Sugar Rush (Offensive Line #1)

by Tracey Ward

  We’re butt deep in debt but we’re turning a profit, so that’s good!

  The hours are long, I have no life or identity outside of work anymore, it’s stressful as shit being the boss, but this is my dream. It’s what I always wanted so I can’t complain.

  Can I?

  “It’s going good,” I tell him lightly. “Tastetastic is coming to film an episode in the bakery tomorrow. We’ve gotten a lot of hype going around our Käsebrezel. It’s a German pretzel with baked cheese on top. So far I’ve made seven different flavors, changing up the taste of the dough or the type of cheese on top. It’s good.”

  “I’ll have to try come in and try it.”

  “Come in early,” I warn him blandly, not believing for a second that he’ll do it. “It sells out fast.”

  “I will. And that’s cool about the Food Network taking notice. I’m impressed.”

  “You’re impressed?” I scoff. “You who probably makes more in a year than I will my entire life?”

  “I can’t do what you do.”

  Since he won’t leave me alone I’ve put him to work. He’s arranging the cupcakes on a tower in tight rows, and when I check his work I’m shocked to find it’s almost as precise as my own would be.

  “I’m not so sure that’s true,” I argue grudgingly. “But I definitely can’t do what you can.”

  He looks me over with the same interest I showed his handiwork. He does it slowly. Completely. I feel the burn of his scrutiny from my head to my toes.

  His voice is heavy cream when he says, “I think you can hit harder than you know.”

  I let a silence build between us in reply; an illusory buffer for me to hide behind, because that’s the kind of bravery I’m working with. Little to none. I talk the talk and walk the walk, acting like I’m unaffected by the marvel of a man sharing this space with me, but the truth is I feel it. I feel it everywhere. The vibration of his voice alone sends shivers down my spine in a way that will haunt me tonight, probably most of tomorrow, and that’s not even getting into the size and obvious strength of his body dwarfing mine and this space and the very weight of the world. His beauty is anti-gravity, his eyes bright stars, disorienting and disarming.

  I push him out of my mind, firmly planting my feet on the ground and focusing on the little things. The smooth feel of the chocolate coating around the cookies. The chatter of the wait staff just outside our door. The ticking of a clock somewhere nearby. The gentle buzz of a cellphone in Colt’s pocket that he refuses to answer.

  “Where’s your other half today?” he asks suddenly, his voice overly loud in the wake of our silence. “Why are you stuck doing this alone?”

  “She’s manning the store, and I’m not stuck. I knew I could handle it by myself.”

  “Never hurts to have help, though, right?”

  I shrug indifferently. “I like doing things for myself.”

  “Lucky for you I like doing things for other people.”

  “Oh, no,” I laugh. “Don’t act like this is some altruistic thing you’re doing. You’re still trying to score what’s inside that cake.”

  He doesn’t deny it or defend himself, but his smile says it all; I’m not wrong and he’s not sorry.

  There’s a commotion in the kitchen as the lids to several chaffing dishes come crashing down over their fillings. There are seven of them along the counter, each of them shining chrome that remind me of cars lining up for a race. One by one the members of the wait staff each take a dish and move toward the door leading to the dining room. The blond waitress looks over her shoulder into the pantry as she leaves, seeking Colt out. He lifts two fingers to give her a little salute, making her grin and giggle as she hurries to catch up with her crew. I’m sure it’s the kind of reaction he gets everywhere he goes and the exchange is nothing but another brick in the wall I’m building up against him and his endless charm.

  “That food looks good,” Colt says almost sadly, watching it go.

  My stomach pinches voraciously in agreement. I flip my wrist to shake the watch out from under my sleeve. It’s nine-forty five. “It’s running late. Brunch was supposed to start at nine-thirty.”

  “That’s probably my fault.” He picks up another cupcake, leisurely fitting it into place on the tower. “They might have been waiting for me.”

  “You should get out there and eat.”

  “Nah, not yet.” He licks a stray bit of frosting from the back of his hand. “We’re not done.”

