Книга - Playing Dirty

Playing Dirty
Taryn Leigh Taylor


A game they both want to win

Lainey Harper has never been a puck bunny. She wants nothing to do with hockey or hockey playersnot after what she’s been through. So why can’t she resist Cooper Mead?

Portland’s newest hockey star, Cooper, is all muscle and charisma. And he’s Lainey’s worst nightmare. Hooking up with him would bring back memories that Lainey needs to keep buried. And risk the hard-earned anonymity she’s sacrificed everything to protect.

When Lainey finally gives in to Cooper’s sexy charm, the chemistry’s intensebut so is the media exposure. And now Lainey’s got even more to lose than her secretshe’s got Cooper.







A game they both want to win

Lainey Harper has never been a puck bunny. She wants nothing to do with hockey or hockey players—not after what she’s been through. So why can’t she resist Cooper Mead?

Portland’s newest hockey star, Cooper, is all muscle and charisma. And he’s Lainey’s worst nightmare. Hooking up with him would bring back memories that Lainey needs to keep buried. And risk the hard-earned anonymity she’s sacrificed everything to protect.

When Lainey finally gives in to Cooper’s sexy charm, the chemistry’s intense—but so is the media exposure. And now Lainey’s got even more to lose than her secret—she’s got Cooper.


“Need me to do anything else?”

Cooper walked out the back room like he owned the place.

Lainey hated that she noticed his body. That she wanted to run her fingers across the muscles she’d pretended not to notice.

Because that way lay madness.

That way lay hockey.

“What’s your game here, Slick?”

“What the hell do you want me to say?”

His genuine surprise pissed her off more. Because she’d promised herself she was done with hockey. With hockey players.

She pulled him down until their mouths were practically touching.

“I don’t want you to say anything.” Lainey caught Cooper’s bottom lip between her teeth. Oh, God, he felt good. Big. Strong. Like he could handle what she was dishing out tonight.

She wanted sex. She wanted to punish him for making her feel this way. For making her want things she couldn’t have.


Dear Reader (#u4ed741de-de81-5135-aea4-36347f24b72b),

Well, it’s the end of an era. My last Harlequin Blaze. And I can’t think of a better book to cap off my hat trick.

As a former hockey player, I always knew I wanted to write a hockey-playing heroine, and Lainey was the perfect mix of heart and grit to keep Cooper in line, on the ice and in the bedroom...and the bar...and the parking garage. *wink*

My time with Blaze has been a dream come true from start to finish, and I’ve gotten to work with so many talented people along the way. From cover art to copy edits to moral support, every single person who has touched my books has made them better, and I thank them for that.

And I thank you, too. For taking a chance on a new author, and for choosing to spend your valuable time and resources on the stories I tell. You’re the best. The absolute best. I couldn’t do this without you.

To show my appreciation, I present to you a tale of snarky banter and sexy times.

And don’t be a stranger, okay? When you’re done reading, come find me inside your computer or smartphone at tarynleightaylor.com (http://tarynleightaylor.com), Facebook.com/tarynltaylor1 (http://Facebook.com/tarynltaylor1) and @tarynltaylor (http://twitter.com/tarynltaylor). We can be cyber BFFs.

Keep on dreaming out loud,

Taryn Leigh Taylor


Playing Dirty

Taryn Leigh Taylor






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


TARYN LEIGH TAYLOR likes dinosaurs, bridges and space, both personal and of the final-frontier variety. She shamelessly indulges in clichés, most notably her Starbucks addiction (grande six-pump whole-milk no-water chai-tea latte, aka: the usual), her shoe hoard (I can stop anytime I... Ooh! These are pretty!) and her penchant for falling in lust with fictional men with great abs. She also really loves books, which was what sent her down the crazy path of writing one in the first place.

Want to be virtual friends? Check out tarynleightaylor.com (http://www.tarynleightaylor.com), Facebook.com/tarynltaylor1 (http://www.Facebook.com/tarynltaylor1) and Twitter, @tarynltaylor (http://www.twitter.com/tarynltaylor).


Fay—Thank you for your opinion. (I know it’s funnier if I leave it at that, but honestly, I couldn’t do what I do without your help. If I could sum you up in emoji form, you’d be all four thumbs up and the winky face. And you know that’s the highest praise I can bestow.)

Liz—Writing this book without you would be like seeing Mulder sans hideous tie—unthinkable. (Unless he’s wearing a Speedo.)

This book is for Jenn, Neil, Brad, Lora and Yvette, Craig and Leila—y’all cheer for the wrong hockey teams, but your friendship and support mean the world.


