CHAPTER SIX
Hazel
I wasn’t sure what I’d been thinking when I impulsively decided to cheer Chris up, but the sight of him and Olive sitting on the floor, both munching on dog biscuits, was too much adorableness for me to handle. Damn, the man had a way of surprising me. If I wasn’t careful, I’d be rolling off him tomorrow morning, sweaty and exhausted, giving FIGJAM himself a full report on just how good he was in bed.
So naturally I did the only thing possible: I gave him directions to Casa Bonita—a giant margarita-laden, cold cheese enchilada–serving, sticky sopaipilla of a three-ring-circus sideshow—and sent him on his way, telling him I’d meet him at the restaurant in an hour. No way was I hanging out with a man who reeked of dog pee, no matter how attractive he was.
Dubbed “The World’s Most Exciting Restaurant” by Denver locals and visitors alike, the Mexican-themed behemoth housed in a pink castle-like building in a random strip mall amid thrift shops and dollar stores on Colfax had it all—cliff divers, magicians, puppet shows, a cave visitors could get lost in, a massive arcade, and a menu that was certain to cause food poisoning. It was the type of place Chris and his fifty-million-dollar Blizzards contract would normally never be caught dead in.
“Holy shit, I thought the wonders of Casa Bonita were an urban legend.” Chris glanced around at the lobby’s picturesque whitewashed walls, the tiled roofs and carts packed with produce and dried chilies, the pieces of clay pottery and multicolored ponchos strewn about.
“Oh, Casa Bonita is real all right.” And cheesy and campy and a sensory delight that appealed to the child in everyone—Chris should love it, once he got past the gawking.
“No, I really believed it was a myth. Like El Chupacabra. Or Bloody Mary. Or—”
“FIGJAM and BWE?” I asked sweetly as we entered the line and snaked our way through a labyrinth-like maze surrounded by faux rock formations and palm trees to the hostess podium ahead, the scent of melted cheese, grease, and looming regret leading us.
“Hey, it convinced you to have dinner with me. And besides, no one’s life is complete without a Lalonde in it,” Chris said, rubbing the nape of his neck in a way that had his biceps testing the strength of his shirtsleeves and his hemline riding up to reveal abs that I was definitely, unequivocally not staring at.
On first glance, Chris looked like he’d rolled out of the shower and into the first set of clothes he found. But as I studied him, the way his jeans and shirt hugged every muscle, clung to each sharp plane as if tailored specifically for him, I realized the outfit took money—and taste.
What felt like an eternity later, we stepped up to the hostess, who functioned as a sort of gatekeeper, barring entrance to the wondrous cantina until we ordered a meal. She handed us menus and trays, and Chris’s jaw dropped.
“Is this place cafeteria style?” he asked, staring at me in shock or awe—maybe both—then told the hostess, “Ma’am, I’m going to need two trays.”
“You can’t be serious,” I said.
“I grew up in a home with a sister and father who could cook—if there’s anything I’m skilled at, it’s eating,” he said, then proceeded to order the specialty of the house, which consisted of two crispy tacos, three enchiladas, Mexican rice, refried beans, guacamole, and sour cream.
“The deluxe dinner also comes with chips, queso, salsa, and our world-famous bottomless sopaipillas with honey,” the hostess said.
“Feels like my birthday,” he said with a smile.
I’d expected Chris to bail at the first sight of what passed for Mexican food at Casa Bonita—no way a guy like him would settle for anything less than high-quality cuisine—but he appeared genuinely thrilled.
I chose the safer, non-heartburn-inducing option—beef fajitas—and we continued along the railings, collecting our plates from a slot carved out of the kitchen wall and guiding our lamp-warmed food down the tray track. We reached the main dining room and another podium, this time with a man guarding admittance to the seating area.
“Party of two, please. First available table is fine,” I said to the host.
Chris scoffed. “First available is not fine. We will not accept anything less than a table near the waterfall, where all the good shit goes down. I came to witness the fire jugglers and the dude in the gorilla suit I saw on the South Park episode, and I will not leave until I do.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but all the waterfall tables are occupied,” the host said.