  “Go eat,” I demand, feeling my stomach quiver slightly. It’s hunger, that’s it. Regular old hunger that has nothing to do with his mouth and his tongue.

  “When we’re done.”

  “It doesn’t matter how long you help me. I’m not telling you what’s inside that cake.”

  “You’re the one who keeps bringing it up. I haven’t asked about it in hours.”

  “You’ve been in here for ten minutes.”

  “It feels longer.”

  “You could leave,” I remind him.

  “Nah. I like the company. And you do too.”

  I hate him for being right. For the fact that I like having him in here. I like the way he smells. I definitely like the way he looks, me and over half of Los Angeles, but what I like the most about him is the conversation. The biting back and forth that doesn’t faze him. If anything my coldness makes him smile, makes him laugh.

  I have deeply mixed feelings about that.

  Suddenly something sets my stomach off. It gurgles loudly, like a small, feral dog pissed off at the mailman.

  Colt pauses to look at me. “Are you hungry?”

  I clear my throat, swallowing my embarrassment. “No. I’m fine.”

  “Yeah, right.” He puts down a cupcake, stepping up to the pantry door.

  The staff is still gone. Sitting on the counter are four chaffing dishes, unattended. Unguarded.

  Colt hurries across the room, grabbing a white plate from a stack before popping lids on the dishes. He debates for a second before digging in, scraping two crepes, a stack of scrambled eggs, and two slick slices of ham onto the plate. Footsteps are echoing down the hall when he replaces the lids and darts back to the pantry, snagging a fork on the way. He pulls the door closed behind himself just as the chatter of the wait staff starts to fill the kitchen.

  “You know you’re a guest here, right?” I whisper theatrically. “You’re allowed to eat the food. You’re actually kind of supposed to.”

  “Oh, in that case…” He reaches out with the fork, the shining, sharp tines headed straight for the cake.

  I slap the back of his hand smartly. “No!”

  He smiles and winces simultaneously. “That stings.”

  “It was supposed to.”

  “So you’re not allowed to have help from the guests but you’re allowed to physically abuse them?”

  “It’s in the contract.”

  “Here.” He offers me the fork. “Dig in.”

  I shake my head. “I can’t eat any of that. I’m working.”

  “No one can see you eat any of this. No one but me, and I won’t tell. I promise.”

  “You’re really desperate to keep a secret for me. Almost like you want me to owe you one.”

  “Not true.”

  “Oh really?”

  “Yes, really,” he answers seriously. “I just want to feed you, Hendricks. That’s it.”

  I hesitate, thrown off by his sincerity. It’s different from the way we’ve talked to each other so far. This is a guy who I fully believe is flippant about almost everything, from his toenails to his taxes, but the weight of honesty rests heavy in his voice, dragging down my defenses.

  I take the fork, scooping up a bite of steaming yellow eggs. They land savory and delicious on my tongue, instantly pacifying the rat-dog in my gut.

  Colt gently takes the fork from me, scraping up a bite of eggs for himself. I watch with interest as he puts it in his mouth, his lips wiping it clean before he offers it back to me.
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  “Does it creep you out?” he asks when I hesitate.

  I shake my head, taking the fork from him. “No, it’s fine. I was just spacing out.”

  “Probably because you’re hungry.”

  Probably because your mouth had me mesmerized.

  “Maybe,” I agree around a bite of ham.

  I hand back the fork. He goes for one of the crepes.

  “So, what do I owe you?” I ask. “Some eggs and crepes aren’t worth the color of that cake, I’m warning you now.”

  He chuckles. “We’re on this again, huh?”

  “In my mind we never left it.”

  “I wish you would so we could enjoy this delicious meal together.” He loads a big bite of crepe onto the fork, offering it to me. Offering to feed it to me. “This is our first date and you’re souring it with all this gambling and debt talk.”

  I smirk at him as I pluck the fork from his hand and put it in my own mouth. “This is not a date.”

  “It’s not not a date.”

  “If your idea of a date is a closet and contraband food, then I pity the women you take out.”

  “If I said I wanted to take you to dinner at Spartina tonight, what would you say?”