Contents

Cover (#u5e6bcb3e-b2a3-5fc7-9445-f4783fb216ee)

Back Cover Text (#ub339726a-67b1-522e-a0a6-fe5eed1cb029)

Introduction (#u6826f38c-5280-55f5-9f6d-fd5bf620bff9)

Dear Reader (#u20ddadbe-b000-58f5-b4b9-54e5f3e35895)

Title Page (#u6160ca49-b776-5ef9-ac79-874852f18533)

About the Author (#u72f14f06-5e2f-5438-8d05-93d510480ab6)

Dedication (#u69803d32-e9bb-59b0-9b0f-8008507ce979)

Chapter 1 (#uffcb6e61-e319-5d27-b95a-c5c6aa646745)

Chapter 2 (#u0ef67fff-3e0f-59c6-9695-b50745bf8da7)

Chapter 3 (#u3f402330-8bae-5f49-806c-dc0b0f10429f)

Chapter 4 (#u7a815965-1beb-5f70-a61b-f8d5afa060ce)

Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


1 (#u4ed741de-de81-5135-aea4-36347f24b72b)

“IT’S ABOUT DAMN time you got here, Darius. I know my fa—I know Martin wasn’t much for punctuality, but if you want to keep working here, you’re going to have to show up on time.”

Lainey kicked the beer fridge closed and froze, as though the act had triggered a curse that turned her to stone. In truth, though, her paralysis was directly attributable to the animal magnetism of the man on the other side of the counter.

Black hair just long enough to curl against his collar?

Check.

Dark stubble framing a smirking mouth?

Check.

Muscled arms that could make angels weep and women purr?

Check and check.

“You’re...” Cooper Mead, number sixteen, the Portland Storm’s latest acquisition, currently tied for highest scoring defenseman in the league. “Not Darius.”

“Nope.” The single syllable, deep and rough, was enough to detonate an estrogen grenade low in her tummy.

Dammit.

Cooper freakin’ Mead! Standing in Martin’s crappy little sports bar—her crappy little sports bar now, she reminded herself. And boy, was he something to behold. All six feet two inches and 220 pounds of him, per the team stats page. Lainey cursed the lapse in internet browsing judgment that had led to that knowledge. She hadn’t watched hockey, talked hockey, thought of hockey in years, but in the three months since she’d come back to Portland, the nadir of all her broken dreams and bad luck, she was already falling into bad habits.

And Cooper Mead was the kind of bad habit that would be hard to break.

With great effort, Lainey beat back the hormonal fallout and cast a wary glance around the bar. Oregon might be a long way from Denmark, but something here was definitely rotten.

The Drunken Sportsman wasn’t the type of place that attracted professional athletes. Hell, some weeks it barely attracted enough armchair athletes to keep the lights on and the doors open.

Right now, there were two groups of them, a middle-aged couple sporting his and hers Trail Blazers T-shirts and eating nachos in the booth farthest from the door, and four guys at a table by the window who were stretching a pitcher of beer as far as it could go while staring zombie-like at the basketball pregame coverage on the hulking television above the bar.

She needed to replace it with a couple of flat screens spread around the room for more optimal viewing. She made a mental note to add that to her list and turned back to the defensive juggernaut who stood across from her.

Other than him, there was nothing—and no one—out of place. And yet something about the situation had her on edge. She glanced at Cooper Mead’s wicked mouth, the corner quirked up in a grin that did weird things to her insides.

Maybe I’m allergic to hockey.

Squaring her shoulders, Lainey strove for professionalism in the form of the official bartender’s mantra. “So, not-Darius, what’ll it be?”

“How about Sex on the Beach and a Screaming Orgasm?”

No.

Don’t say it, she thought with a desperation that surprised her. Please don’t go there.

A flicker of indecision crossed his handsome face, one that gave her hope that her telepathy had worked. Then he turned on that easy grin, bracing an arm on the bar and leaning closer.

“But if I’m going to do my best work,” he confided in a soft growl that prickled between her shoulder blades, “I’ll probably need something to drink first.”

Aaaand he went there.

“Good one. Very original. You’d think, with me being a bartender and all, I would’ve heard that one before.” She forced herself not to roll her eyes. If getting hit on in bars had taught her anything, it was that derision had more impact when delivered with some restraint. It was important not to cross into “the lady doth protest too much” territory or the playboys and the drunks would never leave you alone.

In response, he upped the wattage of his smile and reached over the bar to liberate a maraschino cherry from the fruit caddy.

“Sarcasm. Nice. You’re feisty. I like that.” He popped the pointedly sexual fruit in his mouth and chewed. “But in my defense, it’s not the small-talk portion of the evening I excel at. Give me your number and I’ll prove it to you.”

Lainey wanted to be offended, she really did, but damned if his megalomania wasn’t working for him, in a basic “the hormones want what the hormones want” kind of way. Still, a woman had to have standards.

