A Dash of Spice

  Jessa Kane

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Epilogue

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  1

  Aiden

  On my way into the television studio, some guy with a camera steps into my path.

  “Mr. Tulane! You’ve been suspended again from the NHL for unsportsmanlike conduct. A four game penalty this time! Do you ever regret your actions?”

  I pull down my Ray-Bans a touch to let him see my fresh black eye. “Hell nah.”

  Several fans crowded around the entrance to the studio laugh and I keep walking, ready for this whole day to be over. It hasn’t even started yet and I’m already fucking annoyed. As the cameraman mentioned, I’m currently suspended from my dream job as an enforcer for the Brooklyn Bison over a fight that got a little out of control last week. Gloves came off, teeth were knocked out—not mine, thank Christ—and plastic surgeons were called in for the other guy.

  All in all, another day at the office.

  Now this morning? It’s the furthest thing from a typical day.

  My agent has his panties in a twist over the league threatening to boot me. So he’s found a way for me to make nice and improve my image. Therefore, I’m out of bed before nine o’clock in the morning to act as a judge on some ridiculous reality television baking show. Apparently the contestants are horrible at baking and have been nominated by their friends and family to be embarrassed on national television.

  I don’t really care who is getting humiliated here, so long as they don’t keep me trapped in this monkey suit longer than my contractually obligated five hours of filming. What the hell was my agent thinking, anyway? I’m not a people person on my best day. This whole effort to improve my King Asshole image could easily backfire.

  A tingle of worry works its way up my spine, but I sniff and ignore it, stomping through the back entrance into the studio. Some kid in a headset intercepts me, guiding me to a green room where they try—and fail—to put makeup on me. There are other judges hanging around backstage. One is a stuffy British guy I’ve seen baking on television before. The other is a little mouse of a woman in huge glasses doing her best to blend in with the wall. We don’t make any small talk and before I know it, we’re being mic’d up and called to the sound stage.

  “Okay,” says Headset. “Right now, the host is introducing the contestants. Also known as our victims. Next, he’ll bring out each of you, one by one, starting with Sebastian.” He gestures to the British dude. “Next will be Quinn…” The mousy girl jumps a foot in the air at the use of her name. “…followed by Aidan. We want to get their reactions to our resident celebrities walking out to judge them. Won’t that be hilarious?”

  “If you say so.” I massage the center of my forehead, wishing like hell I was holding a hockey stick or resting up for the next time I hold one. There is no in between. Sleep, hockey, repeat. That’s how it has been since I laced up my first pair of skates at age four. That’s how I damn well like it. But this news of my suspension caused me to crack open a bottle of Jack last night and my head is paying for it this morning. “Let’s get this over with.”

  “Hear, hear,” mutters Sebastian.

  “Yes, in just a moment,” sniffs Headset, visibly irked that we aren’t thrilled to be here. “When you get to the judges’ table, you’ll find score cards with some information about each contestant. There will be one round only in which they’ll bake—or try to bake—a three-tier red velvet cake. It’s going to be a disaster!”

  “And they didn’t know they were going to be on television, these poor saps?” I ask. “If someone pulled that on me, they’d regret it.”

  “Yes…” Headset licks his lips nervously. “I’m not a hockey fan, but I saw the highlights of your last fight. I wouldn’t deem it wise to ambush you on a reality show.”

  “W-will we need to talk on camera?” asks Quinn, pushing up her glasses. “I’m much better at writing than verbalizing.”

  “The host will ask you a question or two, yes,” responds Headset.

  “Oh.” Quinn pulls her cardigan tighter around her shoulders. “Oh…fudge.”

  Jesus, the woman looks like she’s about to faint. I pat her on the shoulder and she almost loses her balance. “Hey. You need to puke or something?”

  She blinks at me. “Um. No?”

  I clap twice. “Suck it up, kid. You got this.”

  “Is that meant to be comforting?”