  “No,” I answer immediately.

  He smiles, unharmed by the hit. “Yeah, but a closet with a plate full of crepes you’ll do, so this is what we’re doing.”

  “It’s still not a date.”

  “It is what it is, Hendricks, and I’m enjoying it.” He grins at me. It feels like a challenge. “Aren’t you?”

  If you lined up the last twenty minutes with him against every official ‘date’ I’ve been on over the last two years and asked me which I enjoyed more, I’d pick this closet. I’d pick this guy and his smile and his eggs; hands down, no question. I don’t know if it’s proof of how pathetic my dates have been or how amazing this guy is that I’m enjoying this more, but it’s like he said; it is what it is.

  So why am I arguing? Why am I fighting it?

  Because outside this moment he’s Colt Avery, running back, nearly nude spokesman, and last month’s Playgirl cover model. Outside these walls and away from this cake we live two cosmically different lives and I have no intention of becoming another star struck follower drooling a river in his wake.

  I shrug in response to his question. “I guess.”

  He laughs, not buying it.

  I’m almost relieved that he doesn’t.

  “Here, I’ll prove that I’m not sticking around for the baby shit anymore.” He pops his food in his mouth, handing back the fork before pulling his phone from his pocket. He winces when he sees the screen. Whatever it is that’s bothering him, he blows past it. “I’ll enter my bet right now and I won’t ask you to help me choose.”

  “Good.”

  “I don’t even need your help.”

  “Of course you don’t.”

  “I’m going to win on my own because I’m almost positive that it’s a,” he looks up at my face, drawing out his words slowly, “girrrrrrrrrrrrr booooooooo—man! Your face really doesn’t give anything away, does it? That’s impressive.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Help me.”

  “No.”

  He puts on the puppy dog eyes. “Please help me?”

  “This is getting sad.”

  “I’m gonna do it,” he announces proudly, hovering over his phone. “I’m gonna pick one and it will be right, and I’ll do it without you.”

  He taps his phone once decisively. A small bell dings in reply.

  “Did it,” he tells me, putting the phone away. “Locked it in.”

  “What’d you pick?”

  He smirks. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  The door to the pantry swings open, light and cold air spilling in around us. Tim Bailey is there, tall and imposing. And frowning.

  “Damnit, Avery, is this where you’ve been? Lexi is down my throat about finding you before the reveal and you’re hiding in the pantry?” He looks at me, his face softening. “Hi, Lilly. How are you?”

  I smile professionally. “I’m good, thanks. How are you? How’s the breakfast?”

  “Delicious. Everything is going perfectly, except for Colt here. I’m sorry if he’s been harassing you. He’s notorious for that.”

  “He’s been helping me, actually.” I gesture to the cupcake tower. “He’s good. Steady hands.”

  “I have a fall back career, Coach,” Colt tells him proudly.

  “Fantastic.” Tim opens the door wider. “Out. Now.”

  Colt nods. “Right behind you.”

  Tim grunts unhappily before heading back through the kitchen to the hall.

  “I guess that’s my cue,” he tells me, dusting his hands off against each other.

  “Thanks for the help.”

  “And the breakfast,” he reminds me with a grin.

  I roll my eyes. “Yes, and the breakfast. That was… it was actually kinda sweet of you.”

  His grin softens, his expression almost sheepish, like a little boy being told he’ll make a good man someday.

  “You’re welcome.” He offers me his hand. “It was good to meet you, Hendricks.”

  I take it, enjoying the warm, calloused feel of his skin. “You too, Avery.”

  The room expands as he leaves it, as air fills the space, pulling him away and replacing him with nothing.

  “Hey!” I call out impulsively.

  He pauses, looking at me over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

  I toss him an Oreo. My throw is crap but he catches it effortlessly. I watch him smile before taking a bite. It snaps the cookie in two, exposing its center. The center I dyed last night before re-stuffing and hand dipping all three hundred of them.

  His eyes widen when he sees the color inside.

  “Winner or loser?” I ask.

  He casts me a full blown smile, one that can probably drop panties from here to Telluride. “Winner.”