Chris’s expression clouded over, clearly unaccustomed to being told no. “We’ll wait,” he said, as if it wouldn’t be awkward at all for us to stand there holding trays of rapidly cooling food while bottlenecking the line.
“Oh, but usually people phone ahead for those seats—”
“Well, point me to the party next on the list for a good table, and I’ll handle it,” he said.
“That group over there,” the host said, gesturing to a couple with two young sons all decked out in varying degrees of Blizzard merchandise.
“Wonder if they’re in the Chris Lalonde sucks fan club,” Chris muttered, then strode up to the family. “Hey, guys.”
“Oh my god, you’re Chris Lalonde!” the father exclaimed, his eyes bugging out as he bolted away from the wall he’d been propped up against. “Look, boys, it’s your favorite wide receiver. What can we do for you?”
“Well, I’ve got a bit of a problem,” Chris said, shaking the parents’ hands and fist-bumping with the kids. “See that beautiful girl over there? Her name’s Hazel, and she’s been dodging my attempts at romance since we met. I finally persuaded her to go out with me, but I failed to plan ahead and they want to put us in the back of the restaurant by the puppet show.”
“The puppets are my favorite!” the littlest boy piped up.
“Yeah? Think you might be willing to trade tables? I’d be happy to toss in some Blizzards tickets for your trouble,” Chris said, and just like that, he’d charmed his way into getting what he wanted. Again. How did he do it so effortlessly?
“Does anyone ever say no to you?” I asked as we followed the host to our table.
“You mean apart from you?”
“Obviously.”
Chris leaned close to me, his breath warm against my cheek as he whispered, “That’s something you should understand about me, Hazel. I won’t be denied. And when I’m given an all-access pass? I visit every attraction. Taste every offering. And I don’t stop until I’m satisfied. In every way.”
He flashed that wide, Cheshire catlike grin that he knew damn well worked on women. Me included. I wondered how that smile would morph into something delighted—something triumphant—if I brought him home for the night. Even here, in the middle of what had to be the corniest restaurant on the planet, I felt like we were chug-chug-chugging our way to the top of a roller coaster and I was breathless for the drop.
We settled into our seats as a cliff-diving show was starting. I thought Chris might combust from excitement when the first diver took his position atop the towering thirty-foot faux rock face and back-flipped into the lagoon below. As we ate, Chris hollered and cheered at every tandem jump, swan dive, and twist. I’d invited him here as a joke, but now, seeing his face light up and his shoulders relax, I couldn’t help but enjoy myself.
“Perhaps you should hang up the jersey and pursue cliff diving instead,” I said as I assembled a fajita.
Chris shot me a lopsided grin. “But then fans would miss out on my touchdown dance.”
“Right. Because your dancing skills are so spectacular. When your football career ends, you should consider appearing on Dancing with the Stars.”
At my words, his expression changed, the carefree joy slipping from his features. The look he wore now was guarded, almost defensive, and I wondered what I’d said to offend him.
“I’d rather sit on my couch and gorge on nineties reruns,” he said, his tone oddly formal.
“And relive your pubescent celebrity crush fantasies?” I took a bite, forcing myself to swallow—the dog food at the shelter probably tasted better.
“Hell, yeah. I could stare at Amy Jo Johnson all day long.”
“Who?”
“Oh, come on. She played Kimberly Hart on Power Rangers. You know, the pink one who had the ability to turn her skin into any material she touched?” Chris said it like I’d been hiding under a rock growing up. Which wasn’t that far off the mark. I’d been painfully shy as a child, then as I’d gotten older and things at home had become tenser, I’d withdrawn into someone cautious and reserved. It had really only been during the odd weekend or evening I’d spent with my uncle at his sprawling estate that I’d felt like a normal kid.
I tilted my head and squinted at him. “I can’t tell if you’re joking or not.”
“I never joke about Power Rangers. Or about Amy Jo Johnson,” he said through a mouthful of enchilada.
Laughing, I shook my head and wiped my fingers on a napkin. “I’m so secondhand embarrassed for you right now.”
“Okay, fine,” he said, all affronted. “Who was your celebrity crush?”
“Dylan McKay from 90210. No contest.”
