop. Clearly the location of the microwave hadn’t been lost on him. The man loved to see her squirm.

  Like the bee sting she’d acquired in his backyard during a barbeque a few months back. While she’d been in extreme agony from the delicate location of the sting on her hoo-ha, he’d spent the entire time laughing like an idiot as he’d worked the stinger free.

  It was like he enjoyed seeing her suffer, the jerk.

  “The last time you told me that, you were three sheets to the wind and definitely not good.”

  Leslie dismissed the comment. “That was entirely different.”

  “Was it?” he asked as he began to walk toward her.

  She went stiff. “Yes, it was.” He had a way of moving that was sleek and stealthy like a panther. It made her nervous and edgy, especially since he was so stinking unpredictable. Just like the Colorado weather.

  He stopped directly in front of her, in worn jeans and a white T-shirt. The man loved his white t-shirts. This one had the vintage Rolling Stones logo on it with the big lips and stuck-out tongue from their Forty Licks album. Of course he would wear something crude and suggestive like that.

  It was always mildly disconcerting being so close to him. For one, he projected himself to be way taller than he really was. She was five-ten and he had maybe an inch on her. That put them eye-to-eye. And the expression in his face was always clever, watchful like a coyote’s. It could be way unnerving.

  For two, his energy was intense. And it wasn’t always controlled. There was a whole lot of Peter packed into one very fit, very hard package.

  An image of that night back in Miami flashed across her brain. She knew what it felt like to have that hard agile body on top of her. Unbidden, her gaze dropped from his black stubble to the flat planes of his abdomen. Before it could roam lower she yanked it back to his eyes and caught undisguised humor in the crystalline depths.

  “See anything you like?” He reached out a hand, scooped up a dollop of sour cream with a finger, and plopped it into his mouth.

  She jerked her box away. “Hey, that’s mine!”

  He sucked the condiment off and said around his finger, “You know, I’ve been thinking about that night in Miami a lot lately.”

  Suddenly uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation, Leslie retorted, “Why, are you having problems again?”

  Peter took a step forward and she took one in retreat. It effectively pushed her up against the center island. “That was an anomaly, Leslie, and you know it.”

  His body was so close she could feel the heat coming off his thighs. It reached out and caressed the skin of her bare ones. “I don’t know anything of the sort.”

  He reached out a hand and cupped her chin. His blue eyes were piercing. “You do know that we have chemistry; that there’s this thing that’s lingering between us. I know you like to pretend it doesn’t exist, but facts are facts. It’s been amusing, but it’s run its course and I’m ready to get it out of my system.”

  The warmth of his hand was almost scalding. “Just what do you suggest then?” she asked, pretending that she wasn’t standing in her underwear holding a box of cold leftovers. With Peter it was best to never back down or show any weakness. He’d exploit it if you did. “Nice hair, by the way.” It was extra messy tonight, the short black strands a tangled, wavy mess.

  “I fell asleep on the flight, but don’t change the subject.” He pushed closer into her until his energy washed over her.

  Heat flared low in her belly and went straight to her groin. Damn her body for reacting to him. “What do you want?”

  Her gut told her she already knew.

  Leaning in, Peter nipped the skin just below her ear, making her shiver, and whispered, “I propose a bet.”

  There’s a shocker. The man was full of them. “Why would I agree to one?” She sounded breathless. She wasn’t supposed to sound breathless. He’d rejected her. Didn’t her body remember? Her pride sure as hell did. Why was it betraying her?

  Firm lips nibbled her earlobe and she went wet. Damn it. “Because I have something you want.” What could that possibly be?

  “What’s that?” Now she didn’t just sound breathless. Her voice was quivering some too. Stop it, body.

  The hand on her chin slipped down to caress her shoulder gently before it slid further down to the indentation of her waist. “You get me. Performing with my guitar at your club after the season is over. You can do as much PR about it as you want. And since I know you want to buy the club from Mark but don’t have the money—”

  “How do you know that?” she interjected, surprised.

  “Because he told me.” His hand squeezed her waist. “Let me finish. As added incentive since you want Hotbox, not only will I play for you, but I’ll pony up the cash you need for a down payment.”

  Her eyes flew wide. “You would do that?”

  He nodded, eyes hot with challenge.

  Boo-yah! God, that was exactly the coup she needed to get her feet underneath her again! She could buy the club and put it on the map in one fell swoop. It was a dream come true. But she’d been trying for two years to get him to play at the club. No manner of coaxing, prodding, or begging had worked. For a guy who lived out loud like he did, it was surprising just how against it he really was. So why the sudden change of heart?

  Wait a minute.

  Her eyes narrowed. “What’s the whole bet? What’s in it for you?”

  Peter gently tangled his fingers in her hair and held her head captive. An unholy gleam came into his eyes, and he grinned wickedly and nipped her chin. “You. I bet that I can get you to sleep with me by the end of the last
day of the World Series, or I’ll play in your club and give you your down payment.”

  Surprise shook her. “Wait. You want a do-over?”

  “You bet your ass I do.”

  “But it went so badly for you the last time.”

  He looked her in the eyes, his blazing like blue fire. “Then you have nothing to worry about, princess. C’mon, scratch this itch with me. Do us both a favor.”

  The man knew how to play her, knew what she wanted most. And he was right—she had nothing to worry about. But she had everything to gain. Peter playing in the club would bring the kind of attention she needed to take the business to the next level. And if she could actually buy it with the money she’d earn by keeping her hands to herself? Well, then life would be perfect.

  Sure they had a history. And she’d admit it. Yes, they had chemistry. But it’s not like she was in any real trouble of sleeping with him. Right?

  Her stomach quivered. “You’re on.”

  Chapter Three

  PETER DUG HIS cleat into the pitcher’s mound and signaled to Mark Cutter, who crouched behind home plate. Winding up for a slider, he pulled back his elbow and zeroed in on the catcher’s mitt. Tension coiled inside him, ready to unwind like an overtightened spring. Blood coursed through his veins, making him feel alive and hyper-focused.

  Pitching in the Major Leagues was such a rush. Pure adrenaline all the way.

  Peter was all about the rush.

  It was his life. From his team’s name to the way he threw himself into everything full throttle, balls blazing. That was just how he was built. And it had given him a life of few regrets.

  His only one was currently in the process of getting a do-over.

  Leslie had no idea what she was in for. But she would, starting just as soon as he finished this game. With the little plan he’d put in place about her apartment, the next few weeks were stacked in his favor. A sly smile crept over his face at that. He was so going to win this bet.

  No matter what it took. Snapping back to the present moment, Peter took a deep breath, blinked hard as his left eye went temporarily fuzzy, and mentally swore.