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But Brady told me he’s been logging major hours working at the bakery and I think he’s straight up full of shit, so I’m here to confirm that. I also am debating if he is actually working this many hours, forcing him to quit because his grades suck. He thinks he can skate by—no pun intended—and go to college based on his hockey skills, but that’s no guarantee. He’s a good player, but so are a lot of guys and all it takes is one injury and his future is fucked.
I should know.
Nothing like blowing out a knee and knocking up a girl at the age of nineteen to send my life off in a totally different direction.
Not that I have any complaints. I landed in a cake job—I know that is one way to use cake—that I love. Working with the guys and our head coach is rewarding as hell and the Racketeers are having a great season.
But now I have to wrangle my horny son.
To my total surprise, he is actually behind the pastry counter, wiping it down. Lydia is collecting coffee mugs from the tables scattered around in front of it. There’s no sign of Luna, which is a relief and a disappointment.
“Coach Phillips,” Lydia says, looking up at me in surprise. “Hi.”
“Hi, Lydia.”
Brady’s head snaps up, and he groans. “Dad, what are you doing here? This is so embarrassing.”
“I just wanted to make sure you’re where you said you were going to be.”
“When am I ever not where I’m supposed to be?” he demands, looking outraged. “You have control issues.”
“Uh, fully thirty percent of the time you’re not where you’re supposed to be.” Brady is a good kid, but he’s also a sixteen-year-old boy. I need to keep an eye on him. I stroll up to the counter. Damn, these baked goods look amazing. “Give me an eclair.”
“You’ll have to pay for it,” he warns.
That makes me snort in disbelief. “Why wouldn’t I pay for it? And I have three dollars, you know.”
“If you want to buy an eclair in two thousand and five,” he tells me. “They’re six dollars now in modern times. For one.”
Damn. Dough has gotten pricey. But I try to pretend like I’m not shocked at skyrocketing prices because my son already thinks I’m a thousand years old. “I’ll take three.”
The case looks a little empty, like the business isn’t doing well. It makes me feel bad for Luna.
“I’m busy. I’ll box those up for you later and bring them home. But you have to pay for them now. Then leave because you’re embarrassing me at my place of employment because you don’t trust me even though I’ve done nothing to not deserve your trust.”
I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “You said this bakery has been slammed, so you’re working extra shifts.” I glance around. “I’m the only one in here. And how many bakeries have a run on cupcakes for St. Patrick’s Day, anyway?”
“My bakery is always busy,” Luna says in a light voice, appearing out of nowhere like a sugar goddess in a tight T-shirt that says, “Roll With It” with a picture of a sticky bun. She likes puns. Maybe I’m not such an idiot, after all. Except I just insulted her business.
Definitely still an idiot.
It’s unnerving to me how gorgeous Luna is. Her hair is almost white, with those purple tips, and it has the superfine texture of silk. It shifts and flows around her face every time she moves, before settling back down, pin straight. Her eyes are enormous, her lips are pouty, and she’s wearing her signature sassy smile.
I want to paint her body with frosting and lick her clean from head to toe. I want to kiss those plump lips and haul her onto my lap and…
“That’s why our case is mostly empty.”
“What?” I ask, because I’ve completely lost track of the conversation.
That seems to happen when Luna is anywhere near me.
“Because the bakery is always busy. That’s why the case is almost empty. It’s six o’clock. We close at seven.”
Right. I clear my throat. “Of course. I mean, I tasted your… stuff at your brother’s party and it was delicious. As you know. Amazing. So I could see why you’d be almost sold out. Congratulations.”
Oh, God. I really said that.
Brady is eyeing me in disbelief. “Dude, did you have a stroke?”
