Served Hot

by Albert, Annabeth

  Chapter 1

  “So, what’s your plan this year?” Cliff asked as we unloaded pallets of food for Victory Mission. The stinging December wind whipped through the loading dock, howling against the concrete walls. I had to strain to hear Cliff’s booming voice. “Skydiving? Marathon? How you gonna top last year, Vic?”

  “Dunno.” I hefted a box of tomato sauce cans. That’s what everyone wanted to know—how I was going to top last year’s resolution to lose a hundred pounds. Truth was, I was pretty good at resolutions. Four years ago, I’d resolved to go to culinary school. Three years ago, I gave up smoking. And last year I lost a hundred and eleven pounds. But this year I had a smaller, simpler goal in mind.

  “Thought I might try dating.”

  “Dating? As in a boyfriend?” Cliff snorted, a dry sound that echoed off the metal loading bay doors. “I’d go with a marathon.”

  My stomach churned as I grabbed another box of rolls. I had my own doubts. I was hardly a prize catch. I hadn’t dated anyone in the four years I’d been working for Cliff. Never had a boyfriend beyond the rare three-peat hookup. ’Course, Cliff didn’t know about my hookups, but I hadn’t even had one of those in eight long months. Up until a few months ago, I hadn’t realized what I was missing. Ever since then, this weird, restless longing had plagued me. New Year’s was the perfect excuse to do something about it. Get out there.

  “You guys done out here? Whole stack of boxes waiting inside. We don’t have all day.” Robin bustled out onto the dock, bringing a shit-ton of bad mood with him. A far cry from the sunny, talkative guy who made me think crazy thoughts, like that maybe dating wasn’t a terrible idea. He was gone before either Cliff or I could reply.

  “What’s up with him?” I asked Cliff once I heard the pantry door shut inside.

  “Melissa said Paul broke up with him.” Cliff always found the gossip. The food bank volunteers were like bored high schoolers, passing rumors around their shifts like joints at a party.

  “Finally.” I didn’t realize I’d said the word aloud until Cliff laughed.

  “Aha! On second thought, I highly approve of your resolution. I’m gonna have to get a bet going with Trish about whether you can land your man. Talk about aiming high, though, kid.”

  “Didn’t say anything about dating Robin,” I mumbled into a sack of rice. Like I hadn’t spent months thinking about Robin. Wondering if he was out of my league. Knowing he was out of my league but trying to work up the courage to ask him anyway. Coming to volunteer more often just to be around him. Then Paul swooped in like a star pitcher and sent me back to the minor leagues, where I belonged.

  I readjusted my grip on the sack so I wouldn’t accidentally tear the darn thing in two. No, I wasn’t stupid enough to make a resolution to date Robin. I just wanted to get out there. Give myself a chance to maybe meet a nice guy who wouldn’t care about my food issues and my loose skin and my bald-by-choice look.

  But now that Cliff had planted the dating-Robin idea in my brain, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Which irked the hell out of me. I’d worked hard to deep-six my crush on him. Finding out he was single was a stupid reason to unearth it. Robin was the nice guy of my fantasies. And fucking gorgeous. He was sex walking around in KEENs and hipster T-shirts. He was everything I wanted and everything I wasn’t ever going to have.

  I ran into Robin an hour later in the pantry room, where he was doing inventory. The pantry room was where the shelter stored all the supplies needed to provide two meals a day for the ever-increasing numbers of Portland homeless.

  “Sorry ’bout earlier.” Robin looked up from his clipboard, giving me a sheepish smile. A Robin smile was like sun glinting off the Columbia: it never failed to dazzle me. The pale pink of his lips was a soft contrast to his honey-colored skin. When his wide lips curved, revealing perfect white teeth, my stomach did a happy little flip. The sun had returned.

  “No biggie. Heard you’re having a rough day.” I lined up cans of tomato soup, trying hard not to look at him. I didn’t want him to feel uncomfortable. I’d be climbing the metal shelving or hiding behind the stacks of boxes if I were the one being gossiped about.

  “Yeah. Sorry. I shouldn’t be taking it out on people here.” He passed me the clipboard so I could log in what I unpacked. While I started logging, he grabbed a box cutter and opened more of the boxes Cliff and I had unloaded.

  “Hey, you’re allowed to be human.” I shot him what I hoped passed for an understanding smile. “And go you for tossing that pompous ass.”

  “Actually, it was the other way around.” Robin’s expression was tight, pained.

  “Shit. Sorry. Didn’t mean—”

  “No. It’s okay.” He waved away my apology. “He was stuck up. I think Melissa was relieved when he didn’t show up with me today.”

  I nodded, not sure what to say. I didn’t want to trash the dude if Robin still had feelings for him.

  “You’re better off without him.” When in doubt, go big on cliché. I fell back on my ma’s old trick.

  “Eh. I figure I had it coming. Better now than later, though, you know?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Anyway, I’m done with boyfriends now. D-O-N-E. Done.” He punctuated his words with jabs of the box cutter into the box he was opening. His actions and words were firm, but the look in his eyes was uncertain.

