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“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Mr. NFL, Great H alum. And like a true kiss-ass, you even named your store after the college. Then you emphasize your coolness with a few jerseys on the wall and oh, so slyly put a pizza on your menu. C’mon, Vilmer. The only thing I like about you is the part I just found out.” He gave me a heated once-over, lingering on my crotch.

I knew I had to proceed with caution, but the bolt of desire threw me off guard. No one had looked at me with that kind of hunger in a long, long time.

With a speed I hadn’t tapped into in a while, I pushed him against the wall and caged him between my arms.

“Same,” I panted, dragging my erection alongside his.

Our noses brushed and our gazes held steady. If he were anyone else, I’d ask for his number so we could meet up later and get this out of our systems, but…Mateo? I didn’t know what to do with him.

So I pushed away and headed for the door.

Noise from the kitchen and the pizza parlor came rushing in, effectively breaking the spell. What the hell had I done? This was a disaster in the making.

ChapterSix

Mateo

Amber was nothing if not relentless. She’d been at the shop every day, chatting with Sal and me about the football fund raiser. Yesterday, she’d come with a spiel about getting the local paper involved and starting a social media campaign. It seemed like more effort than necessary, but then again, Boardwalk Pizza was woefully behind the times when it came to marketing.

My dad and uncle used to advertise in the yellow pages and in the church bulletin once a month. We always donated and gave back to the community, but not on a grand scale. And we’d certainly never had an ad campaign or done anything out of the box. Christ, we hadn’t changed our logo in sixty-plus years.

So yes, I was intrigued by Amber’s proposal. I might have been more jazzed about it if Rob wasn’t involved, though. Now he was a baffling loose end, and I didn’t know what to do about him.

Okay, not true. I wanted to fuck him. Or he could fuck me. I wasn’t picky.

It was a classic conflict of interests. I was a pro at those. It was always a case of one thing being good for me and the other, my ruin. Or just a really stupid risk.

That hadn’t kept me from wandering into his shop after hours every day this week with a thin excuse or a veiled complaint just to see him.

Your delivery guy blocked my truck in the alley this morning.

Your trash bin should be emptied earlier in the day.

The bagel line shouldn’t cross our entrance.

I made sure Amber wasn’t around. This shit was just for Rob. I wanted to test him and maybe convince myself that I’d imagined that scene in my office.

But guess what? It was real.

’Cause every night that I strutted into Great H Bagels, pumped with manufactured angst, intent on riling him, I ended up with my back to the wall, humping and grinding my boner against Rob’s while we sucked face.

Like now.

I didn’t have to say a word. He’d taken one look at me, locked the door, and marched into his office—which, by the way, was a hell of a lot nicer than mine. My list of daily gripes were forgotten at the sight of this big, burly former linebacker wearing a plaid shirt, worn jeans, and a scowl. He was my kryptonite, and he had no fucking idea. Tough, tall, and rugged…sign me the fuck up.

If we’d met at a bar or a club, I would’ve already offered my ass. No doubt about it. The vision of bending over Rob’s office desk was my new fantasy. I wanted to climb him like a tree, suck his cock, and swallow every drop of him, but I couldn’t tell him that.

This was a delicate situation and an unexpected development. I had to treat this with care.

So I admired his muscular biceps, messy hair, and his impressive package, then gestured in the general direction of the entrance. “Your sign is crooked.”

Rob crossed his arms, his expression stony and unreadable. “Oh, really?”

“Really. You should fucking fix that.”

“Make me.”