  “I’ve got five older brothers.” I shrug. “Comforting ladies ain’t in my wheelhouse.”

  “Right.” She faces the entrance to the soundstage, just as her name is called. Quinn Beverley, renowned restaurant critic. “Thanks anyway for trying.”

  “You got it.”

  It’s my turn next. I toss my sunglasses at Headset on my way out to the judges’ table. The crowd doesn’t seem to know whether to boo or cheer for me. And I get that a lot. Remembering my agent’s pleading text messages this morning, I paste on a smile and salute the audience. Hell, I want back on the ice enough for the both of us, don’t I? The league isn’t happy at my repeat offenses. I should be relieved they haven’t kicked me out permanently. But what about next time? I inherited this temper from my old man and it’s hard to control when it’s provoked.

  I’m temporarily blinded by the stage lights, which is why I don’t see her right away.

  But when I take my seat and the lights are refocused on the host, the redhead materializes ten yards away and sound fades out around me. A bead of sweat rolls down my spine and I have an immediate case of dry mouth. Jesus, what a looker.

  That face.

  Those tits, too…but God, that face. It belongs to an angel.

  She catches me staring and flips her red hair over a shoulder, raising an eyebrow at me as if to say, “Not in your wildest dreams, motherfucker.”

  My dick plumps in my slacks. So rapidly, I have to widen my already extensive manspread to accommodate the growth. I’ve gotten a million hard-ons in my life, but I’ve never had one that spread to my chest. Yeah, my heart seems to have a boner? Is that a thing?

  She’s just so beautiful. Those blue eyes are confident and scared all at once. She’s got her chin up and a smirk on her face, but there’s a tremor in her fingers. Why does that make me want to vault over this table and wrap her in a bear hug?

  I don’t hug.

  I tackle, wrestle, dive to block a puck.

  That’s what I do.

  Hating to take my eyes off her for a second, I nonetheless snatch up the scoring card so I can find out her name. Lola, 18, Las Vegas, showgirl.

  Eighteen?

  Fuck me, that’s young.

  There’s knowledge in her eyes that makes her seem a lot more mature. Or is that just wishful thinking because I’m hotter than fuck for this female?

  The teeth of my pants zipper are leaving an imprint on my hard cock, my palms chafe up and down my thighs. I want to touch her. I want to lift her stubborn, little chin and tell her if she’s scared about something to…knock it off. Toughen up.

  That doesn’t seem like the right thing to say. Not at all. But I’m not the best at speaking to women. There were none of them around growing up and I don’t have time for them now. Men in my position have to be careful not to get in bed with a gold digger. When a player is drafted by the NHL, he has to go through a whole training course about protecting one’s assets from opportunistic people. I figured, why risk it?

  I might as well stay away from women altogether.

  I don’t want to stay away from this one. Hell no.

  If she wants to dig for gold, so be it. I’ll give it to her. She’s making me so fucking horny, just standing there in her white, ruffled apron and pouty mouth. God help me if they make me stand up on camera. I’d decapitate someone with this stiffy.

  Lola shakes her head at me.

  I smile back, even though it tugs at my black eye.

  “Mr. Tulane,” the host says brightly, putting a microphone in my face. “Are you excited to taste some cake today?”

  “Damn right.” I scratch at my day-old beard, continuing to grin at Lola. “The red one.”

  The host sputters. “You mean…red velvet?”

  I wink at Lola. “Sure.”

  Maybe I should be scared of the sparks snapping in her blue eyes, but I can only groan in anticipation of what’s to come. Because Lola, 18, Las Vegas, showgirl is going to be mine.

  Mine.

  2

  Lola

  I am two seconds from hurling this batter-covered whisk at the judges’ table, where it hopefully clocks Aiden “the Brooklyn Brawler” Tulane right between his amused gray eyes. That’s right. I know who he is. Many a viral video featuring Aiden and his famous fists have made their way to my iPhone screen. He’s known as a hothead. A goon.

