Tracy Wolff - Shredded

Wherever I start, I know exactly where I want to end up. But now I’m just torturing myself, and by the time I get to the counter, I’m grateful I’m still in my thick snowboarding pants. Otherwise, my interest would be obvious to everyone in the damn room.

“What can I get you?” she asks, her fingers poised over the register. For the first time I realize her nails are painted a funky green that almost exactly matches her eyes—not what I was expecting from her with all those tough-girl vibes she throws out. I like the color, though, almost as much as I like knowing there’s more to her than I thought.

Not that it really matters, I remind myself. I want to fuck her, not get to know all her twists and turns.

“I don’t know.” I let my voice go a little huskier than normal, give her the half smile that usually gets me whatever I want. “What’s good?”

“That depends on what you like.” She mimics my tone exactly, but when I search her face there’s nothing but polite professional interest there. It’s my second clue that I might be in for more than I bargained for here.

Interested despite my less than honorable intentions, I lean against the counter and contemplate my choices. The answer I want to give her has nothing to do with coffee and everything to do with what I’ve spent the last five minutes fantasizing about. But something tells me that kind of approach won’t work with her, not this girl with the deliberately bland face, kick-ass voice, and—I glance down at the hands she still has poised over the register—trembling, green-tipped fingers.

I barely bite back a grin. Looks like I make her nervous, after all. It’s the best news I’ve had all day. “I like just about anything,” I finally tell her.

“Yeah, I’ve heard that about you,” she answers dryly, sounding less than impressed.

“Oh, really? And what exactly have you heard—” I glance down at the black-and-silver name tag pinned to her shirt. “—Ophelia?”

She rolls her eyes. “I think you’ve got a pretty good idea what people say about you, Z. Now are you going to stand there all night batting your eyes at me or are you actually going to order something for your harem?”

“My harem?”

She nods toward Lila and her friends, and this time the look on her face lets me know just how unimpressed she is. Damn. Looks like my reputation really has preceded me. Or Lila’s has. She’s one of the winter regulars who have a lot more money than sense. Somehow I doubt she’s got the intelligence—or basic good manners—to be nice to the barista. Which means I really might be screwed here.

It matters more than it should. Normally I don’t give a shit what people say about me—and they say a lot, especially since Luc, Ash, and I turned pro—but something about the way Ophelia’s looking at me is making my palms sweat. It’s a first for me, and one I’m not all that happy about.

“I barely know those girls.”

“Like that’s supposed to impress me?”

“I don’t know.” It’s the most honest thing I’ve said all day. “What would impress you?”

She eyes me disdainfully. “Way more than what you’ve got to offer.”

So much for honesty. That’s why I work so hard not to put myself out there—it always bites you in the ass. Determined to get control of the situation, I rest my hands on the counter and lean in toward her. Then I turn it on, the look that’s gotten me every girl I’ve tried for since I lost my virginity at the age of thirteen.

Ophelia’s eyes go wide and she bobbles the cup she reached for seconds ago. This time I don’t even try to hide my smile.

“Why don’t you give me something sweet,” I suggest after she’s stared at me for a few long seconds.

“Something … sweet?” Her voice sounds strangled.

“Yeah.” A few strands of hair have escaped her bun, and I reach out to stroke an errant curl before winding it around my finger. “And hot. It’s pretty cold outside.”

“You want—” Her voice breaks. She’s breathless now, and I know this is it. I’ve got her.

I feel a little twinge deep inside—one that I might identify as disappointment if I ever let myself hope for anything—but I ignore it. This is exactly what I wanted, after all. “You want something sweet and hot?”

“That is how I like my coffee.” Among other things, my look tells her. Not that I’m cheesy enough to say shit like that. But I can imply with the best of them.

Ophelia’s eyes are a little hazy now, a little unfocused, but she nods jerkily. Then, before I can say anything else, she heads over to the espresso machines and fumbles around for a minute or two. She doesn’t look toward me once, and when she comes back, she’s carrying a large glass of iced coffee.

Confused, I look back and forth between her and the drink. “That doesn’t look very warm,” I finally tell her.