“Listen, I appreciate the display of manly bravado, but as much as I’d like to stand here and fend off your advances, I’ve got a drink quota to maintain. You actually want something, or are you just here to waste my time?” Lainey crossed her arms over her white tank top. Cooper Mead wasn’t the only talented defenseman here. Her nickname hadn’t been “The Ice Queen” for nothing.

The memory came out of nowhere, like a slap shot to her brain—fast, powerful, and it hurt like a bitch. Her pulse thundered in her right wrist, the one she’d busted in the last hockey game she’d ever played, and she shook her hand to dislodge the sensation. No one had referred to her by her old hockey nickname in ages. The fact that she’d been the one to break that streak said a lot.

One more reason she couldn’t let her guard down. She needed to fix up the bar, sell it for a tidy profit and get the hell out of Portland back to the fabulous, hockey-less life she’d built for herself. The sooner, the better.

It had taken hard work and single-minded focus to become one of the Zenith Advisory Group’s top hospitality consultants. And sure, that was just a fancy way of saying that she traveled the country staying in nice hotels and filling out comment cards—but the title came with a generous wage and her choice of locations. Which was why she’d never taken an assignment in Portland before.

Too many ghosts here, and all of them wore skates.

Cooper shot a pointed glance around the almost-deserted bar. “What happens if you don’t make the drink quota?” He twirled the cherry stem absently between his finger and thumb. He had big hands.

“Oh, you know, swarm of locusts, rain of fire, four guys on horseback.”

He nodded, flicking the stem aside. “And what if I guarantee to make any trouble worth your while?”

She didn’t like the way her heart sped up at the vow or the way she believed that he could make good on it. “Nice try, Slick, but I wasn’t kidding about the drink quota, so you’re gonna have to tell me what you want.”

Cooper propped an elbow on the bar. “And here I thought I’d been pretty clear about what I want.”

“To drink. What do you want to drink?”

“Surprise me.”

With a cocked eyebrow, she grabbed a highball glass and turned toward the liquor bottles that lined the shelves. Lainey couldn’t help but steal glances at him in the mirrored tiles that stretched from counter to ceiling behind the booze. Damned if she wasn’t kind of impressed that a guy who would approach with the lamest of lame pickup lines wasn’t standing there ogling her ass. He lifted a hand to rub the back of his neck as he waited, and Lainey noticed for the first time that he looked tired—not like he needed a nap, but like it would be nice to put down the weight of the world for a little while.

She knew exactly how he felt.

“Here’s your drink.”

She turned to face him and set it on the counter. Despite her earlier pang of empathy, she took great pleasure in the distrustful frown that had overtaken his rugged features.

“Are you sure you didn’t grab the wrong glass? Because, and trust me here, I’ve had some experience ordering drinks and they usually come in liquid form.”

Lainey had to admit the congealed glob that came from mixing Bailey’s and Sour Puss looked particularly disgusting tonight. The fact that it was floating in Kahlua and Blue Curacao added a previously unsurpassed level of yuck. She lifted one bare shoulder in an offhand shrug. “You’re the one who wanted a surprise.”

“Yes, I was.”

“I call it a Black Widow.”

“Of course you do,” he said, but she had a feeling the mockery was self-directed. “How much?”

“Twenty.”

Straight black brows flicked upward. “As in ‘US dollars’?”

“Ten for the drink and the rest is the standard first-time penalty for pickup lines that insult my intelligence.”

Cooper’s lips twitched with reluctant humor. “Well, just so long as it’s not to cover the going rate for arsenic.”

“You never know,” she warned, nudging the Black Widow toward him with the tip of her red-polished fingernail. “You feelin’ lucky, Slick?”

He smiled for real then, a full-fledged, blindingly white smile that kept some dentist’s classic Corvette on the road. “I wouldn’t mind getting lucky.”

Lainey shook off a flash of reignited lust. Damn, he was good. “Well, the night is young. Maybe your left hand hasn’t made plans yet.”

She forced herself not to flinch at the blunder. It was a fatal error to let an egocentric hockey player know you knew anything about him—especially fangirl minutia, like the fact that Cooper Mead was a southpaw.

“Oooooh. So it’s gonna be like that, huh? I thought you weren’t supposed to start eating me alive until after the sex.”

She ignored the black widow reference and held out an expectant hand.

With a self-deprecating nod, Cooper dug out his wallet and handed her a fifty. Her palm tingled where his skin brushed hers. “Would I be wrong to assume you’re fresh out of change?” He didn’t wait for confirmation before stowing the billfold away.

Lainey tucked Ulysses S. Grant safely into her back pocket. Leaning forward, she rested her elbows on the counter. “You know, you’re a much smarter man than first impressions would indicate.”