  Having a boyfriend had suited Robin. He’d been all smiles and lightness around Paul the Jerk. Seeing them together had made me start to want someone too. Someone to share inside jokes with, someone to watch TV with, someone to sneak little touches and dirty looks with in public. Hell, someone to talk to would be enough of a novelty for me. Every now and then I’d get to chatting with a guy online and think maybe we’d hit it off. But then we’d hook up, and as soon as the fucking was over, they’d beat feet to get out of my place. It seemed like the more good-looking the dude, the faster he was on his feet.

  But Robin was fucking gorgeous and most days he liked talking to me. We both liked action movies and blues music, and somehow we always ended up gabbing politics, but there was always this easiness to our conversations, like we’d been having them for years and years.

  As usual, thinking about Robin and what a great guy he was had me asking my favorite question: what would he be like in bed? He’d probably talk to me there too. He’d be the type to hang out and talk after the sexing was done. He’d ask about my day and tell me about his, and maybe we’d even talk about making plans and about when we might get together next. I got hard just thinking about it. I had to distract myself with straightening soup cans.

  Bingo. That was what Robin needed. A distraction.

  “Hey, you got plans for tomorrow night? Got a New Year’s party to be at?” I asked. Wouldn’t surprise me if he had some fancy shindig to attend. I didn’t know a whole lot about Robin’s life outside of volunteering, but I knew he came from money; his high-end clothes and the Beamer he drove said that.

  “Nah. I’ll probably come down here for part of the evening. It’s always crazy here New Year’s.”

  “You can do better than that. How about you come out? Some of my buddies are doing a pub crawl. Get out there. Get over what’s-his-face. Party at CC Slaughters’s supposed to be epic.”

  “Oh. Uh.” Robin swallowed hard, his hands moving restlessly against the row of oatmeal containers he’d been counting. “Thanks, but parties really aren’t my thing. Don’t drink anymore.”

  I fumbled the can I’d been stacking. Hell. I’d known him two years now, and for all he liked to run off at the mouth he’d never mentioned it, but still I should have guessed.

  “Shit. I’m sorry. I didn’t think. You in recovery?”

  “Yeah.” Robin went back to unpacking. The fluorescent lights made his honey-colored skin look sallow—or maybe he was turning green because of what I’d said.

  How had I missed the clues? He’d never once mentioned bars—and he’d never once missed a shift. A lot of the most dedicated vol
unteers at the shelter were former homeless themselves or recovering addicts seeking to pay back help they’d gotten. While open to all, the shelter had a particular focus on teens and young adults who often slipped through the cracks at the larger organizations. I’d discovered the shelter through a booth at Pride and convinced Cliff to participate; the bakery always had food to donate.

  We worked without thinking for a few minutes, and while the silence wasn’t exactly uncomfortable, I felt the sting of a blown chance. I shoved the cans a bit harder than I should and a stack collapsed. Time to start over.

  It occurred to me—too late again—that I’d never really done this. Never asked a guy out. Never liked a guy enough to try. Oh, I knew my way around an Internet chat room, but real world? Robin was the first “real-life” guy I’d ever felt inspired to ask.

  But now I’d blown it and I didn’t know how to fix it.

  “How long?” I asked.

  “Two years, 363 days.” He winked, a trace of his usual humor shining through. “Best resolution I ever made.”

  A fellow resolution keeper. My chest felt warm with empathy for his hard road. My successes were like speed bumps to his Mount Hood of triumph.

  “That’s awesome, man. And good on you for coming down here tomorrow.”

  “It’ll be a long night.” He shrugged, showing off his surprisingly delicate collarbones, matched by eyes filled with an unexpected fragility.

  “I bet.” I wanted to ask if he’d be okay, but we weren’t really that kind of friends. I wasn’t sure I could ask without looking like even more of an ass. But I knew how brutal anniversaries could be.

  Later, as I walked out to my beat-up old Civic, I hunkered into my jacket to ward off the chill and told myself to go back to my previous plan. Make a profile on an actual dating site, not one of the quick hookup places. Find some guy, one who wouldn’t be anything like Robin, with his wide smiles and silky brown hair and . . .

  Fuck it. My hands clenched tight around the door handle. I knew exactly what my resolution was. Come hell or high water, I was going to be Robin Dawson’s rebound guy. And I was going to change his mind about boyfriends.

  About the Author

  Annabeth Albert grew up sneaking romance novels under the bed covers. Now, she devours all subgenres of romance out in the open—no flashlights required! When she’s not adding to her keeper shelf, she’s a multi-published Pacific Northwest romance writer. Emotionally complex, sexy, and funny stories are her favorites both to read and to write. Annabeth loves finding happy endings for a variety of pairings and is a passionate gay rights supporter. In between searching out dark heroes to redeem, she works a rewarding day job and wrangles two toddlers.

  Annabeth can be found online at annabethalbert.com,@annabethalbert on Twitter, and Facebook.com/annabethalbert.

  LYRICAL PRESS BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2015 by Annabeth Albert

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  Lyrical and the L logo are trademarks of Kensington Publishing Corp.

  First Electronic Edition: March 2015

  ISBN: 978-1-6018-3392-1