  Why won’t he stop staring at me?

  Why are my nipples throbbing?

  I do my best to ignore him and focus on my cake layers. At best, this red velvet cake is going to be a complete monstrosity and I’m just trying to get through it with my pride intact. A smug smile is cemented on my face, my spine is straight and I’m laughing at whatever dumb jokes the host directs at me. I’m fine. I’m fine.

  Never let them see you cry.

  By “them” I mean the cluster of mean girls in the audience behind me. I knew the

re would be some hazing when I became the youngest member of the dance company. I suspected the hazing would be pretty terrible when the director made me a featured dancer, with a singing part and everything. So why did I trust them? When my fellow dancers said they were bringing me to New York for a shopping trip to celebrate my success, I decided to trust them. Just because I was raised to be a skeptic didn’t mean people were all bad, right?

  Wrong. Now I’m sweating it out in front of a camera and that man—that devil—won’t stop stripping me with his eyes.

  Does he have to be so big?

  On television, he’s a large man. In person, he’s a tank. His suit does not make him look like a gentleman whatsoever. That black eye, his scruffy face and thick…everything screams that he’s a down and dirty bad boy. I’ve never been attracted to bad boys. In fact, I’ve pretty much steered clear of the entire male population my whole life. But on the odd times I let myself imagine who I could stand dating, it was a clean-cut, no drama type. Not Aiden Tulane.

  Not this man who seems to be picturing me on a platter surrounded by baby carrots and a sprinkling of parsley. In other words, his next meal.

  “Three minutes!” yells the host.

  Three minutes?

  What a bunch of boloney. Now I know the truth. They don’t just give bakers on reality shows difficult tasks, they condense the time down until the jobs are impossible. I’m not even that bad of a bad baker! The mean girls must have lied a little when they nominated me. Bottom line, though? No one can pull off a cake this size in two hours.

  Hell if I’m not going to try, though.

  I shake my first red velvet layer out onto the cooling rack and immediately start slathering it in buttercream. The sponge breaks apart, steam curling out of the crevices, but I merely brighten my smile, raise my chin and keep piling it on. When the going gets tough, dazzle the hell out of them, right? They can’t feel bad for me if I’m smiling.

  A prickle on the back of my neck makes me lift my attention and I lock eyes with Aiden. He’s not grinning at me any longer. No, he looks like he’s…giving me a locker room pep talk.

  “Come on, Lola,” he mouths. “Stop shaking and kick their asses.”

  Shaking? Ooh, how dare he notice the tremble in my hands!

  I make sure the camera isn’t trained on me, then I send him a scowl. “Drop dead.”

  His masculine mouth spreads back into a smile, a gold tooth winking at me from where his incisor must have gotten knocked out on the ice. God, that shouldn’t be attractive. Why am I finding his black eye and the proof of his fighter status so…hot?

  There’s no time to lament my bad judgment now. I have thirty seconds to finish this cake—and somehow I manage to cover it with frosting and place it on the presentation pedestal. The buzzer peals overhead and I slump forward against the counter. When I hear laughter over my shoulder, I turn and smile broadly at the mean girls, letting them know I’m having the time of my life. It visibly ruins their fun and they roll their eyes, going back to their phones.

  That’ll teach you to try and rattle me.

  Nothing rattles me.

  Except, apparently, the swaggering giant of a hockey player that steps forward to taste my cake five minutes later. They’ve already tasted the other two cakes, though Aiden hasn’t taken his eyes off me the whole time.

  The first contestant, a pretty blonde New Yorker type, totally bombed. Her cake kind of…oozes out onto the pedestal, drawing cackles from the audience. I feel pretty bad on her behalf and try to send her some non-verbal support, but she’s too busy making moon eyes at Sebastian, the British celebrity baker. The other contestant, a jolly, bearded fireman, holds his own with a halfway decent cake. Instead of worrying about the judge’s comments, however, he seems very interested in the way the female judge’s mouth moves when she chews.