“You like ’em brainy, huh?” He mimicked her position, cutting the gap between them. His eyes were dark, like rich espresso, and just as heart-pounding as a jolt of caffeine. The kind of eyes a girl could get lost in if she wasn’t careful.

Lucky for her, Lainey was always careful.

“Personally, I find the brain usually gets in the way of all the exciting stuff, but I completely respect alternate lifestyle choices,” Cooper continued. “We should hang out sometime. You can help me see the error of my ways. Give me your number and we’ll make this happen.”

He reached out and tucked a wayward strand of raven hair behind her ear. When his knuckles brushed her cheek, her knees went squishy. And that was before he whispered, “Don’t break my heart, gorgeous. Give me your number.”

“Wow.” Lainey pushed back from the bar, unwillingly impressed and a little woozy from the flare of attraction. “Wow. That was...masterful. Seriously, Slick. You are very, very good.”

His slow, self-mocking grin confirmed that the jig was up. “I almost had you at the end there.”

“Not even close,” she lied.

“Sure I was. But you were a worthy opponent. It’s been a long time since someone gave me a run for my money, and considering the number at the bottom of my last bank statement, that’s saying something.”

Since the Storm had signed him to a two-year, eight-million-dollar contract, she knew his boasting was legit. “Is this the part where I’m supposed to be impressed?”

“It would help,” he agreed, down but not out. “I’ll give you five hundred bucks for your number.”

“Forget it.”

“A thousand.”

Lainey bit back a grin. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a bar to run.”

“Fifteen hundred. Final offer.”

It was tempting. Not the money, the man himself. She’d been working nonstop for the last few months to put her affairs in order in Portland. And once he’d gotten his dismal approach out of the way, their verbal sparring had been kind of fun.

But she needed to stay far away from hockey—and even farther away from famous men. She’d be better off if Cooper Mead walked out of her bar and just kept walking, no matter what her long-suffering libido had to say on the matter.

“Enjoy your night, Slick. Thanks for the dance.” And with that, she shoved a sign that read WAITSTAFF ONLY on the counter and turned her back on him, more determined than ever to unload the bar and blend back into the familiar hustle and bustle of LA by the end of the month.

* * *

HE WAS GETTING too damn old for this.

Coop grabbed his glass from the counter. Revulsion curled his lip as he stared at the sludge he’d just been served while the dust from his spectacular crash and burn settled around him. A post-practice night out with his teammates used to mean a luxurious night in the VIP room of some exclusive New York club, complete with overpriced bottle service, an overhyped DJ and an underdressed woman. Or two.

Since he’d taken the trade to Portland, there’d been a couple of team dinners, a little charity work and a whole lot of practices. But that’s how the Storm had all but guaranteed their spot in the postseason over a month ago. Intense focus.

In fact, it had been so much all-work-and-no-play that his agent, Jared Golden, had called to give Cooper hell. “I can’t get endorsement deals for a hermit, Mead. Leaving New York is already hurting your visibility. You know how much harder it is for me to get your picture in a magazine when you’re in Portland? At least go out and live a little.”

Which was why Cooper had finally relented and accepted one of fellow defenseman Brett Sillinger’s relentless requests to “grab a beer and talk hockey.” He fully regretted the decision now.

He’d assumed there would be a group of them heading out for one last drink before playoffs got underway. But when he’d asked around the dressing room after practice, it turned out he was on his own. Every player on the team had somewhere else to be—captain Luke Maguire was going to some media shindig with his intrepid reporter girlfriend, centerman Eric Jacobs was meeting some after-hours contractor at the bakery he owned and goaltender Tyson Mackinaw’s kids were performing in some school play.

The rest of the team’s excuses followed in those footsteps: wife, wife, girlfriend, kids, girlfriend’s kids.

Jesus. Everyone on this damn team was—or acted like—an old married guy.

Except for him...and Brett of course.

And for reasons Cooper couldn’t possibly explain, the rookie had chosen the worst bar imaginable—a run-down watering hole that probably catered to former high school jocks bent on reliving their glory days through ESPN highlights. And he didn’t even have the decency to show up on time.

As if to confirm Cooper’s suspicions, the bell on the door dinged and in lumbered a whole flock of washed-up jocks decked out in the finest basketball paraphernalia the mall had to offer.

“Hey there, beautiful lady. Turn up that TV! The game starts in ten minutes.”

Coop’s fingers tightened on his Black Widow. The bartender’s smile was full-bodied and sexy when it wasn’t tinged with acid, and he hated that some loudmouth sporting love handles and an ill-fitting Trail Blazers jersey was the recipient and not him.

“Larry, you only think I’m beautiful because I didn’t raise the happy hour price of beer.” Her admonishment was accompanied by the familiar singsong lilt of sportscasters everywhere as she hit the volume button on the remote.