Chris broke off a piece of taco shell and popped it into his mouth. “Really, Grant? I figured that you shied away from the brooding bad boy type.”
“In reality, maybe.” I shrugged. “But in fantasy, Dylan McKay was the perfect boyfriend. He was hot and expressed his emotions and always defended Brenda.”
“Until he cheated on her with Kelly.”
“And that’s when I stopped watching the show,” I said, careful to keep my tone neutral. I didn’t want to get into my history of orbiting boyfriends who claimed to be one thing but turned out to be someone else entirely. “At least he was a better character than noble Brandon Walsh, whose biggest accomplishment was wooing women with apple pie at the Peach Pit.”
Chris raised an eyebrow. “What do you got against apple pie?”
“Nothing. I simply prefer French silk,” I said, then polished off the rest of my fajita.
“I’ll keep that in mind.” He winked and turned back to the show, hollering as a guy in a gorilla suit joined the other divers for a poorly acted skit.
When we finished our meal—Chris’s plate licked clean, mine largely untouched—we split the check as promised and headed into the attractions area, drinks in hand.
“So, Hazel Grant, tell me something else about yourself aside from your dog biscuit–baking abilities and your affinity for actors with too much hair gel,” Chris said as we joined a group of people gathered around a stage hosting a magic trick routine.
“Like what?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Something most people don’t know about you.”
I hesitated, unsure of how forthcoming I should be. Past experience had taught me that opening yourself up to someone, trusting them, had a way of backfiring.
“I haven’t slept well all week, which is uncommon for me,” I said after a beat.
“What’s been keeping you up?” he asked.
“A Lalonde.” I took a sip of my daiquiri from the swirly straw, avoiding his gaze. If I looked at him, I’d crack up before I could deliver the punch line.
Chris paused with his beer bottle halfway to his lips, his Adam’s apple bobbing heavily. “Yeah?” he asked, like he knew it was too good to be true but couldn’t quite help himself.
“Yeah. I enjoyed the tasting menu at Quince the other night so much that now I’m totally in love with your twin sister, Gwen. I can’t stop thinking about her.”
Chris shook his head, his mouth quirking up in a half smile. “That’s cold, Hazel Grant. So cold.”
I grinned. “Your turn,” I said, raising my voice above the crowd clapping for the magician onstage tugging a chain of scarves out of his mouth.
“Not so fast,” he said. “I want something real first.”
Something real. Which meant something honest and personal. And I didn’t do personal, not with men I’d only recently met. And especially not with men like Chris, who had one persona they crafted and honed and fed to the public, and another they reserved for their private life. But as I stood beside him, his attention entirely focused on me, all I could see was a man who was genuinely interested, and I felt myself relax in his company.
“Okay,” I said, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “I took pity on you tonight because I didn’t want to go home to a quiet house, basic cable, and a pint of gelato.”
It was pathetic and humiliating, but true nonetheless. Since having dinner with my uncle, his words—Chris knows how to live life out loud, and you need someone to teach you how—had been playing on repeat in my head. My daily existence was ordered and controlled—I preferred it that way, but was my uncle right? Was I only partially living? Could I learn something from Chris’s example?
After a moment, Chris cleared his throat and said, “I came to the kennel after today’s game because it was the only place I could think of where I wasn’t going to be vilified on sight.”
There was something dangerous about his statement, something raw and open and intimate. It was easy to be closed off with people who never shared themselves, but intimacy given was intimacy invited, and Chris’s confession felt like an invitation I wanted to accept.
“Dogs are safe like that,” I murmured, my voice not quite my own, hoping he couldn’t sense there was more I wasn’t sharing. “They don’t care what you did yesterday or the day before. They only care that you show up. That you try, and try with integrity.”
He nodded. “Everyone’s so angry with me—my teammates, the fans, the front office. None of them understand that my recent actions, the drugs—I did it all for them.”
I nodded. “That’s the other great thing about shelter dogs. They always know when you’re lying, even if you’re just lying to yourself.” I softened my tone with a smile. “You didn’t swallow those pills for other people, Chris. You swallowed them for yourself. The question is why?”
