Under the Bleachers: A Novel

by K. K. Allen

  The wistful look on Zach’s face reveals the guilt he still carries from that night. “What happened to your bully? Did he get in trouble for the years of abuse he caused you?” I feel defensive for Zach. He shouldn’t feel remorseful for finally sticking up for himself.

  He laughs. “I think I’ll spend the rest of my days being sorry for hitting Desmond that night. And he’ll never let me forget it.”

  “Desmond?” That name sounds all too familiar. “Wait … your business partner?”

  “The one and only. Funny turn of events, huh? He’s a good guy. Like I said, he’d had some rough times. I’d trust the guy with my life now.”

  Wow. It’s all coming together. Zach had mentioned that the guy had been dealt a shitty hand and just needed a break. And after everything the kid did to him, Zach was the one to help him turn his life around.

  I look around us and envision little Zach running for safety, breathless and scared. It’s no wonder he can lead a team with such humility and grace. He’s lived both sides of the coin, as aggressor and victim. Behind every bully there’s a reason. Maybe the same is true with my father. Maybe behind every father who’s abandoned his child, there’s a reason too.

  Probably. But is there redemption?

  No. I won’t pour false hope into my already salted wounds. There is no excuse for what my father did. Zach’s story is about second chances. It’s about opening yourself up to the opportunities that come your way. Something I’m still learning to do.

  “Under the Bleachers.”

  Zachary cocks his head to the side and catches my eye. “What?”

  I smile. “That should be the theme of your camp. Under the Bleachers. The place you hid out until you realized that you could alter your path.”

  He twists his lips up into a mile. “Under the Bleachers. Now that, Cakes, is why I want you on my team.”

  “You like it?” I’m trying to hide my schoolgirl giddiness, but it’s impossible. I feel like the high school quarterback just asked me to prom.

  “I love it.”

  Jumping up, I clap my hands, excitedly. “Good. Then that’s settled. I’ll talk to marketing on Monday and we’ll get started with the logo.”

  I try to ignore the way he’s watching my excitement with a grin on his face. Forcing my eyes from his, I check the time on my cell phone and gasp. It’s almost four o’clock. “I guess we got what we needed out of today. Should we call it a night?”

  “Sounds good. I need to get to a dinner thing.” He pauses. “What are you doing tomorrow?”

  “On Sundays I usually lounge around, watch The Walking Dead reruns, and eat all the snacks around my house so that I can go to the store and buy new ones. I’m not that exciting.” I grin.

  “Did you say you needed help with the schedule?”

  “That would be nice. The sooner the better.”

  My insides melt when I see a hint of a smile light up his face. “How about I stop by your place tomorrow at noon? Or we can meet somewhere.”

  I swallow. He’s kind for not being presumptuous, although I wouldn’t mind a little Zach persuasion right now. “We can work at my place. Might be easier.”

  What are you doing? Do not invite him into your apartment.

  “All right, cool.” He steps away from the overhang of the bleachers and I pause to watch him for a second.

  There are flutters in my chest at the thought of spending more time alone with him. And then heat rises in my neck as I admire how well his body moves in those jeans. Who am I kidding? This is all one big catastrophe ready to blow up in my face. And I’m not prepared to stop it.

  Why did I invite him here? Not only is my apartment a complete disaster, but it’s small. Cozy, smells good, and the décor is true to me … but it’s so, so small. He only gives me thirty minutes to prepare for his arrival. I thought he was coming at noon. He said he was coming at noon. But it’s eleven thirty and I’m frantically hiding magazines, plucking loose jewelry and thread from around the room, and organizing fabrics from a late-night design fest. Because when inspiration strikes like it did last night, it’s like a tornado’s blowing through, and I can’t stop the madness.

  My shower is five minutes max. I spray myself with wild strawberry and mint, circle my eyes with my favorite charcoal liner, and throw on leggings, a sports bra, and a loose tank top. If we’re going to be working all day, then I should be comfortable.

