Players to Lovers (4 Book Collection)

by Ketley Allison

  Their judgment cannot guilt me today, no matter how my gut reacts. They’re well-meaning, but Locke’s vision is blinded by his daughter and the complicated history behind it. Carter’s naturally biased and wants to protect Sophie. Astor is … as cutthroat as I am. Ben wants to do what’s right for everyone.

  We all come with complications, but I’m not budging on my stance.

  Grunting, I toss aside the menu I was perusing at the hostess stand, pretending the woman I hired wasn’t eyeballing my crotch like she expects my ink to travel there.

  Stephanie is delicious, all curves and red lipstick, and has impeccable timing when engaging in conversation, exactly why I hired her. Usually, I’d bed her tonight, like I do most hostesses in restaurants I work in, but this is my night, my restaurant, and the stakes are much higher than a hot fuck back at my place.

  And you’ve had no urges to screw around since Sophie.

  The grunt turns into a growl, and Stephanie’s fake eyelashes wobble and flicker away with a horny type of fear.

  “The menu looks good,” I say to her to assuage any nerves I might’ve sparked.

  My voice calls on her to purr, “Of course it does. It’s you. This whole city has been waiting for Ash Whittaker to open his own place.”

  Her manicured, scarlet-taloned fingers rest easily on my forearm. I’d rolled my shirt sleeves up to my elbow while I was back in the kitchen, dividing dough.

  A few specks of flour cling to her skin as I drift away.

  “Thanks, Steph. I have full confidence in you. Don’t disappoint me.”

  Stephanie was not deterred. “And I, you.”

  My mouth upticks in a smile, but it isn’t my usual, lethal tactic I use on gorgeous women. This one lacks motivation.

  Sophie’s in Florida. With your kid.

  It’s like Easton uses his weirdly mesmerizing musical talents to teleport inside my head and bother me like a nat.

  “Shut up,” I tell it, and get back to my kitchen.

  I’d only berated the pastry chefs this morning. I still have the rest of them to go.

  At exactly 6 PM, all tables are packed and the patrons with no reservations crowd impatiently around the hostess stand or the bar, drinks sweating in their hands due to the packed heat of a brand new, exclusive restaurant debut in winter.

  Coats are thrown over chairs and men and women alike are laid back in their seats or bent over their entrees, savoring their food.

  Apron’s open kitchen concept allows me to glance up every now and again and watch the entry of my carefully selected ingredients into waiting mouths, and each time I catch a woman’s orgasm over my lamb cutlets or sweet-tea-infused pork chops, I hide the satisfaction by barking orders at my staff.

  The night is young. There’s still plenty of time for screw-ups.

  “Chef?”

  I pause in my critique of my sous chef’s julienned vegetables and turn to the nervous busboy. “Shouldn’t you be wiping down table twelve?”

  “Uh, yes. But as I was walking to it, another table asked to see you.”

  After wiping my hands, I throw a dish towel over my shoulder. “Who? The New York Times critic?”

  “No—but it looks like he’s enjoying your dessert.”

  The food critic had a stone mask instead of a face. There’s no way this teenager could tell what he’s thinking. “What table, kid?”

  “Oh, right. Um, fourteen? They say they know you.”

  I’m aware exactly who’s at table fourteen. My own personal roundtable of critics.

  Instead of telling this kid to let them know I’d be right over, I bypass his twitchy form, and spot, in the corner of my eye, his sag of relief as soon as I exit his comfort zone.

  I button up my chef’s coat, a stickler for uniform the same way I harass my chefs to do so, and stride into the buffeting noise of a fully booked restaurant.

  Nodding at compliments and shaking hands, it takes me a while to get to table fourteen, but they knew, as soon as they summoned me, I’d have to wade through the crowd to get to their prime corner table, settled near an exposed brick wall, with recessed shelving holding copper antiques and fresh cut dahlias from a greenhouse in upstate New York.

  “The man of the hour,” Ben says as he leans back in his chair. He holds out his hand, the only one to do so. “Your food rocks.”

  “Thanks, Benji,” I say and clasp his open palm.