Chris polished off his beer, grabbed my empty mocktail cup, and tossed both into the trash can, nearly hitting the strolling mariachi band passing by. We moved into the main arcade area, where he purchased enough Skee-Ball tokens to host a tournament.
“All right, Hazel Grant, I hereby challenge you to a duel,” he said, hefting three of the wooden balls in the air and juggling them.
“Show-off,” I said, suppressing my grin. Was there anything Chris couldn’t do?
“I’m so glad you noticed,” he said. “It’s all part of the FIGJAM experience.”
My heart tripped in my chest at the playful dip in his voice, but I tried not to show just how much he was affecting me. “What are the stakes?”
“Every time I hit the fifty slot, you have to answer a question.”
“And each time I hit the slot?”
“I love how optimistic you are about your Skee-Ball skills. Same rules,” he said, letting the balls fall into his open palms before giving one to me. “Ladies first.”
Wiping my hands on my jeans, I wound up and rolled the ball down the alley, watching as it landed in the fifty slot.
“What? No way. Do it again,” he demanded.
“Suit yourself,” I said, sinking another ball in the fifty slot with an effortless toss. “Must be beginner’s luck.” I shrugged, collecting the tickets feeding out from the machine. Poor guy had no idea I’d devoted an entire misspent youth to mastering Skee-Ball and Pac-Man. “And you never answered my question from earlier.”
Chris scratched his jaw, and my fingers twitched to touch him there, my mind conjuring how good the roughness of his five o’clock shadow would feel against my neck, across my stomach, between my thighs.
“Fair enough,” he said. “Do you know why you never hear about the almost-successes?”
“No.”
“Because almost-successes are forgettable, and that’s not something I can ever afford to be. So I took the pills.”
I frowned, not following his logic. “But the Blizzards just won a Super Bowl. You’re nowhere near close to an almost-success.”
“Yeah, but at this rate, I’ll never do it again. Not with the Blizzards’ record this season.”
“Maybe not,” I said. “But you’ve still done something a sliver of the population could only dream of. Is that not enough?”
“Not for me,” he said, his voice sad. “You have to understand, Hazel, that I grew up with a father who sacrificed everything—his marriage, his health, his dignity—to chase a dream that ultimately destroyed him. He tried over and over again to open his own restaurant, become the chef my sister actually is, and for what? You don’t know what it’s like to look up to someone, to rely on them, to believe in them, and time and again they disappoint you. And now here I am, the one people are looking up to, and I don’t have it in me to fail them the way my father did my family. I just don’t.” Chris sighed, his shoulders sagging. “Football is all I have. All I am. I have to deliver.”
“Are you kidding? You are so much more than football, Chris.” I threw my hands up in frustration, because how did he not recognize that?
“You’d be the only one who thinks so.” He said it so earnestly it actually hurt me to realize he bought into his own lie.
I shook my head. “You seem hell-bent on ensuring you don’t become your father—a person who is little more than a shell of unrealized dreams and broken promises—but by pursuing this one thing, by making your entire identity about football, you’re ensuring you end up just like him.”
“Ouch, way to aim below the belt, Grant,” he said.
“Fine, if that’s not enough to convince you, then consider what you’ve done with Olive,” I said, slapping the back of my hand against his broad chest, hoping to knock some sense into him.
His gaze remained fixed on mine, and the intensity in his expression sent a hum of electricity running through me. But then, as if a spell had been broken, Chris cracked a smile, shedding his insecurity and slipping easily into the confidence I was beginning to recognize as a crutch, and said, “Not bad for a guy who doesn’t gel with the animals, huh? What can I say? The bitches love me.”
I rolled my eyes. “And here I expected to only gag over Casa Bonita’s food.”
Stepping up for his turn, Chris cocked his neck from side to side, loosening his shoulders, and sailed a ball down the alley and into the fifty slot. Dang, he was better at this game than I initially gave him credit for.
He turned to face me. “I want to know how a girl like you ended up running a shelter. And one that focuses on rehabilitation at that.”
“A girl like me?” I asked.
“Yeah. Tenacious, passionate, someone who doesn’t accept shit from anyone. You could do anything, Hazel, but you chose this profession. How come?” He picked up my hand and deposited another ball in my palm, his fingertips lingering against my skin.
