Overview
A Portland restaurant owner succumbs to temptation in this gay romance novella. “Sometimes an author just gets everything right . . . Absolutely perfect.” —Guilty Pleasures Book Reviews
Sure, Chris O’Neal has problems. His restaurant is still co-owned by his ex. His flannel-and-tattoos style is making him accidentally trendy. He can’t remember the last time he went out and had fun. But he’s not lonely, he’s driven. And the hot bakery delivery boy is not his problem, no matter how sweet his buns.
Chris is old enough to know Lance Degrassi’s sculpted good looks and clever double-entendre’s spell nothing but trouble. Lance is still in college—he should be hitting the clubs and the books, chasing guys his own age, not pursuing some gruff motorcycle-riding workaholic. Especially when he’ll be leaving for grad school in a few months. But Lance keeps hanging around, lending a hand, charming Chris to distraction. Maybe some steaming hot no-strings indulgence won’t hurt.
Then again, maybe it will . . .
Praise for the Portland Heat series
“Tremendously charming and sexy, Served Hot is a knockout!” —RT Book Reviews
“A charming read, a warm, feel-good story with just the right amount of angst (and steam!) featuring two likeable characters.” —All About Romance on Served Hot
“A really enjoyable story.” —Joyfully Jay on Baked Fresh
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781601833945 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Lyrical Press, Incorporated |
| Publication date: | 05/26/2015 |
| Series: | Portland Heat , #3 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 128 |
| Sales rank: | 382,847 |
| File size: | 679 KB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Delivered Fast
Portland Heat
By Annabeth Albert
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
Copyright © 2015 Annabeth AlbertAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-60183-394-5
CHAPTER 1
The delivery boy had sweet buns. Not to mention prize-winning rolls. He wore a pair of those fancy over-the-ear headphones and shimmied around the white bakery truck, his hips and ass working in time to what was apparently a killer beat. Even the way he climbed into the back of the truck was a choreographed dance. I wasn't usually one to get distracted by eye candy, but that ass ...
I'd propped open the service door at the rear of my coffee shop about fifteen minutes earlier, hoping to coax a cool breeze into the stuffy storeroom where I'd been working. I leaned against the door frame, appreciating the unexpectedly fine view in the alley.
When the guy emerged from the truck—headphones around his neck, carrying a stack of pink boxes—I pushed away from the door and met him at the edge of the concrete steps. I tried to play it cool, like I hadn't spent the last five minutes perving on his world-class bubble butt.
"You're not Vic," I said as I ushered him into the hallway that led back to the kitchen and storeroom.
"Nope. I'm Lance, Vic's cousin. I'll be handling your deliveries from here on out." His smile—a wide, toothy grin—was almost as adorable as his butt. The only resemblance he had to my usual beefy delivery guy was in the chiseled facial features and light olive skin. He looked like he'd be right at home playing World Cup soccer for Italy with his wide shoulders, lean torso, muscular thighs and legs. And that ass.
Which I was going to stop thinking about right the hell now. He was too young—I could see that even more clearly under the fluorescent lights of my kitchen. Early twenties, if that. His gelled-up black hair fell across his forehead in artfully bleached strands. Too high maintenance for my taste.
"I'm Chris O'Neal. Here, let me help you with those." Taking part of the stack from him, I showed him the metal racks where I stashed recent deliveries.
"Nice setup you've got here." Lance looked around the cramped but efficient kitchen area.
"Thanks." Most of The People's Cup square footage was devoted to the coffee bar and seating area in the front, so I made do in the back with my organization system, which bordered on the obsessive. I'd installed floor-to-ceiling shelving on every wall, including over the cooktop and counters. The center prep table was where most of the action happened, and its broad expanse was covered with the beginnings of several dishes for tomorrow's Sunday brunch.
"I've been here before with friends from PSU—for your Sunday thing. And during the week once or twice to study."
I made a noncommittal noise. Great. A college kid. As if I needed to feel like more of an old, cranky perv.