“Sweetcheeks—” Cooper did his best to stifle a gag at the endearment “—you know that’s not true. One word from you and I’d—holy hockey pucks, you’re Cooper Mead!”

So much for lying low.

“Wow, you’re, like, a real athlete! A famous one! Man, you think you could sign something for my kid? He totally idolizes you! And the guys! The whole team! I do, too. I mean, that slap shot of yours? Big fan. We all are! Thanks to you, the Storm might have a real shot in the playoffs.” He offered with an expansive gesture. “Guys! Check it out! Cooper Mead! At our bar.”

The chorus of greetings and swears of disbelief were accompanied by the materialization of cell phones. Calls were placed. Photos were snapped. The couple from the other side of the bar wandered over. Not exactly how he’d planned to spend his evening, but at least Golden would be happy.

With a resigned sigh, he brought his drink to his lips.

He stopped just in time.

Suicide by toxic sludge was never the answer.

Instead, Cooper turned on his best PR smile and accepted the napkin being thrust in his direction. “Who should I make this out to?”

* * *

“WHAT THE HELL happened here?”

The deep voice ripped into a close inspection of her palm, and Lainey looked up from her crouched position in front of the open beer fridge. From this vantage point, the man fingering the assortment of bottles she’d left on the counter appeared even taller than usual.

Darius Johnson. Prelaw student, smart-ass and not a big fan of hers. Which Lainey figured made sense, seeing as he was her fa—Martin’s last hire.

Also, she’d cleaned house when she’d first arrived, firing a dishonest bartender and a couple of slothful waitresses. Despite the months that had passed, Lainey got the impression that the remaining staff were still a little wary that she’d go all “off with their heads” on them at any moment. She didn’t bother doing anything to disabuse them of that notion. It didn’t matter if Darius was fun to spar with, or that she kind of enjoyed Aggie’s no-nonsense wisdom. Lainey was here to sell the bar. She wasn’t looking to make friends.

All in all, Darius was a solid bartender and great with the regulars. And Lainey wasn’t above exploiting the fact that he was popular with the coeds—they loved his soulful eyes, café-au-lait complexion and killer smile. Or at least those were some of the giggled compliments she’d heard when they were gathered at the counter, fawning over him on a Friday night. They didn’t seem to mind his stupid goatee, either.

She let the flirting stand, because if you could get the ladies into a bar, the guys would follow. And the fact that some of Darius’s fellow students were choosing to spend their money in a crappy sports bar instead of a flashy nightclub did good things for the bottom line. And it was a bottom line that needed all the help it could get.

Still, that didn’t keep her from imagining firing Darius at least three times per shift, if only for the peace and quiet.

“Give me a hard time for not keeping my workspace clear, but I show up to a mess of bottles on the counter when you’re in charge,” he muttered, the way he always did when he was trying to get under her skin.

“It was recipe development,” she said simply. “It’s called a Black Widow.”

Darius frowned as he set the Cinnamon Schnapps back on the shelf. “You put all this stuff in the same glass? Whoever he was, he must’ve really pissed you off.”

Embarrassed, Lainey rubbed her fingers against her cheek in a vain attempt to extinguish the lingering prickle where Cooper’s knuckles had touched her. “Don’t think I didn’t notice that you’re late.” She made sure her voice was as frosty as the draft mugs that rattled when she slammed the cooler door. “For future reference, your shifts are posted in Pacific Time.”

Darius glanced over his shoulder as he returned the Kahlua, the Blue Curacao and some banana liqueur to the appropriate shelves. “He definitely pissed you off.”

“You pissed me off,” Lainey corrected, standing. “I know Martin let stuff like this slide, but I’m trying to sell this place. I can’t afford not to have things running smoothly.”

“You keep saying that, but you’ve been here for three months and counting. I’m starting to think we’re never gonna be rid of you.”

Lainey pulled a face at his broad back when he turned to clean up her mess.

“You know I can see you in this mirror, right?”

She schooled her features into a neutral expression. “And you know that I have the power to fire you, right?”

“Well, before you let all your authority go to your head and I end up suing you for wrongful termination, you should probably check your phone. I texted you that I was running late. But I’ll let it go, because I’m in a stellar mood. Sandra and I shared a hell of a goodbye before her Uber showed up to take her to the airport.”

Darius’s expression was dripping with satisfaction. “Which is why I got here late, if you know what I mean.” He waited a beat. “And what I mean is that we had copious amounts of sexual intercourse.”

“Thanks for the clarification, wonder stud.” Lainey rolled her eyes at him. “But I’m not sure that’s the type of excuse that will stand up in court. As a future lawyer, you’ll want to familiarize yourself with labor laws.”