  The cacophony of the restaurant makes it hard to hear, but nobody’s really talking except to echo Ben’s sentiments.

  “I’m glad you all like it,” I say, and the polite response sticks to my tongue. I don’t talk to these people this way. There’s at least a compliment containing a curse or an insult.

  Carter specifically avoids my eye, but nods as she holds her fork and takes another bite I bet she can’t resist, despite her newfound hatred toward me. Locke, being loyal, throws an arm around her chair and murmurs in her ear.

  But it’s Astor I have to watch out for.

  “I have to agree,” she purrs. “This endive salad certainly tastes better than your morals.”

  Ben cuts her a look. I’m unfazed. “Thanks. Compliments from the Hayes family always make me feel warm and mushy inside.”

  “You talked to her yet?” Astor asks.

  “Babe,” Ben says, although I don’t hear it. I see it on his lips.

  “Maybe not now,” Easton adds from across the table.

  “Why not? Ash avoids us everywhere else,” Astor continues. “At least here, he’s cornered.”

  I pat Ben’s shoulder. “I’m going back to the kitchen.”

  “Of course you are,” Astor says. Carter’s eyes glitter with delight as she watches. “It’s where you belong, anyway. Behind walls. Away from civilization.”

  “Thanks for coming by,” I say to her. “I appreciate the support.”

  “I invested. It’s not support.”

  I clench my jaw, but that’s all I do as I turn away. I didn’t need their money to open this place, instead wanting us to have something as a family, together, that we could watch grow. But I forgot one crucial aspect—every family contains assholes.

  “Do the right thing, Ash,” she says to my back.

  And I’m the asshole.

  The rest of the night forces me into real asshole mode, putting out fires (both literal and hypothetical), placating impatient patrons, and smiling murder at cameras and critics alike. 6 PM turns to midnight on the fly, and before I’m aware of Sophie opening up the door to my thoughts again, the restaurant has emptied out, staff have hung up their aprons, and I’m alone, seated in a middle table, cheers-ing myself with a highball glass of whiskey.

  My chef’s coat, with APRON stitched on the left side, and my name underneath, is tossed on the chair beside me. The stereo system playing various forms of upbeat instrumentals all night is silent, and all I have is my conscience and the dwindling city traffic outside to keep me company.

  The gang didn’t stay past closing and share a bottle with me, yet I can see their ghosts wrapped around this table, lifting their glasses and tossing words and laughter as they toast to my opening night.

  It’s a memory I didn’t know I wanted.

  Licking my lips, I finish the rest of my glass and slam it back onto the wood. I’m supposed to be calculating table turnover rates but instead I’m thinking of how many chicks I’ve slept with and never knocked up. What’s my woman turnover rate?

  I stare at my phone, laying blank on the table that earlier housed five different couples, one of which had a proposal over my salted caramel pear gallete. He got down on one knee, she cried over a giant sparkling rock, and the whole room exploded with applause. I comp’d their dessert and wished them a happy, healthy life, always and forever. When the woman jumped up and hugged me, I guess she thought I meant it.

  Enough of that mush. Back to my phone. Sophie’s number is in it.

  Locke and Carter are technologically married and everything they fucking do is sync
ed, so I nabbed Locke’s phone at one of our weekly gatherings and air-dropped Sophie’s number before anyone noticed.

  Why? I’m still trying to figure that out.

  My index finger taps near the black screen, and I’m grinding my teeth.

  Do I call her?

  I stand, pocketing my phone and deciding not to tell anyone what I’m thinking, not that it’s any of their damn business. I do one last check of the kitchen, flick off the lights, and close up shop for the night.

  Ash Whittaker, renowned pastry chef and budding successful restauranteur, needs to do better than a fucking phone call.

  7

  Sophie

  Hello, toilet bowl.

  He’s the only friend that greets me in the mornings these days, and that’s okay. I give him enough worship so that he maintains smooth plumbing in return.

  Oh, God. I’ve humanized a toilet bowl.

  Leaning back against the cool tiles on the opposite side of the bathroom, I feel around the floor for the washcloth I managed to shove under the tap before splaying over the toilet and retching up the flimsy remnants of dinner last night.