"Let's get the rest of the boxes." I herded him back out to the alley. I was eager to get him and his distracting ass on his way. I had several more hours of staging work ahead of me to prepare for Sunday's buffet. During the week we were just another coffeehouse, but we were known all over Portland for our Sunday brunch.
"So are you the owner? This all yours?" Lance asked as he got another load of boxes from the truck.
"Yeah. Mine and my partner's. Business partner." I fumbled the stack of boxes he handed me. Why had it felt so necessary to make that qualification? Like the kid would be in any way interested in my messed-up business relationship with my stubborn bastard of an ex.
Despite his pretty-boy looks, the kid was probably straight; he had a confident swagger girls his age likely found irresistible.
"I've been to your other place, too—the one in Northwest. Did the delivery there earlier. I like this location better."
"Me too," I said, my voice drier than gin. "Randy give you any issues?"
Randy had his location; I had mine. Our relationship had turned into something out of a bad chick flick, except there wasn't any cute ending coming.
"Randy? Nah. It was some girl named Becky, with a nose ring and huge gauges."
I nodded. That sounded about right for Randy's taste. And I was not going to care whether he was banging her or how long she'd last as an employee. His shitty employee turnover wasn't my problem. I'd washed my hands of what happened at the 23rd Street store.
"You want a cup of coffee for the road?" I asked before I could stop myself. It was the same courtesy I'd always extended to his cousin and to most of our other delivery people, but somehow my offer felt tinged with more than politeness.
"What do you have on offer today?" His grin was more than a little wicked.
Wouldn't you like to know? I bit back the flirtatious retort. And what the hell was up with that? I did not flirt. Hell, anything other than bitter and grumpy hadn't been my MO for months now.
"We've got a fair-trade artisanal Guatemalan roast and a small-batch single origin Ethiopian Duromina that's been flying out."
"I'll try the Ethiopian. Thanks."
"Here, follow me to the front and I'll grab it for you."
Late Saturday afternoon the front of the house was almost deserted. The coffee bar ran along one side of the high-ceilinged room and seating dominated the rest of the space—long wooden communal tables in the back, a few smaller tables in the middle, and couches up front. Two die-hard regulars worked on laptops in the cushy chairs by the front window, while Brady, the barista, wiped down the coffee bar.
"How's the leg?" I asked Brady as I cut behind him to the line of carafes with the day's roasts.
"Hanging in there." His pained expression belied his words. He'd had a nasty skateboard wipeout the day before and still had road rash on one side of his face and his left arm.
"Want me to close?" It'd put me further behind on prep, but I hated seeing Brady in pain.
"Nah." His shrug made him wince.
"Okay. Just don't play hero ball. We're slow. Take a break if you need to." I pulled a cup of coffee for Lance. Grabbed one for me, too; I had a long evening ahead. I came around the coffee bar to hand Lance his cup.
"Are you one of those coffee purist guys who'll laugh if I ask where the creamer is?" Lance asked, accepting the cup.
"It's against the wall." I pointed. "And yes. Total coffee purist, but knock yourself out ruining the best cup of joe in town."
"Ha." As I watched him ruin the Ethiopian with a huge dose of coconut creamer and four sugar packets, I smirked. His usual drink was probably a blended mocha. "I'd better get the truck back to the bakery."
"I'll walk you out." I followed him back to the kitchen, working double-time not to look at his butt.
Pausing at the service door, Lance gave me that toothy grin, filled with sass and challenge. "Too bad your barista's hurt. He's cute. You and him a thing?"
Okay. Not so very straight. I ignored the flip in my stomach and the sudden interest from my dick. This news did not involve me.
"Brady? God, no. I don't mess with employees." Or delivery people.
Lance's smile got wider, more feline. Hell. I'd fallen right into whatever fishing expedition he'd been on. Couldn't be about me, though; I was probably a good twelve or fifteen years older than the kid.
"Brady would probably be flattered. He'll be working the breakfast shift tomorrow. You should come back around with your friends."
"And you? Will you be around?" His brown eyes glinted with predatory intent. His eyes were the exact color of my favorite roast—earthy and dark, with all sorts of possibilities.
Stomach fluttering, I braced a hand against the prep table. I'd always been drawn to confidence, and this kid had it in spades. "I'm always around. You take care now."
