Sugar Rush (Offensive Line #1) (3 page)

“Really?” she grunts, sliding the rack out entirely into her arms. “’Cause I meant it to sound more like the end of one.”

“Perspective is everything. From where I’m standing it’s promising.”

She nods to the side of the van. “Check the perspective standing over there. You’re in my way.”

I move aside, letting her pass. I wait until she’s a few paces away before I deftly lift the next tray from the back, hurrying to follow her inside the kitchen.

Not surprisingly, it’s huge. There are twin ovens stacked against the far wall, a massive marble island in the middle, and endless matching white marble countertops stretched along every wall. Dark gray cabinets with shining chrome handles anchor the room to pitch black floors that look glossy as glass. The space is filled with two dark haired waiters in their thirties and a young, blond waitress with her hair pulled back tightly in a sleek bun. They all give us a quick glance before returning to a line of champagne glasses being filled with effervescent gold.

Lilly unknowingly leads me into an adjoining room that looks like the pantry. It’s much smaller than the kitchen, with shelves lining every spare wall. Each shelf is covered in cans, boxes, and bags of food in neat lines that I’m sure are alphabetized or organized according to fiber content. There’s a large cart in the middle of the space covered in a thick white tablecloth. She sets her tray down carefully on one side of it.

When she turns to find me behind her she jolts again, her eyes going wide.

“Jesus mother!” she cries, immediately demanding, “Are you going to do that to me all day?”

“Why are these things so cold?” I ask, shifting the tray in my hands.

“To keep the frosting from melting. Can I have it, please?”

“It’s a friendly tit for tat,” I explain, shifting gears rapidly. “That’s all I’m asking.”

“You’re not going near my ‘tit’ and I want nothing to do with your ‘tat’. Now hand over the pastries.”

I give her the tray.

I also follow her back outside when she leaves.

“What’s the obsession with the cake?” she asks, not looking to see if I’m there. She knows I am.

“I want to know what color it is inside.”

“You want to know the sex of the baby. Why?”

“Curiosity.”

“Curiosity would have backed off when I threatened mace. The fact that you’re still here says there’s more to it than that.” She hands me the next tray. “So what’s the real reason?”

“I’ve got money riding on it.”

“How much?”

“A lot.”

“A lot to you or a lot to me.”

“Probably somewhere in the middle. I’ll give you a cut if you help me out.”

She pulls down another tray. “Do you know how much the Baileys paid us to keep their secret?”

“A lot?”

“Not to you, but definitely to me. They trusted us to keep our mouths shut.” She casts me her first smile and it’s all pink lips and wry amusement, such a perfect mixture of sugar and spice that it makes my stomach churn impatiently. “Sorry, but helping a stranger win a bet isn’t worth losing that for me.”

“Which one? The money or the trust?”

She doesn’t answer as she breezes by, heading back inside.

I follow closely on her heels. Inside the pantry she takes the tray from me silently, squeezing past me in the narrow doorway and leading me back out to the van. We work in wordless tandem as we empty the vehicle, even the boxes holding the cake pieces. She puts them in my arms with a sharp look in her eyes that warns me to be good.

I smile devilishly in reply.

LILLY

This pantry is too small. Or maybe he’s too big. A big, beautiful fish in my little pond. It’s probably a combination of the two, but I’m blaming him. All of him. I’m blaming his big shoulders, his heavy biceps. His full lips, dark hair. Big blue eyes. Cleft chin and square jaw.

That’s the biggest problem; his face. I try not to look at him because he’s beautiful and dangerous like a cliff’s edge. The view is amazing but the fall will break you in two.

It’s surreal being here with him. I’ve seen him before. Not playing football, I hardly watch it, but in the Dairy Queen commercials he’s in with two other players. They stand half-naked with ice cream cones over their junk and try to sell… actually, I don’t know exactly what they’re trying to sell. Sex and candy? That’s about the sum of it. It must be working because I’ve had Dairy Queen two times in the last month. That’s two times more often than I did before Colt Avery’s abs told me how delicious it was.

Now I keep my eyes averted, locked on the white chocolate dipped Oreos in my hands, but there’s another problem, one that might be bigger than his face, if that’s possible; I can smell him, and the guy smells
good
. Like cologne and hot honey.

“So,
us,
huh?” he comments offhand.

I cast him a quizzical glance. “Us?”

“You asked if I knew how much the Baileys paid ‘us’. You own the bakery?”

“No. Well, half of it. My friend Rona owns the other half.”

“How old are you?”

I sigh internally. “How old are
you
?”

“Twenty-three.”

“I’m twenty-four.”

“You don’t look a day over twenty-five.”

I chuckle in surprise. “Thanks, I think?”

He grins and it’s an awful thing. A charming, boyish, damning thing.

“Everyone asks that,” I continue, training my eyes on a straight line of Oreos instead of the curve of his lips. “It’s the first question that comes up when people hear we own a bakery. ‘Really? How old are you?’.”

“Twenty-four is young to own your own business.”

“Not in California it’s not. There are people younger than me with software firms or clothing lines. Twenty-four in L.A. is not the same as twenty-four in Tulsa. Ask any actress.”

“You know what else she’ll tell you about L.A., right?”

“Never get discount Botox?”

“No,” he chuckles.

“It’s not who are, it’s who you know?”

“That’s it.”

“Okay, yeah,” I admit reluctantly. “Rona and I didn’t build it from scratch. It’d been in business for over forty years when we started working there. We were fifteen. The people who owned it were getting ready to retire. When we graduated high school, Rona and I went full time instead of going to college and they taught us how to run the place. And a year and a half ago they sold it to us. We would have been in debt for decades trying to start a place from the ground up.”

“How’s it going?” he asks frankly.

I hesitate before answering him, not sure what to say here.

Great! It’s really thriving and it’s so much fun!

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.

“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.