Torrid Rush: A Single Dad Romance (Bad Boy Studs Book 3) Read online

  “The traffic on the way here was really bad, Noni,” I say.

  At this rate, it's going to take me half the morning to drive home and back. Without traffic, it’s forty-five minutes from Manhattan Beach where we live to Pasadena. I might have to reconsider the bus service for next year. Her school is a bit far, but it’s the best one in LA.

  Jutting out her lower lip, she frowns. “Mrs. Wexler will be really mad and no one will like me anymore.”

  She’s exaggerating, but she’s four.

  I check my Breguet Marine watch.

  What the hell is open this early in the morning?

  “It's okay,” I reassure her. “Daddy is going to locate a shop in the area and I’ll be back with cupcakes.”

  “It’s for the morning break.”

  Damn, that's going to eat up a couple hours of work. I can't believe I forgot. “I’ll be back.”

  “Promise?”

  “How can I ever let you down, sweet pea?”

  “Okay.” Her radiant smile is back.

  “Let's get you to class.”

  What a morning.

  CHAPTER 2

  Everly

  “Are we ready, gang?” I ask.

  “Yes!” everyone shouts.

  “It's going to be another rocking Flashback Friday,” I say.

  “She's right,” my cousin Callum agrees. “Let’s shows this city what we’re all about. We want to make sure every single customer that walks through our doors understands why Food TV celebrity chefs Shane Dennison and Riley Carrington have us on their list of favorite bakeries in LA,” he says.

  “Hell, yeah,” the whole bakery cheers.

  “Our fearless queen concocts the most decadent fillings and glazes—”

  “Well, thank you, sir,” I do a little curtsy. “It's just a little sugar.”

  “You know it's much more than that, Everly,” my cousin says.

  “You’re a keeper.”

  He grins at me. “Team,” he returns his focus to my staff, “it’s our job to sell the hell out of those little sugary bites. Who’s with me?”

  “Hear, hear,” the whole bakery cheers.

  “Let's do this!” Callum is a master at pumping up my little team. Considering how early we open on Fridays, it's a miracle everyone is so full of energy. He's definitely the culprit—not an easy feast at seven o'clock in the morning. “We’re going to smile, seduce, and shake and shimmy to the beat of the music.”

  “Yeah!” the team shouts again.

  “And more importantly, we’re going to sell, sell, sell! If we have fun, our clients have fun, right?” he adds.

  “Yes!” the team roars.

  “Let’s go break another record, people!” he says, shaking his fist in the air as he makes his way with a decisive step towards the door. A few cheering employees trail behind him.

  Callum manages the front of the shop—amongst the many things he’s so talented at—and I take care of the kitchen.

  “Let’s stuff these babies silly,” I say, looking at the mountain of sugary treats in front of me. “This is the seduction part of the equation,” I smile at the faces looking at me.

  That wins me a round of laughter.

  Suddenly lively music surrounds us.

  “And that's the shake and shimmy part. Let's get to work!”

  I'm so lucky I have such great employees. It doesn't take much more than that for them to focus on what they do best.

  The first few hours of the day are always a whirlwind of craziness. You'd think we'd be used to it by now, but every week this tsunami of goodness catches us by surprise. Don't get me wrong. I'm not complaining. I'm humbled. Out of all the great donut shops in the city, I'm always floored so many Angelenos would flock to mine.

  Believe it or not, in less than two hours, we've already sold out of our first batch of goods. The kitchen is frantically working as fast as possible to stock up our shelves. I hate making customers wait, but it's become our reality since Callum came up with Flashback Fridays.

  “Hey, boss, there’s a Mrs. Carly Dillard on the phone for you,” Virginia Denton, one of my staff members says.

  Her comment stops me in my tracks.

  Oh, no.

  “We need more goods, people!” Jacinth Gibbs shouts pushing through the doors. She works with Callum in the front. Had I been standing closer to the door, she would've knocked this tray right out of my hands.

  Didn't I say it was a crazy morning?

  “I was just about to take these to the front, but I need to take this call,” I tell her, handing her the large tray. “You take care of it.”

  “My pleasure,” Jacinth says.

