When the celebrity chef you worked for went on a drug and alcohol induced rant on live national television—effectively canceling the show and rendering everyone associated with it unemployed—you did what you must to get by. For me, that meant answering an ad for a temporary position halfway across the globe. It wasn't what I'd had in mind when I'd gone to culinary school almost eight years ago, but that was the story of my life these days.

To wit, professional cooking hadn't been my first plan, either.

I'd left home at 18 to pursue a degree in international studies at an Ivy League university with the hope of one day working at the U.N. Six months later, that dream was shattered into a thousand different pieces when my dad died after a drunk driver t-boned my parents' car. The accident also left my mom without the use of her legs.

With no income and mounting debt, she'd been forced to sell our house, and I'd dropped out of college to move home and help her. Those first few years after the accident had been difficult—some of the hardest of my life, in fact—but a job working for a high-end caterer on the weekends had given me a new dream: to own and operate an award-winning food truck.

Thus, culinary school.

Since then, I'd been a line cook in a hotel restaurant kitchen; served as the personal chef to a famous lingerie model; and then, finally, I'd landed the gig with Gavin Jones. While the pay had been good, the working conditions were deplorable. I couldn't tell you what was worse—the long hours associated with producing a weekly television show or the verbal abuse Gavin would fling at his underlings. I'd often wondered if it was because I was a woman that he treated me like he did. Or, maybe, it was because I was the one who actually cooked the food Gavin passed off as his own, but more often than not I was the one he'd lash out at during one of his infamous tirades. While it'd been terrifying to lose my paycheck, it was nice no longer having to worry about holding my shit together while my boss called me a “fucking cunt” in front of the staff and TV crew.

Although, I'd only been at this job for one day and already I'd heard two guys calling each other cunts over lunch. I'd flinched and then stood completely frozen, my body instinctively waiting for the threat to pass. Thankfully, no one noticed my reaction and I'd been able to go about my day no worse for wear. Now, I was coming to learn that in Ireland the word “cunt” wasn't viewed as being quite as vulgar as back home in the U.S. Here, it was practically a term of endearment.

And that brought me to now.

It was my second day working for Dublin Rugby as an assistant chef, and already I was wondering what in the fuck I'd gotten myself into. Because that whole cooking assistant thing? It had flown completely out the window five hours after I'd started when the head chef slipped and broke both his arms.

I honestly didn't know the first thing about cooking for athletes, but as they'd wheeled my boss out on a stretcher, he'd seen my look of panic and, taking pity, told me I just needed to cook as much protein as possible. It didn't even have to taste good, he'd added, just before they shut the ambulance door. Once my shock wore off, I'd wondered if his last bit of advice had been more about him keeping his job than about helping me out—because I was pretty sure no one expected me to serve shitting tasting food.

So now—with the help of three other assistants—I'd cooked up a veritable feast for 50 players, ten coaches, 12 members of the medical staff, and 20 some-odd other employees of the organization. Utterly exhausted at only noon, I had no idea how I was going to repeat this four days a week.

“I didn't think you could pull it off, but this looks delicious.” Marla Kennedy, the head of human resources, squeezed my shoulder in encouragement. She'd been the one who'd hired me to come work for the team.

“Necessity is the mother of invention and all that,” I replied with a shrug.

I'd never been good at accepting compliments, even when they were warranted. But I could admit—at least internally—that Marla was right. The meal I'd thrown together tasted amazing. I hadn't found any of Harold's notes or menus, so I'd winged it, throwing together a random assortment of dishes based on what had been in the walk-in refrigerator and pantry. Now, I was actually quite proud of the results.

Wiping the sweat from my brow with the back of my forearm, I surveyed the food spread out in front of me. Chicken breasts stuffed with sun-dried tomatoes and capers and then wrapped in prosciutto. A salad of fresh greens with sliced red onion, crumbled blue cheese, and candied pecans, topped off with a balsamic vinaigrette dressing. A white bean salad with grilled onions, chopped dill, olive oil, and lemon. Grilled lamb steaks dressed with copious amounts of rosemary and garlic. And finally, roasted eggplant with harissa for the vegetarians of the group (there were three, none of them players).

As Marla walked away, I called the kitchen assistants over and instructed them to begin taking the second wave of food into the dining area. Then, hefting the platter of chicken into my hands, I pushed my way through the swinging double doors and was immediately hit with the sound of raucous applause.

Stopping in my tracks, I stared out at the room in awe. Almost 50 guys, still sweaty from their earlier training session, sat at tables of eight clapping for their midday meal. I'd been in the kitchen all morning, but the warmth infusing my cheeks and snaking its way down my chest had nothing to do with slaving away over a hot stove all morning. The truth was, in addition to being bad at accepting compliments, I was also incredibly shy around attractive men. And right now? I was surrounded by a whole horde of them.

I dropped my head forward and scrambled to the table where the rest of the meal had been laid out. But before I could scamper away to the safety of the kitchen, Marla approached me again. “I don't mean to speak ill of Harold, but his food has never caused anyone to break out into spontaneous applause.”

“It's nothing,” I murmured, batting away her praise. “I just cooked what made sense given the supplies that were available.”