  When the doorbell rings, I do a frantic last minute scan of my living space. Not hideous. Quickly shutting the door to my room—because that is hideous—I work on calming my quickened heart rate before opening the door.

  Zachary Ryan stands there looking fresh as ever with his sexy stubble and low-hanging denim. I really shouldn’t be surveying him like this, but the sexiest thing about him isn’t even how well his clothes fit over his athletic build. It’s what he’s holding that has my heart galloping like a wild horse.

  A grocery bag.

  He brought me food.

  I think I’m in love.

  Not really. But damn.

  Grinning, he lifts the bag to draw my attention to what he’s holding as if my jaw hasn’t already gone slack. “Hi, Cakes. Figured I’d bring lunch.”

  I give him room to enter before shutting the door, but I don’t miss the way his eyes skim my body. He thinks he’s sly.

  “I’m impressed,” I admit, sliding onto a stool. “What did you bring me?” He’s effortless moving through my too-tiny kitchen. Even with his enormous build and heavy steps, his presence in my space seems natural.

  With a wink, he pulls out a container of fresh chicken breast. “Do you like lemon chicken? Figured we could just make something here.”

  Shit.

  I freeze—on the outside. Inside, I’m a flurry of panic. I’ve never been embarrassed about my lack of cooking skills until this moment. Here he is, the god of all gods, standing in my kitchen wanting to cook for me, and he’s about to find out I’ve never cooked a day in my life.

  He’s already rustling around, looking for cookware and whatever else is needed to prepare lunch. I’m one hundred percent certain I don’t have anything he’s looking for.

  “Cakes,” he calls after closing a third drawer.

  Pressing my eyes together and cringing, I sink onto the stool. “Yes.”

  I open one eye to test the waters and see him staring back at me, dumbfounded. “Tell me you have pots and pans somewhere around here.”

  Opening my eyes and mouth wide, I pause for a second before responding, my words carefully measured. “I don’t have pots and pans. Or silverware. Or salt and pepper. Or … anything really.”

  He’s scratching his head now. I think he’s considering my words. And then he lets out a laugh. “You’re the biggest foodie I know. You don’t cook?”

  “I live on takeout.” I shrug and then perk up immediately. “Oh! There’s some food left over from my dinner last night. It’s teriyaki.”

  My excitement vanishes when I see his astonished face. “Just kidding.”

  I wasn’t kidding.

  Zach puts the groceries away and pulls out a container of cocktail shrimp. “You okay with this for now?”

  “Yup.” I pop my lips, hoping to distract from my blush. I’ve never been so mortified. Even Chloe’s constant teasing about my domestic downfalls roll off me like it’s nothing. It’s never been a big deal. When someone comes over they either bring something, or we order in, or we go out. There are so many options. But Zach is different. He slices me open and exposes my weaknesses in a way that makes me wish I did know how to cook. And that’s the only time I’ve ever had such an absurd thought.

  I’m sure that’s the kind of girl he’s used to: someone who can take care of him, have dinner ready when he gets home from a hard day on the field. My mom never did any of those things, and my dad hated it. He never understood why she couldn’t at least try.

  We plop down in the living room an
d open the shrimp cocktail. Zach’s back rests against the couch while I sit on the carpet opposite him, the coffee table between us. Studying him, I’m aware of how casually he sits in my tiny apartment. He could probably pace the entire room in three steps or less.

  I stifle a laugh when he pushes the coffee table out to make more room for every inch of muscle.

  With a mouthful of shrimp, he catches me staring. “You okay there, Cakes?”

  I smile. “Yeah. It’s just—I live alone and I don’t have much, so—” I look around my apartment laughing at the handmade posters with quotes from fashion icons hanging on my walls. “It’s a little smaller than you’re probably used to.”

  “You think I’m judging your space?” He shakes his head. “No way. I think what you have here is perfect. It’s safe, close to work, and the perfect size for one person.”

  “Right. And with your massive male form taking up space, that’s two people, and I’m starting to think it’s too small.”