The well-timed entrance of Agnes Demille saved Lainey from Darius’s retort. The zaftig waitress materialized from the “Staff Only” door to their right, plopped her massive gold lamé purse on the counter behind the bar, grimaced and slung it back on her shoulder. “Honestly, you two. I’ve been here for thirty seconds, and there’s already a table full of customers with no beer and a sticky counter. This ain’t no way to run a business. ’Specially on game night. Let’s get a move on, people! Darius, hand me that rag.”

Darius peeled the blue rag from the sink and dropped it in front of Aggie, who set to work immediately, scrubbing at the sticky rings on the counter. “So, Lainey,” she said, not bothering to look up from her task, “I’m thinkin’ the two of us need to have a little chitchat.”

Lainey ignored the resulting shiver down her spine. Aggie could size up a room quicker than anyone Lainey had ever met, and she didn’t miss a detail. Especially not a ridiculously handsome one wielding a glass full of sludge. In an attempt to sidestep the conversation, Lainey placed a tray on the counter and systematically loaded it with six frosty bottles of beer from the cooler. “Beers for Larry’s table, as requested.”

Unfortunately, the announcement didn’t faze the formidable woman before her. “They can wait. What you just did to Cooper Mead can’t.”

“What?” Darius’s brows dove into a V as he scanned the customers. A sharp bark of laughter confirmed he’d located his target. “Are you kidding me? The Black Widow was for Cooper Mead? That is so awesome!” He held up an expectant palm in her direction, then thought better of it and aborted the high five. “Man, it sucks I was late! I would’ve loved to have seen his face when you handed it over. So what’s Mr. Big Shot doing here, anyway?”

“Bible study starts in ten minutes.”

Darius shot Lainey a pained smile as she bent to grab a bottle of water from the fridge.

“Well, don’t be a moron. It’s a bar, for God’s sake. What do you think he’s doing here?”

“It’s a floundering sports bar,” he corrected pointedly. “Hardly the preferred scene of professional athletes.”

Lainey stiffened at the comment. “Then you should be glad he’s here. He shelled out for his drink, so you might actually get paid on time this week.”

Darius had the grace to blush. “You know I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Yeah, I know.” Twisting open her water, Lainey took a long swallow and stared blankly at a framed hockey jersey—number 42—on the opposite wall. “I have no idea what he’s doing here, either,” she confessed.

Lainey took another bracing gulp of water, screwed the lid back on and turned to meet Aggie’s unrelenting stare.

“It’s no big deal,” Lainey assured the carroty-hued waitress. Further proof that cheap self-tanning lotion, like Cooper Mead, was one more on a long list of items to be avoided.

“He fed me a lame line, I gave him a disgusting drink. As you can see, he didn’t take it too hard.” She gestured toward a smiling Cooper as he posed for a camera phone.

“Just because a man notices you got a nice rack don’t mean you need to start handin’ out the Black Widows.” Agnes shook her frizzy, brassy-hued curls. “I never shoulda told you about those.”

“She’s right, Lainey,” Darius interjected. “You do have a nice rack.”

She landed a hard punch on his shoulder. “Back off, pervert.”

Lainey turned back to Aggie with “I told you so” plastered all over her expression. “You see? I’m rude to all overbearing jackasses! It’s what I do.”

Agnes planted a fist on one generous, black-spandex-covered hip. “Yeah, but Cooper Mead ain’t every other jackass.”

“Oh, no? And what makes him so special?”

“That’s what I’d like to know,” Darius threw in.

“I mean, sure, he’s gorgeous,” Lainey conceded. “And there’s no denying the way that voice rumbles through your chest and trickles down to all the right places, and yeah, okay, I may have almost had an orgasm just looking at him.”

Aggie nodded dreamily, and both women shot a wistful look in Cooper’s direction. Not that they were bonding or anything. This was strictly physical appreciation of a handsome man, not friendship.

“I can’t believe Cooper Mead is signing beer coasters in your sports bar!” Aggie sighed. “It’s like a freakin’ fairy tale or somethin’.”

“Funny. I don’t actually remember the part in Cinderella when she had to change her panties.”

Lainey grimaced, disgusted out of her aesthetic appreciation. “Ugh. Darius. Seriously. Why do you have to be such a guy?”

“You do realize you’re practically forcing me to grab my crotch right now, don’t you?”

“All I’m sayin’,” Aggie stressed, “is that sometimes you gotta swallow your pride, think of the big picture. Normally when you castrate someone, the fate of your business ain’t riding on it.”

“What?” Lainey rolled her eyes. “The fate of my business is hardly riding on Cooper Mead’s penis.”

Darius’s snicker earned him two glares. “What? You said penis.”

“It’s resting on my shoulders,” Lainey countered, with the pious look of stone angels the world over. “And I can handle it.”