She studied the meal for a few quick seconds and then shifted her eyes back to me. “Do you know what Harold usually serves on Tuesdays?”

“No, I couldn't find his menus.”

Marla squeezed my shoulder again. “Oh dear, that's because there are none. Tuesdays and Thursdays are plain baked chicken, seasoned with salt and pepper; some boiled vegetable; mashed sweet potatoes; and a salad. If you can call undressed leaves in a bowl a salad.”

“That's what he serves?” I asked incredulously. “Then why do we have all these other ingredients on hand?”

“Well, it's not always so dire. On Fridays, he cooks a special meal for the boys—usually grilled lamb with a few side dishes.”

Thinking back to the canned chickpeas I'd located, I nodded. “Hummus?”

“Yes. And baba ganoush too.”

“Ah, that explains the eggplants.”

“Our Harold went on a trip to Greece last summer and we've been the beneficiaries of his new-found love of Mediterranean cuisine ever since. Although his repertoire isn't very imaginative—it's basically just the same dish every Friday—it's a nice reprieve.”

“I hope I haven't rocked the boat too much,” I answered, worried that I'd deviated too far from the prescribed plan. While I knew how to cook healthy food well, I was by no means a nutritionist. I wondered now if Harold cooked the way he did because that's what was best for the players' systems. What if all the olive oil and extra spices I'd used did a number on their digestion or metabolism or something? Wracking my brain, I couldn't recall ever hearing anything like that, but what did I know about an athlete's finely-tuned diet?

Marla chuckled, an easy-going sound that immediately lessened my trepidation. “Absolutely not. Take a look around. Some of them are going back for thirds.”

I surveyed the men eating my food. The largest ones gathered at a table in the far corner, their faces bent over their plates while their meaty arms shoveled food into their open mouths. I was pretty sure one of them wasn't even stopping to chew before the next bite made its way down his throat.

Following my gaze, Marla said, “As you can see by their size, they eat the most. The one with all the tattoos who can't get the chicken into his mouth fast enough? That's Tadhg. The only time he shuts up is when he's eating. In fact, this might be the longest I've seen him go without speaking. He's harmless, but the quiet is nice.” She flashed me a conspiratorial smile. “And over there,” she added, notching her chin toward the opposite side of the dining hall, “are some of the backs. They're the fastest boys on the team and the ones who score most of our points on match day. You'll want to make sure they're getting enough lean proteins to keep them well fueled.”

I nodded, absorbing her words.

“And this,” she said, smiling at a youngish player approaching us with an empty plate, “is Donal Casey, he plays—”

Donal set his plate aside and held out his hand for me to shake. “Backup to the backup hooker. Good to meet you. Your cooking is excellent, by the way.” He smiled as our hands came together and then his eyes trailed over my body in slow perusal before they finally landed back on my face.

Blanching at his obvious once-over, I pulled away. “Thank you,” I answered stiffly. “I'm glad you enjoyed it.”

His lips dropped from his full, wide smile into a sly smirk. “I did.” He looked out over his teammates. “I'd say the collective silence indicates we all did.”

I couldn't argue with that. I'd been out here for at least 15 minutes and in that time, with the exception of my greeting, you could have heard a pin drop.

Turning to Marla, Donal continued, “Please tell me Harold's done for and you're keeping this angel of mercy in his place.” He flashed me a quick smile and followed it up with a wink as my cheeks flamed red under his praise. “And she blushes too!” Donal threw his head back with a barking laugh, exposing the long, masculine line of his throat, the tendons stretching taut.

Oh shit. No, no, no. Do not stare at his throat.

Look, we all had our thing—that body part on a member of the opposite sex that made you weak in the knees. For some women, it was a man's hands, or his chest or abs, but for me, it was a man's neck and the muscle that connected it to his shoulders. Technically, it was his trapezius, but I just called it heaven. And Donal Casey’s? His was heavenly.

Before I could pull my gaze away, he caught me staring and his eyes danced with obvious delight. “Anyway, it was nice meeting you …”

That was when I realized I'd never given him my name. “Lauren,” I answered. “And it was nice meeting you too, Donald.”

“Donal,” he corrected, his grin dimming. “No d.”

“Sorry, I'm terrible with names.” I shrugged apologetically. “Anyway, it was good meeting you Donal,” I repeated, this time stressing his actual name.

Taking a few steps backward, Donal kept his eyes locked with mine. “Yeah, you too.” And then he winked and licked his lips before turning and making his way back to his table, his tight ass high and round in his loose pants.

Holy Christ. The man was sex on a stick and he knew it.

I blinked and shook my head, and when I opened my eyes with a weary exhale, Marla was watching me.

“Don't let our Donal rattle you. He was born a flirt and he'll die one too.”

Keeping my attention trained on Donal's boisterous form so that my employer wouldn't see the lies I was spouting, I said, “I'm from L.A. and have been surrounded by beautiful people my entire life. A little harmless flirting from one of them isn't going to bother me.”

In the normal course of things, that would be the truth. I'd been hit on by actors and musicians many would consider infinitely more beautiful than Donal Casey. And I'd walked away from every one of them completely unaffected. But not Donal. Because yes, to quote Marla, I was bothered.

Hot and bothered.

And in so much damn trouble it wasn't even funny.