"Here." Lance fished in the pocket of his white bakery jacket and came up with a pen and a business card. He scribbled something on it and offered it to me. "In case you need something before next week."
I took the card. "I've already got the bakery's number."
"And now you have mine." He gave me a little wave before leaving.
Lord, that boy was trouble, but I was too old and jaded to get distracted by a nice ass and full pink lips. I hoped.
CHAPTER 2I made sure to let one of the baristas handle the midweek deliveries. I saw Lance in passing a few times but managed to keep things to me grunting out a greeting, then getting really busy in the kitchen or my office. Come Saturday, though, I was flat on my back under the big stainless sink, getting soaked by water that was spewing from the jumble of pipes. Dealing with cute delivery guys wasn't as big of a concern as being able to serve and prepare brunch tomorrow, the shop's biggest day of the week.
"Hey! Chris? You here?" Lance's too-chipper voice was like salt on my freshly scraped nerves.
"Over here." I blinked against the water spraying in my eyes.
"What the heck?" I heard shuffling sounds, and then Lance's face appeared next to mine. Way, way too close to mine.
"Just leave the stuff and go. I'm kind of in the middle of something here."
"I can see. But why haven't you turned off the water?"
"Can't you see that's what I'm trying to do?" I tried again to tighten the pipe with my shitty excuse for a wrench.
"I mean the water to the building? If you want to stop the spraying, you've got to shut off the main water."
"I was getting to that," I lied. Damn. I'd been so frustrated when I discovered the massive leak under the sink, I'd launched straight into damage control with buckets and my wrench and hadn't stopped to do the one thing that made sense.
"Tell me where it is. I'll go do it."
"Basement storeroom. The stairs are in the hallway."
"Got it. I'll be back."
"Shit. I'd better go tell Brady we're done for the day." I slid out from under the sink and took my wet and dripping self as far as the kitchen door, hollering to Brady to put up the CLOSED sign and head out.
"You need me to stay to help mop up?" Brady limped over to the door, his long black ponytail swinging behind him. His skateboarding injuries seemed a bit better, but he was still hobbled and had traces of bruises and scrapes on his face.
"Just clean the bar and go." I didn't need Brady getting underfoot while I sorted out the problem.
"You sure?" Brady frowned. Hell. He'd dragged himself into work hurt. We didn't really talk about personal stuff, but I knew he'd been jockeying for extra hours whenever he could.
"I'll pay you for the lost time." I rubbed the bridge of my nose.
"Okay. Water's off." Lance joined us in the kitchen. "Now let's check out your pipes."
Brady made a snorting sound.
"Get cleaning," I grumbled, then turned to Lance. "You don't have to stay. I've got it."
"Yeah, you seemed totally in control when I found you." Lance rolled his eyes at me and headed back over to the sink, which had blessedly stopped spewing water. He whipped off his bakery logo jacket and handed it to me, like I was his damned assistant. "My old man's a plumber. At least let me take a look."
"I said I've got it."
Ignoring me, he got down under the sink. "shit, it's wet down here. Okay. I think you've got a busted seal on this pipe, but the bigger issue might be your disposal."
"Hell." Both of those things seemed beyond my minimal plumbing skills. "How the fuck am I going to get someone here before tomorrow? Crap." I paced toward the other side of the kitchen, glaring at the wall phone, wondering who the hell I could call as my shoes made ominous squishing sounds in the puddles. Even if I managed to get things fixed, I had a long night of cleanup ahead.
"Relax."
I turned to look at him, my back muscles tightening, anything but relaxed.
Lance's hands gripped the sink's lower edge as he pulled himself out from the watery hell and stood, his smile as easy as his body's graceful motions. "I've got this."
I shook my head. I hated being dependent on anyone; it was why I mainly worked alone. Asking for help always made me feel like I was eleven again, managing to disappoint my father by failing some simple task. Over two decades later and I still pictured his scowl as I muddled through a problem.
Ignoring me, Lance fished an iPhone with a shiny red case out of his jeans and hit a button. "Hey! Pops! How's my favorite dad?"