  “Congratulations.”

  He winks at me. The cocky son of a bitch actually winks at me.

  Then he’s gone.

  And I sincerely hope I never see him again.

  He’s trouble from top to bottom, from sweet to sexy. I’ve lived my whole life in L.A. and if there’s one thing I’ve learned above all else, it’s that pretty faces like that will throw you off course like a compass gone wonky in a storm.

  And Colt Avery is the Bermuda Triangle.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  COLT

  Beer ‘N Burger

  Los Angeles, CA

  It’s a girl.

  It takes three hours, a three tiered cake, and three years off my life to announce it.

  It’s a girl.

  Wait, one more time for the cameras. All smiles everyone. Hold up your pink cake slices. Smiles big. BIG! This is for Instagram and In Touch magazine.

  It’s a girl.

  As soon as we’re allowed to leave, Trey, The Hotness, Tyus, and I head to our favorite bar, Burger ‘N Beer, where they ironically do not serve burgers. Never have. It doesn’t matter, though. You wouldn’t want food out of their kitchen even if they had one. It’s a total dive, a ghost town lit to life with neon signs reflecting off greasy tables. The bathroom stalls don’t have doors. The jukebox by the dartboard with no darts only takes Pesos. It’s a real shit shack, but we love it, especially now. Two in the afternoon on a Monday is the best time to drink here. It’s just us and the surly bartender on duty. The one with the neck tattoo and handlebar mustache who checks out Trey’s ass every time we come in. I don’t think he’s gay. I think he’s got ass envy.

  “’Sup, Taylor,” I call to him as we file in.

  He holds up a small knife in warning, a half-sliced lemon dripping bitter on the bar in front of him. “No country.”

  I shrug out of my coat with a chuckle. “Good to see you too, man.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “So am I,” Tyus agrees. He’s already taking his regular seat in the
creaky chair across from our corner booth. “Don’t start that shit. Not today.”

  I turn out my pockets. “I don’t have any coins.”

  “You always have coins.”

  “God knows where you stow them,” The Hotness mutters.

  I grin at her. “In my cheeks. Like nuts I’m saving for winter.”

  “I shudder to think which ‘cheeks’ you’re referring to.”

  Trey takes her coat, hanging it on a hook next to his. His hand instinctively falls to the small of her back, just under her long, blond hair. His insanely long fingers press against her waist, tucking her into his side, and I feel a tug in my chest. A weird yearning that I get now and then when I see them together.

  Sloane, The Hotness, agent to the stars (aka Me), has been with Trey for the last few months. They met six months ago when she signed him at her dad’s agency, but after what I imagine in great detail was a dirty, sweaty affair, she quit the Ashford Agency. She passed Trey off to another agent in her new firm, picked me up from my worthless-ass agent, and started bangin’ Trey on the regular. He’s a lucky son of a bitch, off the field and on.

  Dude was born to be a quarterback. Tall, but sturdy the way a lot of Hawaiians are known for. Large hands and sharp eyes. I wasn’t sure I was going to like him when he joined the L.A. Kodiaks earlier this year. I was worried he was going to be another loudmouthed asshole, one-man show the way Duncan Walker was. The day Coach Allen traded that guy away was the best day of my life, and I have Trey Domata to thank for it. We gave up Duncan to score Trey in the Draft. That’s why I gave him a chance, didn’t give him too much shit when he joined. Turns out he’s humble as hell, a team player to the bone, and with him handing off the ball I’ve finally had a chance to step up on the team and show them what I can do. Our offense is considered one of the strongest in the league this year and there are whispers about a shot at the Super Bowl.

  You try not to listen, try not to let it go to your head, but you gotta be real. This is why we do this job, and I want a ring on my finger worse than a pregnant teen.

  “I got first round,” I tell the group. “Regulars?”

  Everyone nods in agreement.

  I turn to the bar, leaning my arms on the dark, dented wood. “Hey, man, can I get a Maker’s Mark neat, a Koko Brown in the bottle, a Bud Light from the tap, and a Shock Top Lemon Shandy?”