Page 21 of Hit For Six (Balls and Banter #1)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Monty

He’d not been sleeping well. His dreams about his dream girl had become ever raunchier, waking him in the night, driving him to distraction.

And the adrenaline of the company meeting had soon worn off, even if it had achieved the desired effect of raising a red flag on the design flaws of the Beau-re-mi women’s clothing line.

Then, as if in cahoots with his exhausted body, Monty’s alarm clock had remained stubbornly silent this morning, putting paid to his disciplined start of a run followed by a healthy breakfast.

He could just about squeeze in a shower before he had to go.

But his upcoming cricket fixtures and training would demand all or nothing before long.

Monty really had to find a way to get a handle on things.

His carefully curated diet had gone pear-shaped and he couldn’t remember when he’d last done his squats or rotational arm exercises.

The burden of his day job definitely wasn’t helping where any of that was concerned. Monty had barely spoken to his father or the team since Frederick’s resolute round robin email response to his demand for a PR release.

Not happening, even if hell freezes over.

Then there were dodged calls from his mother, and he’d stood Saskia up at the last minute on their recent lunch rendez-vous. Monty knew he would have to face his family soon enough. He just needed a few more days to compose himself.

He pulled down a cap on his desperately-in-need-of-a-haircut blonde tufts, only further shadowing the grey circles beneath his eyes, and left the apartment.

He felt terrible for not checking in on Beefy.

Monty had long practised tithing to the homeless people of Bath when he was out and about.

His new neighbour’s story tugged at his heart strings, especially when he had a perfectly decent spare room with a bed, and a fridge full of food.

Monty would go to him later and ask if there was something more practical he could do.

He guessed it might be a fine line between offering too much assistance and giving Beefy the tools to improve his situation.

Monty didn’t want to overstep the mark and offend the guy but he found it difficult to do nothing.

He wouldn’t depict himself as a saint, yet the way he felt about helping those in need was so different to his mother’s stance of far-removed gala events and charity balls, where the money would simply be passed along and the onus seemed to be on posing for the camera so one looked like a jolly good egg in the society write ups.

Monty liked to be more grass roots. He wanted people to feel they were being listened to.

Heading towards the stadium on wobbly legs, he’d barely strolled past the freshly mown gardens of the Crescent when a notification flashed up on his mobile. It was London:

Hey, I need to put the meeting back by a couple of hours. Will Curtis is stuck in traffic on the motorway. Sorry to mess up your morning. Don’t rush in!

What a bittersweet message. Yes, Monty could have snagged some more zeds but now, at least, with the Australia turned England cricket coach delayed, he could carb up and regroup. He knew just the place.

Roly Poly was a hidden gem of a bakery specialising in the squidgiest, most generous cinnamon rolls– and ‘versions’ thereof.

Conveniently it was en route to the stadium.

Monty would treat himself to a sweet, sticky breakfast and sip a couple of coffees as he did some background research on the other players he was likely to be sharing the international cricket pitch with.

Well, that and contemplate Lola. The things they’d gotten up to in his imagination last night.

But just as he reached the queue, where he was about to make a grab for the tongs lying next to the last cinnamon roll loaded with its thick puddle of snowy icing, another much smaller, smoother and beautifully manicured hand thought it was beating him to it.

A surge of energy flooded his fingers as skin brushed skin.

Like electricity but much more pleasant than a shock.

And then the velvety digits clamped hold of the tongs and seized the cinnamon roll by its base. The bloody cheek.

‘ Oh, no you don’t. Nobody needs that more than I do this morning! ’

Monty couldn’t help being territorial and he didn’t care who heard. He’d drooled over the item in contention for the past twenty minutes and his rumbling stomach and frazzled head couldn’t wait for a new batch of its siblings to come out of the oven.

‘Nice try but technically you walked past it two seconds ago, whereas I am currently standing parallel to said baked good. You had your chance, now I’m taking mine.

’ A strangely familiar voice flew over his shoulder as its owner’s electric purple fingernails transferred the lip smacking roll to her plate and put the tongs back next to the empty space on the shelf.

Monty’s heart didn’t know whether to flip or sink. Riled up and ready to defend the needs of his stomach, he turned before his frayed nerves could get the better of him, to take in the ethereal sight that was Lola.