  She's already gone.

  I turn my focus back to Virginia.

  “I hope Mrs. Dillard doesn't plan on adding to her order at this late stage. We already have more than we can handle,” I say.

  Mrs. Dillard is a faithful client. I just wish it didn't always take her half a dozen tries before she nailed down her decision.

  “Not sure. She says it’s urgent.”

  “That doesn't sound too good,” I say, walking towards the phone Virginia dropped on the counter.

  “Hello, Mrs. Dillard, it's Everly. How are you this morning?”

  After the niceties, I get down to business.

  “How can I help you?”

  I listen attentively as Mrs. Dillard shares her predicament.

  Yikes.

  I really feel for her.

  “Of course, it's not your fault. You couldn’t have predicted it in advance,” I sympathize.

  She apologizes profusely again.

  “No, no. I totally understand. I agree it's best to postpone her birthday party. True, you only turn five once, but a party isn't fun when you’re sick.”

  What she says next surprises me.

  “Thank you so much, Mrs. Dillard. That's very thoughtful of you. Take good care of yourself and Joely. I hope to see you soon.”

  I hang up and stare at the phone in amazement.

  “Is everything okay?” Virginia asks.

  “Mrs. Dillard’s daughter Joely has the chickenpox.”

  “Oh. Isn’t she the special-special order?”

  Virginia says that because we no longer take orders on Fridays. It's too busy. It's basically on a first come, first served basis. I made an exception for Mrs. Dillard because she's sent so many of her friends to my shop.

  “Yeah. Her daughter needs to remain quarantined, so Mrs. Dillard won't be able to make it.”

  “That makes total sense.”

  “Guess what?”

  “What?”

  “She not only paid for her order in full, but she also added an extra fifty percent to make up for the fact she'll be a no-show.”

  “Wow. I’m impressed.”

  “So am I. She could've said, Oh well, but she didn't.”

  “That's because she knows when it comes to sugary treats…” Virginia poses, cranks her neck with matching hand gesture before doing this little dance. “U can’t touch this!” she sings the last part.

  I explode in laughter as Virginia offers a pretty bad rendition of MC Hammer’s smash hit.

  “Good job on channeling the hip-hop artist turned preacher-slash-executive producer.”

  “It's Flashback Fridays, after all,” she smiles wide, her brown eyes sparkling with glee.

  “Wrong decade,” I say, waving my finger up and down the length of my body. “As you can tell, I'm not sporting a tracksuit, a chain belt, gleaming white sneakers or doorknocker earrings.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “Don't even go there, girlfriend. That song was released in 1990,” I tell her.

  You wouldn't believe how my musical knowledge has expanded since Callum suggested we implement these Flashback Fridays. Google ain't got nothing on me.

  “Close enough,” she says, still doing her crazy dance.

  I shake my head and roll my eyes.

  “Purée. Quel mec!” Ma
rion Cabaye, my French pastry apprentice, shouts. “Un vrai cannon!” she adds before purring like a cat.

  My attention goes straight to her.

  Her eyes are riveted to something going on outside.

  “Où ça?” Aline Lacazette asks. She’s also French and she works in the kitchen with Virginia and I.

  Both Marion and Aline are interns from Le Cordon Bleu College of Culinary Arts in Paris. They’re here for a year.

  “Là-bas. En face. Il vient tout juste de descendre de sa Range,” Marion says.

  “Oh là là! T’as raison. Il est succulent comme mec!” It's Aline’s turn to purr.

  What are they talking about?

  “English, please, ladies,” I demand.

  Both French women turn to face me.

  “Oh, sorry, boss,” Marion says. “We got carried away. Aline and I were just commenting on the delicious piece of eye candy.” From the lust veiling her dark brown eyes, I’m sure that must be a hell of a hottie.

  “Where?” I ask, walking towards the large window. Virginia is right behind me.

  “Over there. He just got out of a Range Rover.” Marion taps against the window.

  Since my shop is located on a side street right off of York Boulevard, parking can be challenging on Fridays. Regardless, this guy managed to find a spot smack across from us. Impressive.

  “Hmmm. Not bad from behind,” I say.

