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

  “Fuck.”

  As I zoom down York Boulevard, I notice a line rounding the corner to a side street.

  “Whoa! That street is buzzing with people and it’s only a quarter to nine. It can only mean two things—coffee and sugar. We might be lucky after all, Luna.”

  She barks.

  I take the first left and backtrack. It's only when I turn the corner on Hazelwood Avenue that I realize how popular this place is.

  “Sugar Glaze Shack,” I say as I duck my head to read the awning. “Never heard of this place before.” I assess the long lineup wondering if I shouldn’t keep driving around, but then I remember what it took for me to find this place. “Nope. This is it.”

  I fully expect to drive around until I find a parking spot, but it seems like my luck is turning. An SUV pulls out at the right moment.

  By the time I park, it’s already getting warm. I get rid of my jacket and proceed to get Luna out of the vehicle. Of course, she's angry with me, which means it's a fight to get her out of the harness.

  “Come on, Luna, work with me. Just be patient and you’re free,” I tell her.

  It takes a little more than that to convince her, but in the end, things go my way. Thank God. I lock up and drag Luna across the street where I tie her leash to a dog hook. She takes a drink from the bowl of water that’s been left there.

  “Good girl, I won’t be long.” I pat her head and she sits.

  As I pass in front of the shop, I try to look inside, but it's swarming with people. Holy crap. I move my head from left to right, but it’s to no avail. The mass of customers inside is doing a pretty darn good job at hiding the glass cases where I’m sure all the pastries are displayed.

  The door flings open, and a wave of people walks out.

  Hmmm. People are carrying arms full of boxes. This is a good sign.

  I make my way to the back of the line with a confident stride. No doubt whatever they sell in there must be worth the wait.

  I’m sure they sell cupcakes.

  * * *

  It’s a good wait, but with each box that passes by, my determination grows. Not to mention I’ve been keeping myself busy. Since my cousin Jagger had a sprout of inspiration on a song he’s writing for one of my new artists, we’ve been furiously texting back and forth brainstorming on lyrics and rhymes. Poor guy’s been up since four. He couldn’t sleep. The song was speaking to him… more like yelling. It's the price you pay when you’re a creative genius.

  I place my iPhone back into my pocket as another wave of customers leaves the store.

  Finally!

  It's my turn to step inside.

  The first thing to hit me is the incredible aroma.

  Wow. It smells amazing.

  I could eat them out of business. After all, I never got to eat breakfast this morning.

  The music hits me next.

  I immediately recognize the distinctive voice and the unmistakable guitar chords—Bon Jovi, “Livin' on a Prayer”.

  Man, we practiced for hours to the tune of that song.

  As I soak in the atmosphere and festive decor, my eyes land on a guy behind an iPad cash register. I'm not sure what look he’s going for, but the large glasses, the double polo shirt and sweater tied around his neck—all in contrasting pastel colors—is definitely from another era. I move my attention to the girl behind the second cash register. Her neo-green jacket—with linebacker-like shoulder pads—matches the green eye shadow to a T. Her spiky blonde hair is a mile high.

  Can you say eighties?

  Most customers are bobbing their heads to the sound of the music and don't hesitate to sing along when the bridge hits.

  Whoever owns this place sure knows how to shake things up.

  I’m so taken by the creativity and the electrifying energy, I almost forget why I'm here. As Bruce Springsteen’s Born in the U.S.A. fills the bakery, a woman with jet black hair carrying a tray approaches me. She’s wearing a black t-shirt that reads, ‘I love the 80s’, which she paired with a short yellow tutu skirt and an enormous hot pink bow—Naomi would love both. Her greeting snaps me back to reality.

  “Bonjour! My name is Aline. Welcome to Sugar Glaze Shack,” a petite brunette with dark brown eyes says with a pronounced French accent.

  “Thank you,” I say. I avoid repeating her name because I'm afraid I'll butcher it.

  She stares up at me, eyelashes fluttering like crazy.