Bambi eyes, limbs and lemon. How was he supposed to keep his cool?

She looked more incredible every time he saw her and she smelled it too; her citrusy scent enveloping his senses.

Today’s denim button up thingamajig cinched in at her elegant waist with a purple belt to match her nails, before flaring out with an A line effect to enhance her svelte legs.

Monty was hopeless. How could he work in the fashion industry when he couldn’t even describe what she was wearing?

‘Fine,’ he finally located his voice. ‘I’ll let you have it.’ His gaze drifted to the equally delicious iced cinnamon roll in her very firm grasp. ‘As long as we share.’

Lola looked like a rabbit caught in the headlights at that suggestion.

Damn. He’d been given a third chance with her in less than a week and he’d already blown it.

He did, in his defense, really want that roll, though.

Yes, the bakery made all sorts of fancy flavours, all with a hint of cinnamon streaked through them.

But less was more. Chocolate and pistachio, lemon pie, and Oreo cinnamon rolls could get in the bin!

‘Oh, erm… I… totally wouldn’t have said that if I’d known it was you.

’ Lola suddenly found the window and the stream of pedestrians walking past it fascinating.

‘But… you know… the cap.’ She turned back and wiggled her finger about in the air as her glorious green eyes pinned Monty against the counter. ‘It threw me.’

‘Okay, then.’ He tried his best to remain deadpan, heart thudding embarrassingly against his ribcage.

‘Hand over the goods. There are plenty of other combos to choose from. Why not treat yourself to a…’ Monty ran his eyes over the specials board.

‘Cream cheese and avocado cinnamon roll. What fresh hell is this? ’

Lola giggled. He’d just made her giggle!

The guy behind the counter, however, was not so enamoured with Monty’s putdown and could be heard to tsk him.

Monty winced. He could have been a bit more tactful, but seriously, who was going to order that muck?

And then he recalled his avocado-obsessed ex, Cara.

She was exactly the kind of person to foist the misery of clean eating on a perfectly good treat.

‘I take it you got home okay the other night?’ his words came out husky but he had to check that Lola had got back to her place safely in that crazy rain. ‘Love the… shirt dress , by the way.’ What? Why had he needlessly voiced his belated recognition of her couture?

‘Thanks.’ She looked down at her dress as if hunting for the unusual embellishment that might have warranted such a public declaration of approval.

‘Oh, yeah. It was fine.’ Now she peeped at him through her fringe, just like she had last night when she’d gone down on him.

Monty could feel his cheeks rouge. Those erotic dreams of his could get in the bin too if he’d never get to experience the real deal.

‘I was the one with an umbrella, remember. You?’

Rain, cool, wet . Wrong bloody adjective! Keep thinking of rain.

The queue shuffled along and before he could respond to Lola, the server furrowed his brow at Monty, asking him if he wanted a drink.

‘L-ladies first.’ Monty gestured to Lola. ‘And I’m paying.’

‘Thanks. That’s really nice… and go on, then. I suppose I could limit myself to half a roll as a token of my appreciation.’ Phew. ‘I’ll have a medium flat white, please.’

Monty waited for the fuss and adornments that his past girlfriends had demanded of staff in Bath’s busy coffee shops, but it didn’t come.

Not that Lola was his girlfriend. Not that there was anything wrong with skinny this and oat milk latte that.

But it was refreshing to be in the company of a woman who wasn’t calorie counting or trying out a new fad because the influencers claimed she’d suffer from incessant FOMO until the end of time without it.

Which wasn’t to say that he wasn’t sympathetic towards those with food allergies.

Seth had to avoid seafood and carried an EpiPen with him at all times.

But none of his former dates or girlfriends had genuinely had them and it had always felt like a battle just to go out for brunch, let alone a three course meal.

And don’t get him started on his romantic dinner attempts.

Every one of them had been picked apart and pecked at with most of the ingredients ending up…

in the aforementioned bin. It had been beyond exhausting.

‘You’re absolutely sure you’re happy to share?’ he checked again with Lola after nudging the cinnamon roll along the counter to the till and placing his own order for an Americano.

‘They’ll have a new batch out of the oven soon. If I feel too deprived I’ll just get a takeout for the office.’