The suddenness of his touch caused every nerve and synapse in my body to fire. I willed my feet to move, to create some distance between us, but it was as if I were paralyzed. Mercifully, Chris dropped my arm, and without his nearness, the haze in my head evaporated.
I cleared my throat. “My first dog was an enormous Rottweiler named Rhubarb that my uncle gave me. And in so many ways, she saved my life. I always wanted to return the favor, so that’s why I established the shelter.”
His eyebrows rose in surprise. “Bold statement. Care to follow up?”
“I guess you could say I know a thing or two about people disappointing you. I didn’t have a stable childhood. My father was verbally, emotionally, and sometimes physically abusive to my mother, but I’d prefer not to talk about him. And my mother, well . . . she did the best she could to protect me from all of that.” I bit my lip. “When I was eleven, she and I went to live with my uncle. Shortly after that, he bought Rhubarb from a local breeder—he’d heard Rottweilers were good with children.”
“And protective,” Chris said, appraising me as though my entire past was written on my face.
I nodded, forcing myself not to fidget under his scrutiny. “I was a scared kid who’d been ripped from my bed in the middle of the night with absolutely nothing but the clothes on my back. Rhubarb made that okay. She helped me cope and adjust to a new normal.”
While my uncle’s mansion had always acted as a safe haven for me, it hadn’t been until Rhubarb entered my life that I had my first brush with unflinching loyalty. As natural herding dogs, Rottweilers got a bad wrap, but Rhubarb had taken “guarding her flock” to extremes—following me to the bus stop and waiting for me when I returned, sleeping beside my bed after I’d liberated her from her designated place in the laundry room, lying across my feet while I ate dinner at the dining room table. She’d been my sentinel, my shadow, and my first best friend.
“So, anyway, I’ve experienced how a dog can heal and calm and change a person,” I continued. “And even though it’s not always easy and finances are always tight, I have a debt to pay, and the only way I know how is to give back to the animal that has given so much to me.” I spun toward the Skee-Ball machine, refusing to look at his face, scared of what I’d see reflected back at me. I played my turn, but the ball bounced off the rim and sank into the ten slot. Damn.
“So, she isn’t perfect,” Chris muttered. “Thank god. I was worried I was getting hustled, and my ego wouldn’t survive that.”
I snorted. “Please. A demolition crew loaded with TNT couldn’t put a dent in your ego.”
“You could, which gives you an awful lot of power, Hazel Grant,” he said. “Don’t be reckless with it.”
“No, that’s your specialty.”
Chris stepped close to me again, close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating off his body and smell his scent—a mixture of soap and laundry detergent and something spicy. “Tell you what, I’ll agree to be a bit more cautious if you agree to step outside your comfort zone and do one wild, reckless thing.”
“Just one?” I kept my tone neutral, determined not to reveal how exposed he made me feel.
“For now,” he said, still studying me with those piercing brown eyes that touched the deepest part of me. Compared to the women who usually played planet to Chris’s sun, I was plain and easily overlooked. And yet there he stood, staring at me as if I were the sun.
“So what do you say, Hazel? Want to get a little reckless and let me do the one thing we’ve both been thinking about all night?” His voice, deep and low and enticing, vibrated across my skin.
I nodded as if compelled, and before I could process what was happening, Chris threaded his fingers into my hair and tugged me flush against him, kissing me until all of Casa Bonita faded away and the only bells and whistles going off were in my own head. My heart pounded in my ears as I clutched the soft material of his shirt, and the way his lips moved over mine, slow and unyielding and so alive, ignited a riot of sensations that slipped down my spine and settled like molten pleasure in the pit of my stomach.
And then too soon, Chris broke away. My chest rose and fell in an unsteady rhythm. I tried to catch my breath but couldn’t. Not with him still holding on to me. Not with the spell he’d just cast over me.
“Only you, Hazel Grant, could tempt a man to caution,” he whispered, skimming his nose along my cheek.
And tempt me off a cliff if I didn’t watch myself, I thought, wondering just how close to the edge I was already.