Fake Dating the Defenseman Next Door (Soltero Beach Scorpions Hockey #1)

1. Prologue

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Prologue

Twelve years ago - Angela

“ I finished cleaning all the equipment and getting everything ready for tomorrow,” I shout, powering through the door separating the front of the shop from the kitchen.

My feet skid to a halt as the bell hanging off the shop’s front door rings, announcing the presence of a new customer. Two teenage boys enter on roller blades, laughing and balancing several street hockey sticks in their hands.

“Hi, can I help you?” I push my hat back, hoping like hell it’s not someone from school. The last thing I need is for the bullying and torture to follow me here. Helping my grandma with her donut shop gives me sanctuary from the nightmare high school’s become since that stupid party last summer.

I frown at the streaks of black following after each boy as they skate up to the counter. The no shoes, no shirt, no service sign doesn’t really specify no rollerblades. Guess I’ll have to clean that up later, too.

“Yeah, can I get a mixed dozen to go, please?”

When I turn my attention to the boy who spoke, our eyes connect and a jolt of awareness strikes me. I stand rooted to the spot, staring dumbly at the boy’s brown skin, broad smile, and the small, faint scar marring his left cheek. He’s tall, lanky, and fit. But it’s his eyes that have my attention.

Clear, bright, the color of runny honey. And, perhaps most striking, is that they’re kind.

He tilts his head toward the bakery display case and gestures over his face.

“You got a little something…”

“Oh, gah—I mean, thank you.” I spin away, snatching up a napkin and scrubbing at my face vigorously.

Where the hell was my grandma? I don’t work the front! Not if I can help it anyway.

I sneak a peek at him over my shoulder, and feel my face grow hot as he peers into the case while I quickly fix up a box.

“Were there any specific flavors you’re wanting?” I strain to keep my voice calm, cool, collected. I’m not at all ruffled by the hot guy who walked into my grandma’s donut shop. It happens every day.

Not.

Finally, the kitchen door swings open and my grandma shuffles out.

“ Halmeoni, we have a customer.” I say it so she doesn’t turn up the volume on the K-drama she’s got paused on the small television hidden away in the alcove we use for breaks.

She looks up, takes one look at the boys, and smiles as she approaches the counter.

“Diego, you’re back again. I haven’t seen you in a long time.”

“Yeah, I’ve been away for school and stuff, but whenever I’m home, I have to have a donut.” He taps the case above me as I reach in, snapping up a selection with tongs. “You’re out of my favorite though.”

She nods in acknowledgement. “Maple bars are very popular. They go fast. If you come tomorrow, I’ll save you one.”

“Well, if you’re holding one especially for me, I can’t say no.” Diego glances over at his friend. “Any special requests, Eli?”

“I’m easy. Anything’s good with me.”

“Great. I’ll take these dozen to the guys we’re playing a pick-up game with, and I’ll swing by tomorrow for another dozen.”

Tomorrow. My pulse races. He would be back tomorrow.

Judging by the way he’s talking with my grandma, he must come around a lot. She’s really good with customers and she never forgets a face, but the fact that she knows him by name is something.

Diego.

Wonder how much he comes by? Are maple bars really his favorite? There are so many to choose from…

No. I shake my head and resolutely stuff the box with a few extras that aren’t likely to sell by the time we close. Better they go to a bunch of hungry teens than the garbage bins out back.

“Did you put in extra?” Grandma asks, peering into the box to check my careful packing.

“Yes.”

“Here, put a few more.” She waves at the case and I dutifully do as told while she rings him up. The last one I add in is my personal favorite that I’d been waiting to have after my shift—a glazed devil’s food donut.

I box it up as my grandma says, “There’s extra for your family, okay? Tell your sisters I said hi.”

Diego flashes another grin at grandma—this one a bit sad—and thanks her. But when he lifts his head and those soft hazel eyes meet mine, I fight the urge to hide myself away somewhere behind the foam green Formica counter. Not that it would’ve helped. There’ s nowhere to hide. So instead, while he inclines his head in a way that reminds me of charming old timey guys in films, I stand there and wave.

Like a weirdo.

Awk-ward…