This is why, under normal circumstances, I was back of house. You don’t have to put on a pleasant face for back of house. You can cuss and sweat and scowl all you need to. Front of house? Tap dancing while doing grueling work with a smile? No thank you.
I shot a wink at Mara Leroy, one of the player’s wives who had become a friend. She’s a wild one, but you’d never know it looking at her. We met when she cold-called me in the employee directory and asked if I could alter her husband’s meal plan for a few days. Not because she was a tyrant trying to control his weight. No, it was to help with some BDSM punishment she was giving him. Jack Leroy had never done me any harm. I liked to think we had a “game recognize game” understanding that neither of us was interested in pleasantries. But Mara promised Jack’s punishment was consensual and that he “lived to please,” so I took her word for it and made it happen.
From there, she started inviting me to hang out with her and a few other team partners now and then. I often had to decline because of Liam’s hockey schedule, but they were nice people and I was honored they tried to include me.
Okay, now my fingers were really screaming under the sharp, hot edges of the pan. “Fuck,” I said, much louder than I’d like to have. “Come on, come on.”
A mischievous smirk under a dark mustache turned more serious upon seeing my panic.Not now. The pan was slipping, and all these chicken meatballs were about to be floor meatballs in a matter of seconds.
Until.
A large hand slipped under that edge of the tray, surrounded by a fistful of bar napkins. “Got you.”
With a wince, I let him help me nestle the pan down into the chafing dish. As I pulled my hand away, a throb of pain surged into my fingers. A ragged breath escaped my lips and I clamped my jaw so I wouldn’t scream. I couldn’t stop myself from blowing on my fingertips, an instinct that probably provides no real relief.
But suddenly, that hand was lifting up, up, until it was surrounded by wet warmth.
My gaze, much like my hand, lifted up, up, until it crashed into Harlan Royce.
My fingers were in Harlan Royce’s mouth, his tongue tracing over the raised burned spots.
Then, he extracted them and blew on my fingertips.
Harlan Royce, star goalie of the Ohio Rusties, was blowing on my boo-boo. His lips formed this pretty round “O,” which was surprisingly distracting. I had read stuff in Violet’s book club choice about guys blowing on a girl’s?—
Terrible mental track. I couldn’t think about Royce like that.
And yet, my body betrayed me. A gush of wetness hit my core, and thank god for the sturdy material of a chef’s coat, because my nipples hardened through my floppy excuse for a bralette.
But rather than getting embarrassed, he examined my fingers for damage and delivered another stream of cool air.
“What are you doing?” I blurted out.
He looked at me like I was the weird one, his tone annoyed. “Making you feel better?”
I wrinkled my brow while he glanced down at my injured fingertips again. “Why?”
A light smirk curved under his dark mustache, and those stormy blue eyes gleamed. “Evening the score. You save me from a bus, I suck your fingers.”
What the hell do you say to that? I focused on the bigger task at hand. “I have to get back to the kitchen.”
FOUR
HARLAN
FEBRUARY
No wonder peoplesay goalies are weird.
I just had her fingers in my mouth.
That woman saved my life, and I put her fingers in my mouth. Because they were burned and I felt like I was uniquely qualified to manage her pain.
By sucking on her fingers. And blowing on them. Because, you know. Cool water on burns or whatever.
Now, I was hot on her heels following her back to a steaming kitchen. “I tried one of the crisped red beans and rice balls. A little overseasoned.”
Her eyes shot daggers at me and a muscle in her jaw twitched. “Thank you for your feedback, Mr. Royce,” she said robotically.