  I smile down at her.

  “You’re very, very, very tall,” she finally says with a wide smile.

  I stifle a laugh.

  “I hope that's not a problem.”

  “Au contraire.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “On the contrary,” she purrs. Okay. “I’m French,” she says as if it isn’t obvious.

  “Paris gets a bad rap, but I love your country,” I say.

  “And I love you.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I mean, I love that you love my country.”

  Talk about overly friendly greetings.

  “Back to business,” she grins.

  Thank God.

  “Today, we’re revisiting the eighties,” she says, sticking her chest out.

  I lift my eyes up and scour the room. “Well done. Clearly, your customers are enjoying themselves. Present company included.”

  “Thank you. It's his brainchild,” Aline says, pointing to the guy wearing the polo shirts.

  “I see. Smart.”

  I guess he's the owner.

  “Would you like a sample?”

  “Thank you,” I smile. I reach out, but freeze. “These are donuts?”

  “Not just any donuts,” she corrects me.

  “But donuts nonetheless?”

  “But of course. This is Sugar Glaze Shack. One of the best donut shops in LA. Food TV celebrity chefs Shane Dennison and Riley Carrington have us on their list of favorite bakeries,” she says, lowering her eyes to the tray.

  Those precious twenty minutes with Jagger were a gift. It’s often challenging for me to find uninterrupted time when everything isn’t being thrown at me. In my mad texting session with my cousin, I didn’t think of Googling this place. My bad.

  “You should try, you’ll be seduced,” she tempts.

  She doesn't understand. This father is on a mission.

  “No cupcakes?”

  She looks at me as if I have two heads. “Non!” she says. “This is Sugar Glaze Shack. The best—”

  “I got that part,” I stop her with a raised hand.

  It's my turn to frown.

  Shit. I'm so fucked.

  Seems like I'm going back home after all.

  “Today is Flashback Friday,” she continues undeterred by my sudden sour mood. “We go back in time and we get all dressed up. Oh, it's also the only day of the week where we exclusively feature our bestselling stuffed donuts. We go beyond the mere glazed donut today.”

  “I was commissioned to track down cupcakes,” I tell her.

  “Try!”

  She's a bossy little one.

  My curiosity gets the better of me. I reach out and grab a morsel.

  “Wow.” Holy shit. “I've tasted donuts in my life, but these are amazing.”

  “You see? You listen to Aline and everything is okay.”

  I can't help but laugh.

  “The one you selected is our very popular chocolate donut stuffed with our signature Oreo cookie cream filling.”

  “As delicious as that was, that's not what I'm looking for.”

  I stick to my guns.

  “Well, a leopard can’t change his spots, but he can climb up a different tree once in a while.”

  She does this weird thing with her eyes and I'm not certain if she's trying to get me to agree with her or if she's eye-fucking me.

  “Yeah, I'm not sure it's going to fly with my audience.”

  “But, today we have dark chocolate custard, white Oreo cookie cream, raspberry coated in dark chocolate and toss
ed in coconut, Nutella cream along with the Oreo cookie cream,” she blurts out without taking a breath.

  She's pimping hard.

  “This all sounds very delicious—”

  “If you don't like chocolate—who doesn't like chocolate?” She doesn't give me a chance to answer. “Just in case, we have crème brûlée custard, lemon cream and our wake-me-up espresso cream.”

  She won't take no for an answer.

  “I don't think stuffed—”

  A door swings open, pulling my attention away from Aline. A brunette—well, I’m not sure how to call that hair color—waltzes in.

  No, that’s not it.

  It’s more like she does this little dance move to the new song that fills the shop.

  The sexy brunette is decked out in a long black t-shirt that reads, ‘Everything Was Better In The 80s’, huge white hoop earrings, a long pearl-like necklace, hot pink cutoff lace stockings that hit her below her calf muscles, matching cutoff gloves, a white pouch around her waist and white high heels. Her hair is an impressive poofy cloud. The color is mesmerizing.