“I know you can! But use that big ol’ brain of yours. Bein’ attentive to a man with fame and money is just good business sense.”

Lainey turned her head to hide her frown.

“Cooper Mead is the Pied Piper of cool an’ you darn well know it. Where he goes, the puck bunnies and the sports fans follow. I don’t think makin’ nice with him is too much to ask! You know, most joints would kill to have a pro athlete walk through their door! And you’re the one always jabbering about selling this joint.”

“You do realize that Mr. Rich and Famous over there was interested in my phone number, not an endorsement deal,” Lainey pointed out.

“I think you mean Mr. Sexy, Rich and Famous.” Agnes sent an appreciative glance at the object of their discussion, who appeared to be talking to someone’s kid via FaceTime. “Emphasis on the sexy.”

“Well, Mr. Sexy, Rich and Famous,” Lainey amended, “is kind of a shallow, conceited jerk, emphasis on the jerk.”

“Who cares? I don’t wanna waste time talkin’ to him! Man who looks that good could have me anytime, anywhere.”

Heat, not unlike the sear of a good shot of whisky, burned in Lainey’s stomach at the thought of Cooper and sex, and her mind was seized by an alarmingly vivid vision of him, naked on a king-size battlefield, expertly wielding his...uh, sword.

Luckily the flashing of a disturbingly high number on the “Now Serving” sign above the imaginary bed doused the flame before it reddened her cheeks.

“Listen, your daddy was a good guy, but a so-so businessman. This place can use all the good publicity it can get. ’Specially the free kind.” Oblivious to Lainey’s inner turmoil, Agnes walked to the other side of the counter and hefted the tray of beer to her shoulder. “I’m gonna deliver these, but I want you to promise me that when you turn around and see that a certain teammate of his is here, you’re going to play nice, okay? Take care of things nice and quiet. Don’t make a scene.”

Aggie’s warning tone left little doubt as to the identity of Cooper’s teammate, and Lainey’s gaze jerked to the newly occupied table in the back corner, near the stage.

With a curse, she stomped out from behind the bar with every intent of telling table seventeen to go to hell, despite Aggie’s well-meaning advice.


2 (#u4ed741de-de81-5135-aea4-36347f24b72b)

WHEN COOPER HAD finished smiling for the camera, he found Brett smirking at him from a table at the back of the bar.

Perfect timing.

Cooper wasn’t exactly sure what he’d done to piss off Fate, but she sure knew how to hold a grudge. With a deep, steadying breath, he straightened his shoulders, braced for sniper fire and marched manfully to the seat Brett had saved for him.

Cooper placed his drink on the table and flopped into the empty chair.

Sillinger leaned indolently back in his own, his ball cap pulled witness-protection-program low to avoid the autograph gauntlet that Coop had just endured. “So? How’d it go, Romeo? Did you use the drink pickup line? Did she bite?”

Cooper bit back the expletives he wished he could unleash, and, with a disgusted shake of his head, reached into his wallet and shoved a pile of crisp fifties at his teammate. It was his own damn fault. He never should have made the bet in the first place. But sometimes when the kid wouldn’t stop yammering, it was easier to give in than listen to him talk.

Brett smiled and gathered the cash. Cooper leaned forward and folded his arms on the table, a move that brought him eye-level with the thick, muddy mixture in his glass. He couldn’t remember seeing many things more unappetizing than the tar-like substance. But if he was being honest, he’d had a pretty good time ordering it. It had been way too long since he’d indulged in flirtatious banter, and the hot bartender was an accomplished adversary.

“That drink looks like it tastes like shit. What is it?”

“This,” he said as dismissively as he could manage, straightening in his chair, “is a Black Widow.”

Sillinger’s choked laughter was right on cue, but it made Cooper’s hands tighten into fists anyway.

It was an old habit, one he’d picked up on the playground back when teasing often escalated to getting knocked around. With a purposeful breath, Cooper unclenched his fingers.

“A Black Widow?”

“Yep.”

“But isn’t that the spider that—”

Cooper hid his grimace beneath disdain. “Yep.”

The little punk howled with laughter. “That’s fuckin’ classic! She shut you down hard!”

Annoyed, Cooper shoved the evidence of his earlier defeat aside with enough force to send some of the mud-colored goo oozing over the rim. He should have ignored his agent and ditched Brett, and just gone home after practice.

He wasn’t in Portland to make friends, he reminded himself. He was here to make sure his hockey legacy included a championship ring, not just a bunch of tabloid stories.

“You know what, Sillinger? Why don’t you...”

He trailed off, immediately and viscerally aware that the instigator of this gong show was making her way toward his table, and while he was enjoying the way her wavy black hair flirted with the tops of her breasts, her determined stride and laser-eyes made it clear this was not going to be pleasant encounter. He braced for impact as she drew near.