  “Look again,” Marion says.

  Hot Guy removes his jacket before turning around and facing the shop.

  Holy Jesus.

  “Ooohhhh,” I say.

  “His sunglasses are hiding his eyes, but I approve of the rest of him,” Virginia says.

  Me too. I approve mightily.

  “Who are we talking about?” Thandie Blyton asks. She manages the small team that shows up at 3 a.m. on Fridays to get us ready for our busiest day of the week. Since she’s a student at Le Cordon Bleu LA, this works well for her—and for me. She usually sticks around for the first few hours on Fridays because she hates to miss out on the fun.

  “Him!” Aline, Marion, Virginia and I say in unison, frantic fingers pointing to the window.

  “Christ on a cracker! He’s hot!” Thandie exclaims.

  “What’s going on here?” Bronwen O'Hara asks behind us. She works alongside Thandie. I’m not that tall. At five-eleven, Bronwen tours over me and most of the staff.

  “Hot guy alert!” Thandie informs her.

  It doesn't take long for me to feel Bronwen’s presence behind me.

  “Now we’re talking,” Bronwen cheers.

  “I thought you were in a relationship,” Virginia points out.

  “It ended last weekend,” Bronwen says.

  “What happened?” I ask.

  “Ron thinks we should see other people. You know, keep the relationship open. I disagreed. End of story.”

  “Yikes,” I say. “I'm sorry about that.”

  “Don’t be. I'm not. Back to Hot Guy!” Bronwen grins.

  All six of us are ogling at the gorgeous stranger.

  He moves towards the passenger seats and when his back is facing us, it creates a commotion.

  “Mon Dieu!” Marion shouts.

  Dear God might be the only French I understand because she says it all the time.

  “That is one fine ass,” Virginia exclaims.

  “Yum!” I say, under my breath. Without his jacket, I can appreciate his assets.

  “Oh là là!” Aline repeats.

  “You could bounce a coin off that thing,” Bronwen says.

  “Yowser! Yowser! Yowser! That’s a five-alarm butt if I’ve ever seen one!” Thandie pipes in.

  She's right.

  “That’s how jeans are supposed to hang on a man’s butt. You don't need to flash me your boxer shorts. Thank you very much.” The words come out before I catch them.

  A chorus of, “Amen” fills the kitchen.

  We all observe as Hot Guy opens the back door of his vehicle as if it were the most fascinating thing on earth.

  Right now, it is.

  “Look! He has a dog!” Thandie says.

  “Ooohhh,” six desperate souls coo.

  “That’s a white and blue brindle Staffordshire Bull Terrier,” Bronwen points out.

  “What’s a brindle?” I frown.

  “The patch around the dog's left eye,” Bronwen explains.

  “Got it. It looks like a pit bull to me,” I say.

  Bronwen shakes her head. “That's their little cousin. I have a slight obsession with the breed at the moment. I'm just not sure if Tania and Tina will go for it.” Those are her two bulldogs.

  “Aren't all pit bulls aggressive—little cousins included?” I ask.

  “No more than any other dog. It's all in the upbringing,” Bronwen explains further.

  “I see,” I say.

  “Despite a fierce appearance, the Staffordshire Bull Terrier is a lover, not a fighter,” Bronwen launches into educational mode.

  “I bet his owner is a lover, not a fighter,” Virginia says.

  We all laugh.

  “The Staffordshire Bull Terriers, also known as the Staffie, is a run-never-walk kind of dog. The kind that demands a very active and fit owner,” Bronwen goes on to explain.

  “Oh, the owner is extremely fit,” Thandie says. “Hurt me!”

  There we go laughing again.

  “The Staffie is compact, muscular, and powerful.”

  “The last two fit the owner. Compact? Not a chance. That guy has to be at least 6’3 and he's buff… look at that wide chest. Just like I like them,” Virginia says.

  “What she said,” I comment.

  “The Staffie is a chewer. You should always keep his mouth occupied.” Bronwen keeps going down her list, but I suspect she knows no one here is interested in the dog.

  “Oh, I’d find a few ways to keep the owner's mouth occupied.” Thandie had to go there.

  I swat her arm.