  With each step, she swings her hips left and right as she mouths the lyrics to “Pour Some Sugar on Me” to the room, pointing her fingers at several customers.

  The crowd goes wild.

  I don’t blame them.

  Def Leppard has never sounded better.

  Never.

  Then our eyes meet.

  She stumbles, but she’s quick to find her composure.

  Now, with an almost timid step, she makes her way to the third iPad cash register. Her eyes are downcast, but it’s hard to miss her rosy cheeks.

  Well, well, well. Who do we have here?

  I return my attention to the French girl.

  “Maybe you’re right. Change is good. Let’s see what the buzz is all about. If it’s good enough for Food TV celebrity chefs, it’s good enough for me,” I say. More than good enough.

  “Mais bien, sûr,” she giggles. Aline translates before I get a chance to ask. “But of course.” This time she gives me a knowing wink.

  CHAPTER 4

  Everly

  Friday is the only day where I'm not covered in pastry flour and glaze. I put my baking duties on hold and adorn my hostess hat because you never know when I might have to open the third cash register. When I receive Callum's, ‘Get your ass up front’ text message, I'm ready to leap into action. As I make my way to the front, my eighties anthem comes on. I mean, come on. I bake donuts for a living. I don’t care how old this song is, “Pour Some Sugar on Me” was clearly written with me in mind. Channeling the badass video, I push open the door and make my dramatic entrance.

  Everything is going well until I see him.

  Hot Guy is standing in my shop.

  MY SHOP!

  Oh, God.

  Can you believe I actually stumble a bit at his closeness?

  He’s emanating some kind of voodoo power. I'm sure of it.

  I find my footing, but all of a sudden, I feel very self-conscious. My face must be as bright as my stockings. Thank God, I find it in me to will my shaky legs to stride to the other side of the long stainless-steel counter.

  “I'm open on three!” I shout, careful to keep my gaze on the iPad.

  I feel a wave of people move in front of me.

  When I muster up the courage to lift my eyes up, I notice Hot Guy takes a huge step to the right. He's now standing behind the line of people facing me.

  Oh, boy.

  My eyes shift to Aline’s and she flashes me the biggest smile I've ever seen.

  What's that about?

  I frown a question.

  She answers by mouthing something I can’t comprehend.

  What the hell?

  No, that’s not embarrassing at all. Thank God, Hot Guy has his back to her.

  Those French are crazy.

  I avoid looking in Hot Guy’s direction, reminding myself he’s someone's father and there's a woman out there who has claims on him. With that in mind, I focus on offering my customers the best possible experience.

  I've totally immersed myself in professional mode when it suddenly hits me. With each customer I serve, Hot Guy’s turn is coming up.

  Oh, gosh.

  When Jacob Newhall—a diehard fan of our dark chocolate custard-filled donuts—approaches the counter, I know the countdown has started. The very tall customer—oozing with masculinity like it's going out of style—standing behind Jacob is none other than Hot Guy.

  Great.

  I do my best to keep my eyes on Jacob, not wanting to drift to the man whose eyes I know are on me. His gaze is so intense, I can feel it burning a hole in my forehead. Against my will—and better judgment—I glance up.

  Hot Guy is smiling at me.

  Etiquette demands I return his smile.

  And I do. In spades.

  He’s just a customer.

  A very hot customer.

  A very hot and taken customer.

  When everything is said and done, Jacob eagerly grabs his box of six donuts and exits the shop.

  And just like that, my human buffer is gone.

  Shit.

  You’re a professional. Keep it together.

  I clear my throat and do what I do best, make a customer's day better.

  “Good morning!” I say with a big smile.

  I have to look way up to meet his gaze, even though I’m wearing a pair of skyscraper heels.

  “Good morning,” he says.

  Holy Jesus, that voice.

  Are you serious with that voice?

  Rich, chocolatey and sweet.

  Just like the perfect dessert, you can almost taste its decadence.

  Mmm mmm good.