Whatever the reply was, it made him laugh.
"Listen, I'm over at The People's Cup on Alberta, and they've got something of a situation going on—a plumbing emergency. You think when you're finished up on that job you could head over here? As a favor?"
The reply made him laugh harder. He had the best kind of laugh, deep and hearty.
"Yeah. I'll be there. No problem. See you soon." He ended the call and turned to me. "My dad's on the way."
"Thanks." The word tasted like sand in my mouth and was twice as hard to spit out.
"What? Grumpy man knows that word!" Dark eyes going wide with good humor, he put his hand over his chest.
"Grumpy man?" His cuteness made me feel even more ancient.
"If the scowl fits ..." He gave me a flirty little wink that had me wondering just how much sunshine he was sprinkling all over Portland. Did he flirt with everyone like this? Not that I was interested. Or jealous.
He squeezed the hem of his soaking T-shirt, wringing out some water, giving me a glimpse of tanned, toned abs. I looked away.
"I think your shirt is toast. Wait here." I ducked into the supply closet and grabbed a T-shirt from the box of People's Cup shirts our baristas all wore, which we sold up front for a little extra income. A free shirt was the least I could do for Lance. Seeing as my own shirt was plastered to my back, I grabbed a second for myself.
"Catch." I tossed the shirt at Lance. Before I could direct him to the restroom, he whipped his damp shirt off over his head.
"Oh, cool! Can I keep it?" Instead of immediately putting the shirt on, he held it out in front of him, like the black fabric and white block lettering was fine art.
"Sure." My own attention was riveted on the masterpiece of his chest. His face might be boyishly charming, but his body was all grown man: sculpted pecs and tight abs, with a tasty treasure trail of hair.
I might have made a growling noise. I hoped not, but from the way Lance's eyes widened, it was safe to say that my reaction didn't go unnoticed.
"Damn." Lance glanced down at himself. "I've really got to make time to get back to waxing."
"Don't." The word was out before I could stop it.
"Yeah? Well, of course, you like the fuzzy look." Laughing, he gestured at my beard.
Yeah, fuzz was something I had in spades, and something I dearly adored in other men. It was part of why I didn't usually go for twinks. Toned, tanned, and smooth didn't work for me as much as rugged, rough, and furry. I suppose if I had a type, I'd say it was guys like Randy. Silver foxes: guys with chiseled jaws and graying temples and hairy chests. Baby-faced boys like Lance hadn't cut it for me even when I'd been his age.
So why in the hell was my jaw currently on the floor and my tongue hanging out like a cartoon dog presented with a steak? Lance wasn't my type. But try telling that to my dick, which was jumping up like said dog. Bad dick. I looked away, counting jars of coconut oil on my shelves, while Lance pulled on the too-big shirt.
I turned my shirt over in my hands, wondering how much of a loser I'd look like if I ducked back into the supply room. I was seriously regretting my choice not to go upstairs to change. "Oh, come on." Lance rolled his eyes, like he knew exactly what I was thinking. He reached out, tugging my wet shirt away from my torso so he could peek underneath the damp cotton. "Oh my god. You have more ink than just your arms. You have to let me see."
"Stop that." I batted his hands away.
"Awww." He shot me a hurt look, like I'd just squashed his pet bumblebee. "I love your sleeves. I wanna see the rest."
"You like tattoos?" I asked, pulling off the soggy shirt. Other than tequila, the fastest way to get me out of my clothes was to talk ink.
"Oh, yeah." His teeth worried his lip as he took in my art: full sleeves on each arm, a scene that snaked up my torso, and another starting over my shoulder and continuing across my pecs. "You like fish or something?"
"I guess." I leaned back against the counter, trying to look casual. All of my tats were fish and water scenes. Big fish, little fish, a dolphin, lots of waves. The only nonfish piece was a little surfer dude riding the wave over my shoulder.
"They're like your spirit animal or something, huh?" His fingers twitched, like he was desperate to trace what he was looking at so intently.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Delivered Fast by Annabeth Albert. Copyright © 2015 Annabeth Albert. Excerpted by permission of KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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