  The coolness caresses my forehead when I find the cloth and lay it on, moaning as I tip my head back.

  Ten weeks pregnant, and it feels like eons. Every morning, the same thing happens. I wake up sick, toss my cookies, and spend the rest of the day being incredibly picky over what I eat. Fruit goes down all right. Especially those seedless oranges. All other food groups, not so much, until 6 PM hits and before I know it, I’ve housed two burgers, a side of fries, and chicken nuggets, all washed down with a vanilla milkshake.

  And like a toddler, I fall asleep in my own gluttony only to wake up a few hours later, unsticking burger wrappers from my chin and running to my friend, Mr. Flush.

  I can’t handle these hormonal shifts, of being wide awake one second and crashing face-first into my keyboard at work the next, drooling over the keys as I take an impromptu nap with QWERTY imprinted on my cheek.

  Groaning, I stand, find my glasses in the sink, and wobble out of the bathroom, pushing my hair out of my eyes as I adjust my lenses and attempt to greet the day like I used to, with a giant cup of coffee and a rejuvenating jog down the running trail before work, except now I drink a smaller sized half-caf and the thought of running makes my boobs feel like they’ve been dipped in concrete.

  I pass Carter’s old room, still outfitted the same, with a crib at the foot of her twin bed and a small dresser and vanity mirror on the other side. When she went to New York with Lily, Carter assumed she’d come back and was too heartbroken to get rid of Lily’s furniture before she left. Then, the best thing happened, and Carter now lives in New York with Lily and saw no need to transfer the furniture when Locke had already purchased a Lily-palooza.

  I offered to sell the remaining baby gear and Carter cheerfully agreed, and in return she said to split the profits. Except, I didn’t, and now I’m pregnant. So really, it’s bonus baby stuff I’ve inherited, and at some point, another baby will be rolling around and screaming in that crib.

  Holy shit. I’m having a baby.

  Nope. Not doing this. I’ve gone down the rabbit hole too many times to second guess my decision. Carter managed a newborn basically on her own, and while I wasn’t around much, I heard enough stories and am stubborn enough to assume I can do it, too.

  An incessant vibration interrupts my thoughts, and I glance at the kitchen floor where I guess I tossed my phone on my run to the bathroom. The screen flashes with a familiar number, my stomach does its usual twist—unrelated to pregnancy—and I ignore it. Like I always do.

  In fact, I kick the phone until it slides under my cabinets, figuring I’ll get it later when I head to work. Until then, I can pretend it, and the person trying to reach me on the other side, doesn’t exist.

  I’m opening the fridge and searching for more seedless oranges (which the lima bean inside me only likes ice cold) when the incessant vibrations turn into incessant knocking.

  “Who the f...” I mutter as I shut the fridge and turn to my apartment door. There’s not much foot space in between, and I’m there in four steps.

  “Yes?” I say to the thick wood. I don’t even bother with the peep hole. No one visits me. I’m too weird for a lot of people. “Do you have the wrong apartment?”

  “No.”

  Freeze.

  A current of ice passes from my head to my toes, holding me frigid.

  “Um…” I say. “Excuse me?”

  “Open the door, Sophie.”

  Now it’s my turn. “No.”

  “Sophie.”

  God, he sounds like my father. Sort of. Dad doesn’t have a hot, browned butter voice, scalded with whiskey. No siree, my dad is not like the tattooed god of Poseidon, if Poseidon was a water dragon turned human and drifted onto Florida’s shores.

  Told you, I’m weird.

  “Please,” Ash says on the other side. “I just want to talk.”

  “You flew all the way from New York to Gainesville just to have a chat?”

  “Yes.”

  Guess I’m not the only strange one. “Ash, you didn’t have to do that. I told you—”

  “I don’t do anything unless I want to.”

  Clearly. “Look, there’s really nothing left to say.”

  “Maybe for you. But I have a few things.”

  “I…” I lay a hand on the door and stare at my feet. “I thought we put this to rest. I’m keeping the baby, but that’s not on you. This wasn’t your choice, and that’s totally fine. I’m fully prepared to do this on my own.”

