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

5. Angela

five

Angela

A fter confronting my loud party hardy neighbor, I struggled to fall back asleep. Instead, every time I closed my eyes, I saw that handsome face of his and those big, calloused hands clasped around mine. I pictured them exploring my curves, cupping my breast and slipping into my panties.

The picture was so vivid, so fresh, that I was caught somewhere in a half-sleep, rolling around restlessly and waking with my hand down my pants.

Seriously, what were the chances that my next door neighbor would be the one guy I spent every summer pining for when I was a teen? Back then, I couldn’t even work up the nerve to actually speak to him.

And of course, I marched into his house and berated him in front of all his friends.

In my fucking pajamas. With a soft toy in my arms. Like an overgrown child.

Just thinking about it again has me dropping my head down to the desk in my grandma’s back office.

Diego.

The boy I remembered was now a man with broad shoulders, a sculpted chest, and tattooed arms. But he’s still got those kind eyes.

They looked a bit more guarded now, but they lacked the judgment I could feel peeling off some of his house guests. Instead, he’d looked at me with curiosity. Maybe some vague amusement.

If I wasn’t completely off the mark, there’d been something else shining in them too.

Interest?

No. Impossible. That’s just wishful thinking.

Still. His smile had felt so genuine. The way his eyes crinkled up in the corners had done something funny to my stomach. Flip-floppy, warming sort of things.

The sort of thing that usually triggered a familiar urge to run and hide.

But I’m not the girl I once was. I’m all grown up.

I’m braver now. And as humiliating as it was, it was one moment and I held my ground. On that, at least, I could take some comfort.

I owned it.

Go me.

At least, he obviously didn’t remember me as the awkward teenager who used to silently pile on the donuts into his to-go boxes.

And I’m not planning on being in town long enough for him to figure it out.

“ Halmeoni , it’s almost ready for you,” I say into the phone as I mime directions for the crew to affix the repurposed surfboard atop the back wall with the gleaming new A-Glazing Grace’s logo on it.

“No, not for me. I want to know when the shop will re-open? For the people. Everyone keeps asking. Especially my regulars.”

I cover the ear not pressed against my phone with one hand as I push past the roaring noise of the crew and slip into the kitchen. Not that it helps much, but it does help.

“We’re all working nonstop, halmeoni. It’ll be soon.”

My grandmother grunts and says, “Fine.” Then, she terminates the call without saying goodbye.

I smile and shake my head, moving back to the front of the shop. With the last task of the day done, the crew starts emptying out of the place.

I glance at the clock and run through my mental checklist. Everything is coming together, but the schedule is still tight. Finishing touches are needed, but the new, laminate flooring has been laid. The new display case and countertop have been installed. The series of old, repurposed surfboards I plan on installing are lined up against the wall, waiting to be suspended tomorrow. After that, all that’s left is to update the original letter board with my shiny new menu.

Nearly there.

Checking the clock and pulling up the surf report, I realize I’ve got some time to get out to the beach and catch some waves. An excellent way to shake off the stress, fit in a workout, and get the endorphins going.

So within minutes of bidding the crew farewell, I grab my board, bikini and wet suit from the office. Then I crank up my favorite pump-me-up playlist on the stereo.

Without bothering to close the staff bathroom door, I quickly strip down and tug on my swimsuit bottoms. I’m in my own world as I slip the top on, singing along and shaking my ass while I fiddle with the ties. I don’t hear it until it’s too late.

The kitchen door swooshing open.

A voice calling out above the din.

“Hello?”

Ohmygod .

I whirl around, screeching like a banshee.

“We’re closed! Get out! You’re trespassing!”

With one hand clutching the thin printed fabric over my breasts, I drop the bikini ties and snatch up the first thing within reach. Then I hold it out as a means to defend myself as the intruder comes into focus.

He looks at the long sticks I use to flip donuts in the fryer, then back up at me.

“Please don’t hurt me,” Diego says, lips twitching.

And all those hopes I had of that hazel-eyed hottie not putting two and two together about who I am evaporates in a cloud of smoke.

Diego’s mouth forms an o-shape before he raises his hands, palms-out.

“Sorry, sorry. The door was open.”

“That doesn’t mean come in. You can clearly see that we’re renovating here,” I snarl. “Do you mind?”

I twirl the sticks in the air, gesturing for him to turn around.

He does, but not before I catch his gaze dropping for a split second and a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

Great. Just fucking great.

Once I’m decent and clad in my wetsuit, I stride out and turn down the music.

“You know, this area is for employees only.”