  “What?” she asks. “Can you not see how hot he looks?”

  “Perhaps, but no need to objectify him,” I take the high road.

  “Sure.” Thandie is unconvinced.

  It was a valiant attempt.

  “He thrives on vigorous athletic activities,” Bronwen keeps at it.

  “I'm all for very vigorous athletic activities,” Aline chimes in.

  “A strong will requires a confident owner who can take charge,” Bronwen adds.

  “Tie me up or tie me down. Your choice. I'm easy and I'm yours, big guy!” Thandie is on a roll.

  Of course, this banter goes on as Hot Guy unstraps his dog from its harness. There’s a little tug of war between owner and dog, but in the end, Hot Guy wins.

  When the dog is on the ground, Hot Guy bends down and pets his dog. That gets the dog all excited.

  I don't blame him.

  “The Staffie has a sensitive side… which means he needs a caring owner.” Bronwen seems unbothered by our comical interjections.

  “Aaahhh,” five independent women go all gushy.

  “Alas, ladies, I'm about to break your hearts,” Bronwen announces.

  “Why?” all five of us ask in unison.

  “The Staffordshire Bull Terrier is nicknamed the ‘nanny dog’ because of its reputation as a child's playmate and guardian.”

  At Bronwen’s words, my eyes pull back up to the Range Rover and that's when I see the child’s seat. I missed it the first time around because I was so focused on Hot Guy.

  There’s a baby mamma part of this equation? Damn.

  “Hot Guy is a Hot Dad with a kid, and there’s a woman out there who had sex with him to conceive said child,” Bronwen bursts our bubble.

  Lucky bitch.

  “Of course, all this could be circumstantial. Maybe he's the sexy uncle babysitting for the day, or the scrumptious straight Manny,” Bronwen offers.

  “I wouldn't hold my breath. Perfect endings only happen in romance books. Not in real life. That guy is off the mar
ket.”

  “Virginia has a good point,” I say.

  “I'm afraid she—”

  Bronwen doesn’t have time to finish her sentence.

  “What the hell is going on in here?”

  All six of us jump at Callum's voice.

  As if it had been rehearsed a hundred times before, we pivot at the same time to stare at him.

  No one says a word.

  “Has the Virgin Mary made an apparition this morning? Why are you all staring at the window? What's so interesting?” Callum demands, his dark blue eyes bouncing around the kitchen.

  “Traffic jam.” That's the best I can come up with.

  “Oh. Well, it is a busy side street on Fridays,” he says. “Just as an FYI, we need more goods.” Callum brings us back to reality.

  “Chop-chop, back to work, everybody,” I say, adopting a formal tone.

  “Yes, boss!” my staff says, matching my tone.

  When Callum leaves the kitchen, I add, “The show is over, ladies. Put away your bids. That's it for the drool fest!”

  Yeah, you guessed it, we’re all laughing again.

  God, he was delicious.

  CHAPTER 3

  Holt

  I knew pulling away from the parking spot at Naomi’s school that I was heading towards a morning of inevitable chaos. And I was right. I've been driving around for the last half hour desperately searching for stupid cupcakes.

  I already stopped at major grocery stores, but I’m out of luck. When I saw a Trader Joe’s, I sighed with relief. Unfortunately, it was short-lived. They’re not expecting cupcakes before twelve o'clock—late delivery on Fridays.

  My darling child will have a panic attack by then.

  I don't even bother to stop at Ralph’s. Naomi hates their cupcakes. I don't blame her. As I keep driving, it becomes clear I'm now in Eagle Rock.

  “Fuck,” I grumble to myself.

  Luna growls.

  “I know, you hate being strapped in for that long. We’re almost there.” I hope. “Hang in there,” I tell her.

  At this rate, I might as well suffer and return back home.

  “Come on,” I say, banging my hand impatiently against the steering wheel. I search left and right to find a spot where I could buy cupcakes.

  What a freaking nightmare.

  Most locations under the Magnolia's Bakery banner—Naomi's favorite spot when we’re in the Big Apple—start selling cupcakes at seven o'clock in the morning. Not in LA. Nine is the earliest and many shops don’t open until eleven.