  There’s a twinkle in his eyes when he speaks. “I don’t mind, Cakes.” His head tilts. “Haven’t you had guests before?”

  I know what he’s asking. He wants to know if there have been any guys in here with me. He waits for an answer while staring at me with a look that sears my insides. “A few friends, never someone of your … caliber.” I grin, hoping to keep this conversation safe. A small smile teases his lips.

  The silence that follows grows too heavy. I flip the switch on the television, leaving the volume on low. With my laptop open, I pull up my email and calendar so we can go over his schedule.

  According to his agent, Trevor, Zach isn’t fully aware of his own day-to-day activities. Trevor and Meredith work as a team when it comes to controlling his publicity, which means they control his calendar and send him reminders constantly. Zach recently requested they give me access so that I can see what’s going on in his world.

  Apparently, he doesn’t feel the need to keep much private. I can see every single meeting, business and personal. I know when he works out, when he meets with his team. When he has doctor appointments, press meetings, interviews, appearances. It’s overwhelming, but it’s helpful for what we’re trying to accomplish in such a short window of time.

  “Looks like you’ve got some travel coming up,” I finally say.

  His eyes are on the handful of shrimp tails he’s peeling with care. “I do?”

  Amused, I peer up at him. He truly has no clue what his team is booking for him, does he? “You sure do. And it looks like you’ll be crazy busy. That could suck for me considering you’ll be gone for five days right before camp starts.”

  He chuckles and gives an upward tick of his head. “And because you’ll miss me?”

  I narrow my eyes. Zach’s managed to fit a troupe of shrimp in his mouth, and the sight is obnoxiously cute. But the smell of salty seafood makes me wrinkle my nose. “Not if I capture this image of you right now.” I pull up my phone and take a photo.

  He glares back at me, swallowing the last bite of shrimp and tossing the shells in the overturned plastic lid. “At least you’ll be thinking about me, Cakes. That’s all I really care about.”

  With a lift of my brows, I attempt to respond evenly to remind him that he’s not to flirt with me. Flirting is bad. But he speaks before I have a chance, effectively silencing my rebuttal. “Bring the computer around here. Let me see.”

  I stare at the hand patting the seat next to him on the couch and raise my eyebrows in defiance. He should know better than to call me over like I’m his pet. My posture lifts instinctively to show him his demands won’t work with me. “Try that again.”

  He curls his lip, and if it wasn’t so damn sexy I would tell him to wipe that cocky grin from his face. “Please,” he says, lifting his brows and adopting a look that makes me want to go out and buy him some squeaky toys and marrow. “Is that the word you were waiting for?”

  Oh geez, I can’t even with this guy.

  “Yup,” I concede.

  Bringing my computer around, I take the seat he just patted. Immediately, his woodsy scent overpowers me, but not because it’s strong. No. It’s a reminder of our make out session in his kitchen and the frenzy that overcame us. Every time I get this close to him, I have little flashbacks that threaten my defenses.

  To make things worse, he scoots closer so our legs are touching and then leans in to my screen. One hand moves to the lid of the computer, while the other presses into the couch directly behind me. I can feel the dip in the cushion. One tiny move and he’ll be touching my ass. Stiffening is my only chance to get through this one.

  Meanwhile, there’s a raging storm in my damn chest. I swear he’s going to hear it.

  After a second of staring at the screen, he huffs out a breath and slides back against the couch. His arm brushes mine, triggering goosebumps to spread across my skin. “She’s got me in three different states in one week.”

  “Right. Which is the week we need to have everything approved for print.”

  Damn, it’s hot in here. I pluck at the collar of my already-loose tank top and use it as a fan against my flushed skin.

  I can feel his eyes on me now, but I don’t dare face him. We’re too close for me to trust myself when looking into those ocean blues.

  “Is Monica Stevens, PA extraordinaire, stressing out?”

  I wish I were stressing out. It would be a much better excuse for what I’m feeling. Letting out a deep breath, I nod. “I just didn’t realize how tight our schedule was, that’s all.”