“Grandma Grace sent me.” He keeps his back to me as he runs his hands over the pristine stainless steel equipment. There’s something reverent in the way he’s touching it all. My eyes fixate on the way he caresses it, how his long fingers stroke the hard surface. “So this is where all the magic happens.”

Something hot curls in my belly as I wonder what it’d be like if he were to put those big, strong hands on me.

Grandma Grace. He knows her that well that he refers to my grandma like he would his own?

“So, you’re A-Glazing Grace’s granddaughter,” he says, speculatively. “And my new next door neighbor.”

“Yep.”

“See, I knew you looked familiar. But you bailed so fast the other night I didn’t get a chance to ask you stay and get to know you better.”

I arch a brow at him. Get to know me better? Is there a chance that I hadn’t misread the interest in his eyes?

The thought sends a fresh wave of longing through me as he studies me.

“Your name’s Angie, right?” He looks at me when he says my name in that low, silken timbre, and I swear to God, a little wetness gathers between my thighs. “You worked here every summer. You got me into those glazed devil’s food donuts. They overtook maple bars as my favorite.”

What is happening right now?

“They’re my favorite, too.” I cross my arms over my chest, fighting to keep my body’s reaction to him in check. “Only my family and closest friends call me Angie. You can call me Angela.”

He purses his lips, going back to craning his neck around the kitchen space. “I may just call you Trouble.”

My mouth drops open. “I’m not any trouble at all.”

“Oh, I think you are.” He takes a step closer and I get a whiff of his ocean-tinged cologne. “See, I came over here to ask you for a favor. But the odds aren’t looking too good for me right now since we got off on the wrong foot last night.”

“What favor?” I tilt my head up and search his handsome face.

“You have something I need.” He leans forward, narrowing the six-inches or so that he’s got on me.

My breath catches as he invades my space, lines his lips up to my ear and whispers.

“ Donuts .”

His hot breath stirs the loose strands curling around my earlobe, and goosebumps break out across my arms. With the stainless steel countertop behind me, I brace my hands against his chest. I mean to push him away, but my brain registers how firm his muscles are and how good he smells up-close.

He grins at me while I look up at him, smiling back like this is all a game and my heart isn’t thundering inside me.

Distance. I need some distance.

I give him a gentle shove back and head for the door leading to the front of the shop. My voice comes out sharper than I intend, but I’m fighting to keep my head clear.

“Does that work for you a lot? That whole, flirt with a girl and make her heart go pitter-patter to get what you want?”

“You tell me. I came prepared to get the job done whether that means I flirt, beg, plead, or cry to get what I want.”

“The answer is no.”

But my no-nonsense tone gives way to an audible gasp when I see what’s spread out on top of my new bakery display case.

“You brought me choco pies?” My voice rises an octave, to level of ear-piercing pleasure before I can tamp down my excitement.

Diego reaches out, a cocky smile pulling at his lips. “I told you I came prepared to do whatever I need to do to get the win.”

Whatever control I thought I had snaps as I snatch up my favorite childhood treat, tearing into the red wrapper and pulling out the small, chocolate and marshmallow cake. After a quick inspection, I take a bite.

Fuck, that’s good. My eyes slide shut and I moan loudly as I savor the crumbly cake, the squish, the sugar hit.

I haven’t eaten one in years. Not because they weren’t available in Chicago. They definitely were. It’s just that I associate them with my grandmother and my childhood. They’re not particularly delectable, but to me, they taste like home.

Another bite. Another moan as I practically hug the treat to my chest.

Then, I remember I have an audience. I open my eyes to see Diego swallowing hard, his eyes locked on my mouth. He shifts on his feet uncomfortably and shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

“Um. So, did I do good?” He waves behind him. “Can we talk about you maybe making me some donuts?”

Mouth full of choco pie, I shake my head. “Nope.”

“Oh, come on.” Diego steps forward. “What’s a guy gotta do around here to get some donuts? The shop’s been closed for, what, six weeks? I’m dying here. My game is suffering, coach is already on my ass because I can’t get in gear, and I’ve got just over three weeks before the season starts.”

I quirk a brow as he drops to his knees before me. “Season? Autumn started a couple of weeks ago. Haven’t you seen all the PSL ads?”

“Hockey season. I’m a defenseman for the Soltero Beach Scorpions.” He grabs hold of my hand, and a lightning bolt of awareness travels through me. Heat climbs up my neck into my cheeks as my brain catapults into an alternate universe.

One where Diego’s on his knees not in supplication, but in adoration. Where the intent behind his touch isn’t to plead, but to please.

“What are you doing?” I whisper, dazed by the sight of my teenage crush on his knees before me with his large, rough hands clasped over mine.

“What’s it look like? I’m begging you. Help me out, Angie. Please.”