“Yeah, well, I made an executive decision. It looked like you needed something to cool yourself down with.” And then it’s her turn to lean over the counter. I have a quick second to curse the turtleneck—I’d really love to see what this girl’s tits look like—right before she dumps the coffee all over the front of my pants.

He doesn’t react right away. And when he does, it’s not at all the way I expect.

Maybe it’s the insulated snowboarding pants or maybe it’s his too-cool attitude, but Z doesn’t screech or yell or even curse. He just looks at me, that too-gorgeous-for-his-own-or-anyone-else’s-good face of his frozen in surprise. Whether it’s because I dumped the drink on him or because he’s finally figured out that I played him, I don’t know and I don’t care. All that matters is he gets the message and leaves me the hell alone.

Still, some instinct deep inside me whispers that not much surprises him. The fact that I did makes me happier than it should.

And then he smiles, and I know I’m right. Because it isn’t that come-sit-on-the-big-bad-wolf’s-lap-and-let-him-take-a-little-bite-out-of-you smile that he leveled at me a few minutes ago, the one that weakened my knees and nearly melted my brain cells along with those of every other female in the vicinity. No, this is a real smile. A genuine grin ripe with amusement, speculation, and something else I can’t even begin to identify.

But whatever that unknown thing is, I’ve been around the block enough to know that I’m in trouble. That this meeting probably won’t end well between us. At least not for me.

Still, what was I supposed to do? Stand here with my heart pounding and my knees knocking together like some kind of ripe-for-the-picking damsel in distress?

Throw myself at him like every other girl in a hundred-mile radius does?

Let him think I’m going to be just another notch on his snowboard?

I don’t think so.

I did what had to be done, nipped his totally impersonal pursuit in the bud before it got completely out of hand. It’s not that I think I’m in any danger of falling for him—rich, pretty boys like Z make me break out in hives, especially when they’re adrenaline junkies. But still, I’m not taking any chances.

Not after what happened in New Orleans.

Just the thought of Louisiana, of Remi, has my stomach churning and my chest aching. I’ve been doing so well, too.

Minding my own business.

Getting my life back in order.

Looking into classes at the community college so I won’t be stuck in this dead-end job—this dead-end life—forever.

At least until Mr. My-Balls-Are-Even-Bigger-than-My-Bank-Account here comes along and decides to mess with me just because he can. Fury burns through my veins at the thought, and I glare at Z. Suddenly I’m itching to dump another cup of coffee on him. One that isn’t iced this time. But I need this job, and already people are pointing and staring. If my aunt or uncle passes by and sees all the commotion, I’ll be out of another job. And seeing as I’ve already gotten banished from the gift shop and one of the restaurants in the twelve days I’ve been here, I’m kind of running out of options.

Annoyed but resigned to doing some kind of damage control, I pull out a clean rag from under the counter and thrust it toward him. “Here. You can use this to clean up.”

“I’ve got it, thanks.” His grin widens, and it only ticks me off to see that my ire amuses him. At least until he reaches for the back neckline of his shirt and pulls it over his head in one smooth movement. By the time he starts dabbing at his black pants with it, my anger is a thing of the past. And so are my brain cells.

I can’t help it. I try to stay pissed, but it’s hard to actually formulate thoughts—any thoughts—when I’m confronted with a half-naked Z.

I mean, the guy’s an alien. He has to be, because human beings just don’t look like this. At least not outside of magazine shoots and Hollywood movies. And maybe not even there.

Despite the winter weather, his skin is a soft, golden bronze that’s a testament to just how much time he spends outside with his shirt off—despite the snow. His arms are big, his shoulders well developed. And his abs. Omigod, his abs are a work of art. Forget six-pack. This guy has an eight-working-on-ten-pack, and for a second—just a second—my eyes nearly cross as I imagine what it would be like to lick a path straight from his collarbone to his navel.

He shifts a little under my scrutiny and for the first time I notice the scars he’s got—on his arm, his chest, over his ribs, down the side of his abs. Way too many scars for a normal guy to have. But he isn’t a normal guy, I remind myself. He’s a snowboarder, one known for taking crazy risks and doing really wild stunts. Is it any wonder his body is so torn up?