  We only have four weeks before the event, and with Zach gone for one of those weeks, there’s a lot to accomplish.

  My mind is moving a mile a minute, going over the mental list of things we’ll need to tackle in the coming weeks, when I feel fingers slide through my hair until they reach the base of my neck. I gasp, staying very still.

  “Relax, Cakes.” The silk in his voice would normally do the trick and calm me down, except he’s still touching me. Gentle at first, then transferring to a slow, reassuring squeeze.

  A groan passes my lips, flaming my cheeks and causing him to chuckle—and then it’s over as quickly as it began. Moving his hand away to hover over the keyboard’s mouse pad, Zach clicks into each appointment. The damage is done. My senses are heightened. I’m aware of every subtle brush against my arm, and I swear he’s doing it on purpose now, as if his nearness isn’t torture enough.

  “What’s a Ravaged shoot?” I ask, looking at one of the appointments he has in Chicago. “Sounds scary.”

  “It’s my new body care line.”

  “You’re kidding. You have a body care line? Lotions, soaps, face creams? And you named it Ravaged?”

  “You’d like it, Cakes. After all, you were my inspiration for the scent.”

  I snap my head around to face him with laser beams in my eyes. “Please tell me that’s a lie.”

  My expression has the opposite effect than what I’d intended. He laughs. “Nope. Not a lie. I told you I wanted to bottle you up, didn’t I?”

  Oh my God.

  “And what about my scent reminded you of destruction?”

  Our faces are only inches apart, so I don’t miss the glance that moves between my lips and my eyes, only adding gas to the fire that lights up my insides. My breathing is heavy but slow as I try to assess his seriousness.

  “You sure you want to know?”

  I nod, hoping he doesn’t notice my nervous swallow.

  “For one: it’s sweet, like you.”

  “Okay, stop.” I roll my eyes.

  He laughs. “And it’s got a thick richness to it, like kissing you after you devour triple chocolate cake, because all I could think about for weeks after that night was the taste of your kiss.”

  Damn him.

  “Zach,” I warn. My voice has gone soft. I don’t want him to think I’m welcoming this exchange, but it’s not like I’m putting up much of a fight. One wrong move
and our lips will connect, effectively obliterating any chance of surviving this—whatever it is we’re doing.

  It’s all too evident our exchange has taken a turn from light to serious quickly. His smile is fading by the second, and then he does the sexiest thing I think any man has ever done in my presence.

  His eyes are clearly on my lips now, just as his tongue darts out to moisten his bottom lip. Then he bites down, trapping the plump skin and letting it drag backwards until his lip is released.

  Holy shit.

  His eyes are darkening and my senses have officially been transported back to six months ago, when his touch made me dizzy and his kiss lifted me to the clouds.

  Is it awful that I want those teeth to bite into me again and tease my bottom lip while Zachary runs a hand gently up my thigh?

  No. No. NO.

  “But there’s an edge to Ravaged,” he continues, his voice raspy. “One that can only be explained as a little … mysterious.” He leans in slowly, and I’m extra careful to stay still.

  Please kiss me.

  “And seductive.”

  My eyes flutter closed as I feel his nose drag the length of my cheekbone.

  “And devastating.”

  Warm air skips across my lips for the briefest second. Then it’s gone.

  When I open my eyes, Zach’s leaning against the back of the couch, watching me. Waiting for something, I think. I’m still catching my breath, disoriented from lack of oxygen and disappointed because he tricked me.

  What the hell just happened?

  His eyes narrow. “For someone so adamant about staying away from me, you sure looked like you wanted me to kiss you.”

  Asshole.

  In an attempt to hide my embarrassment, I turn back to the laptop and let my hair fall like a curtain between us. Maybe it’s a good thing he’s going to be gone in a couple weeks. Distance is exactly what Zach and I need. Hell, maybe I’ll tell him not to come back into the office for our meetings. We can pass ideas back and forth over video chat.

  No. No video chat. Just the phone. And if his voice is too much to handle, there’s always instant message and email.