  Interesting.

  When my turn for a taste test rolls around, Aiden makes no pretense of checking me out, scrubbing a hand along that bristly jaw that I am not imagining him rubbing all over my belly.

  I’m not.

  “Lola,” he greets me in a husky, male rasp. “Last but certainly not least.”

  I shake my hair out and cock a hip at the camera. “We can agree on that.”

  That gold tooth winks at me, but it’s more of a snarl than a smile. Aiden doesn’t like me flirting with the camera. That much is obvious. Well he’s going to have a heck of a time with me being a Las Vegas showgirl.

  Wait. No. He’s not going to have a heck of a time with any part of my life.

  This is the first and last time I’ll be seeing him.

  Even if I was interested—and I’m not—I can’t be with anyone.

  It’s way too dangerous, even for a man like Aiden who looks like he wouldn’t just take on a challenge, he would welcome it. Some problems can’t be solved with fists, though.

  I clear my throat and hand out three forks to the judges. “Taste away.”

  “Believe me, I’d love to,” Aiden says roughly, for my ears alone.

  A hot shiver travels along my inner thighs and I squeeze them together, behind the table where no one can see. This close to the hockey enforcer, I have to tilt my head back to look at him, he’s so tall. And broad. And thick. Did I mention thick? Thick enough to bite and he probably wouldn’t even feel it. When did you become such a pervert?

  Aiden makes a sensual act out of digging his fork into my cake and sliding the bite into his mouth. I can hear my own pulse as he chews, watching the cords of his throat flex. During the show, he loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top of his dress shirt, allowing a few black hairs to curl out of the V, and for some reason, that has me dripping into my underwear. I bet his entire chest is meaty, muscular and covered in proof of his maleness. I’d like to tangle my fingers in that hair and yank until he just attacks me…

  And these thoughts must be playing out on my face, because Aiden stops chewing and his chest starts to heave, ever so slightly, as if he’s trying to control it.

  “She gets my vote,” he says hoarsely.

  Unfortunately, I don’t get the other two votes.

  The director yells cut, the cameras go dark and I feel my cheeks flame. I’ve lost. So much for saving face with the mean girls, huh? No big deal. I just need a few minutes to myself, so I can recoup my flirty, nothing-bothers-me attitude. Never let them see you cry.

  Waving goodbye to the other two contestants, I leave my workstation and almost trip over a camera wire in my haste to get backstage. I keep my smile intact as I walk past Aiden and out of sight. I can feel him following me and I pick up my pace, turning into a green room area. It’s probably meant for the judges but I dip inside anyway, only intending to take five minutes to gather myself. Before I can close the door, however, Aiden’s fist keeps it from shutting and he pushes his way inside.

  “What’s up with you?” he barks.

  “You can’t j-just talk to me like…like you know me,” I sputter. “You don’t.”

  He comes closer, backing me slowly toward the far wall. “Don’t I, though?” His jaw pops as he looks me over, head to toe. “Let me see. You’re brave as hell, baby. Faking it until you make it. But you’re scared of something. What is it?”

  I scoff. “Oh, you don’t already know? I thought you had me all figured out.”

  “I’ve got your flavor. I’m trying to figure out the rest.” My back presses to the wall and I expect him to pin me there, but he stops just short of doing so, his expression thoughtful. “Why were you shaking out there? What are you scared of?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Lola.”

  Something catches in my throat. “I don’t like being laughed at, okay? I don’t like letting people know they’ve gotten to me, even if they have. I’m supposed to be stronger than that.”

  His brows snap together. “You are stronger than that.” He waves a hand at me like he’s doing a magic trick. “Now pull it together.”

  To my utter shock, a laugh trickles out of my mouth. “Why are you talking to me like one of your teammates?”

 

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