  Ash sighs, but in his chest, it sounds more like a growl. “Are we really going to have this conversation through a door? Your neighbor’s looking at me funny.”

  “The one who puts a cat on a leash?”

  “The very one.”

  “Then look at her funny right back.”

  “Soph, please let me in.”

  And there it is. The way the familiar short-form of my name drifts through his lips and makes it through the wood and into my ears. The same sound he whispered when he was on top of me, when my nails dragged across his dragon scales and my hips met his, and he came inside me.

  My heart does the thinking for me and unlocks the deadbolt.

  When the door swings open, his face is just as heartbreaking as it was when I held it in my hands and let virgin pain turn into wanton pleasure.

  The inhale that’s meant to happen naturally—because that’s what people do daily, breathe—hitches in my throat upon seeing him, his mere presence rolling sparks over my shoulders, into my chest, jumpstarting my heart.

  I’m supposed to hate him, even if it’s based on a despicable lie, and I do.

  I hate him for being so beautiful. For unknowingly squeezing my heart until it burst blood in his hands.

  For showing up on my doorstep the minute I told myself to forget him.

  Ash’s mouth tilts up. He’s well aware of my reaction to his presence, as much as I try to hide it underneath an uncaring glare. But the arrogance is tired at the corners, like he’s wishing his effect on women wasn’t so instantaneous.

  “Can I come in?” he asks.

  “I guess so.”

  I step aside in a smooth arc, but my eyes are pin-balling around my place, what I’ve left out, if there’s a faint smell of vomit in the air.

  I’m generally a clean person, but I’m not the normal girl I was before—I have hormones galore now, and when those hormones get hungry, I still don’t have clear memory on what goes on when they feed.

  “Nice place,” Ash says as he clomps inside with his boots.

  He’s dressed how I always see him. Black denim, a chain across one hip, motorcycle boots. His leather jacket is draped over an arm, showcasing a stylishly ripped white tee. The bright colors of his tats on his neck and arms are stark against the hue.

  “Didn’t you just open up a restaurant?”

  I’m not one for small talk. Or o
ffering a guest a drink.

  “Last night.” He’s still taking in his surroundings, but his expression’s unreadable.

  “What the hell are you doing here, then? Don’t you have reviews to read? Snafus to smooth out?”

  I don’t tell him that a few hours ago, I read through everything I could find on his opening night and how it went. And texted Carter about the food and asked if he had good French fries. She responded that it all sucked, but we both knew it was a lie.

  “It can wait a few hours.”

  So, he’s not staying long, then. A thin coil of disappointment tightens in my gut, but I quell it with a stern, You don’t even want him here in the first place.

  “Ash, what do you want?”

  He faces me, and despite being only a few seconds after seeing him head-on already this morning, an unsteady gasp escapes me. Ash’s eyes are a storm of blue, so dark as to almost be desolate, but bright enough to contain the dangerous aftermath.

  He’s a warning and a lesson all at once. A toy not to be played with until you’re old enough, and I got in the sandbox with him much too soon.

  “You look pale,” he says. “Have you eaten?”

  “Not much,” I admit, jarred by his bluntness.

  Ash walks past me, into my kitchen, and starts opening cupboards.

  I’m forced to follow. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Finding you something to eat,” he replies, bending over and peering into one of my bottom cabinets. He scrapes a finger across one empty shelf, then inspects the dust left on his skin.

  “I don’t need you to take care of me,” I say, despite feeling like one of his downtrodden staff members who’d failed miserably.

  “No?” He rises enough to rest an elbow on the open cabinet door. “What were you going to eat, then, if I hadn’t shown up?”

  I shift on my bare feet, realizing I’m only in an oversized purple t-shirt. “An orange.”

  Ash straightens. “Fine. I’ll make you a smoothie.”

  With a permanent frown etched into his face, Ash sifts through my fridge.

  “What if I don’t want one of those?” I say.

  Ash pauses in his search long enough to glance at my stomach, then back to my eyes.