  Hot Guy drops his hands on the counter.

  I lower my eyes, drawn to them like a magnet.

  Even his hands are gorgeous.

  They’re big and strong with sexy long fingers. Clean hands to boot.

  His slightly tanned skin contrasts beautifully against his white long-sleeved Henley shirt. His wide torso is a work of art and since two buttons on his shirt are undone, I’m treated to a little show.

  I don't even dare to look at the lower part of his body. I might not survive.

  It takes me a second to realize Hot Guy isn't wearing a wedding ring.

  Nice!

  Is it wrong that I’m getting excited? Bronwen might be right.

  Maybe he is the hot uncle or the straight Manny, after all.

  Could he still be in a relationship? Sure. But you can't blame me for keeping hope alive.

  My eyes flick back to Hot Guy and I shamelessly scan his face.

  This close, his striking ocean-blue eyes nearly knock me off my high heels.

  I could easily lose myself in those for the rest of my natural life and in the life after that.

  On a second glance, I take in his thick dark eyelashes, his sexy lips and his defined cheekbones.

  Love, love, love the shadow of dark stubble defining his strong jawline.

  Very sexy.

  And then there's the perfectly disheveled dark brown hair that’s slightly longer than what the corporate type would sport.

  How can men like this walk the earth, God?

  When I don't get an answer from up above, I continue my inspection.

  Hot Guy’s body is fit, built like the Romanian boxer who was all the buzz a few weeks ago after a big fight in Vegas. The media couldn’t shut up about him. Those sexy-as-hell shirtless photos of him on the beach in Sarasota undoubtedly fueled the fire. I bet you, underneath his clothing, Hot Guy is a formidable match. Eat your heart out, Claudiu Alibec!

  I know I said earlier it was wrong to objectify him, but I take that back. Every single inch of this god deserves to be praised. I'm more than happy to lead the choir.

  Hot Guy smiles again and I’m suddenly conscious I'm staring like a fool.

  “Huh… oh… I…” Well, that went well. I take a deep breath and take another stab at it.
“I’m sorry, you were saying?”

  “I said, good morning.”

  Duh.

  Of course you did.

  My cheeks suddenly feel like they’re on fire.

  “Silly me. It's been such a busy morning. I apologize for my absentmindedness.” I pedal hard to save face. “Welcome to Sugar Glaze Shack. What can I get you?”

  Oh, shit.

  I wince seeing a small smile form at the corner of his delicious mouth.

  God, what a mouth.

  His tongue darts out and slowly licks his lips and I nearly pass out.

  Whoa, buddy. Careful with that thing.

  “Do I detect an accent?” Hot Guy asks, shaking me out of my reverie.

  Only when I’m nervous. “Maybe,” I smile.

  “Where from?” he chuckles.

  “A suburb outside of Bawstin,” I say with an exaggerated accent typical of Eastern Massachusetts.

  “Bawstin? Cute.”

  “What can I say? Take the girl out of Bawstin, but you can’t take Bawstin out of the girl.”

  I groan at how lame that sounded.

  “I'm Holt, by the way.”

  Of course that’s his name.

  A guy who looks like this wouldn’t be named something like Fritz, Burt or Edmund.

  HOLT! MY GOD!

  I clear my throat. “I’m Everly.”

  Holt extends his hand and I place mine in his without hesitation. Feeling the smoothness of his skin against mine sends sparks coursing through my body.

  Dear Mother of God.

  “It's a pleasure to meet you, Everly,” he says.

  “The pleasure is mine.”

  “You have a great concept here,” he says.

  His hand is still holding mine, and I have no intention of removing it.

  “We do our best to shake things up on Fridays. It's a great way to kick off the weekend!”

  “I can see that.”

  “Not to mention, music can turn the shittiest day around, don't you agree?”

  “Wholeheartedly,” he says, amusement lacing his word.

  The tiniest little lines appear next to his eyes.

  I sigh.

  It's unfair to mankind to be this attractive.