“Get out.”

Anger surged, but before he could open his mouth, Sillinger was already beaking.

“And the Ice Queen strikes again. Nice to see you too, sis.”

Well, shit. He hadn’t seen that one coming.

“I’m serious, Brett. Leave.”

Cooper relaxed in his chair at the interesting turn of events.

“C’mon, Elaine. Be cool. I’m here with my teammate.” He raised his eyebrows pleadingly.

“I told you, I go by Lainey now,” she ground out. “And when you turn twenty-one, that reason will hold water. Now get out.”

When her gaze remained steely, the rookie’s voice broke into a whine. “Other bars let me in. I’ve got ID.”

Her mouth fell open as he pulled his license from his wallet and held it in her direction.

Lainey reached across the table and snatched it from his fingers. “Did you honestly just show me a fake ID? What the hell is wrong with you?” She took a step to the left and Sillinger bolted out of his chair and did the same, maintaining the distance between them.

“Dad used to let me hang out!”

“I’m sure that will look great on his posthumous father-of-the-year trophy.” Lainey feinted left again, but dodged right. Brett didn’t fall for the fake out.

“Honestly, Brett, I don’t have time for your bullshit. Now get your nineteen-year-old ass the hell out of my bar, before I make you.” Sillinger might have a couple inches and sixty-five pounds on her, but Coop’s money was on her if it came to blows.

Brett heaved a put-upon sigh. “All you do is bitch about how desperate you are for customers, and when I bring you some, you kick us out?”

“I’m kicking you out. Your teammate is welcome to stay.”

“Funny, that’s not quite the impression I got earlier,” Coop interjected.

She spared him a dismissive frown before turning her attention back to her brother. Brett’s glare deepened as they faced off from across the table. Lainey stayed cool, raising an eyebrow and crossing her arms. Cooper wasn’t surprised when the kid caved first.

“Fine. You just lost our business. Hope you’re happy.”

Brett’s voice cracked a little as he threw down the ultimatum, and despite the posturing, it was obvious the kid was desperately afraid Coop wouldn’t follow his lead.

Truth be told, Cooper felt for him. It was an eternity ago now, but he’d been the same in his youth—cocky as hell, with more money than brains and a desperate need to be accepted by the team.

Brett’s gaze turned imploring. “You coming?”

The tough-guy ambivalence was ruined by the quaver in his voice.

“Give me a minute. I’ll be right out.”

The kid glanced over at Lainey, then back at Coop. His nod was resigned, and he turned to leave.

“Rookie.” Cooper held out his hand.

Brett frowned, but dug into the pocket of his jeans. “I bet you that you couldn’t pick up the girl of my choosing with a lame pickup line. You didn’t say I couldn’t know her,” he muttered, slapping the stack of fifties into Cooper’s hand before heading for the doors.

He focused his attention back on the badass who surveyed him with stormy blue eyes.

“So you’re Sillinger’s sister?”

“Half sister,” she countered, hard and fast. “We’re not close.”

Cooper smiled at the distinction. “Well, you’d be surprised how well he knows you, despite that fact.”

She tipped her chin in the direction of the wad of cash in his hand. The fact that her stance relaxed and she uncrossed her arms was not lost on him.

“You bet him you could pick me up with a bad line?”

“He bet me I couldn’t pick you up with a bad line.”

“Either way, you lost.”

Coop stood. He thought for a second she was going to take a step back, but she held her ground. He was impressed. “There’s still time to make us both winners.”

That startled a cynical laugh from her. “Anyone ever tell you how goddamn cocky you are?”

His grin was wolfish. “A few people.”

Lainey rolled her eyes, but all the disdain in the world couldn’t hide the slight flush that crept up her neck at her own word choice.

He reached out and grabbed her wrist, turning her palm up. Her eyes widened as he stroked his thumb against the vertical surgical scar there. Her pulse fluttered beneath his thumb, and before she recovered enough to pull away, he placed the two-hundred and fifty bucks in her hand and let her go.

“What’s this for?”

Cooper shrugged as he grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair. “Consider it my way of making amends for being stupid enough to believe your brother when he told me he was twenty-one.”

Then he thumbed toward the table by the window. “Besides, it might come in handy when they post all those photos they were snapping to social media, in case the liquor board sees you had an underage hockey player in your bar. Take care, gorgeous.”

Cooper made a point of not looking back as he walked out.

* * *

“WHAT THE FUCK were you thinking?”

Cooper winced at the volume of his agent’s outrage. He glanced over at the clock beside his king-size bed. One in the morning. Further proof that Golden didn’t give a shit about anyone but himself.

“Did you forget how much Lone Wolf Brewery pays you to drink the bottled piss they are trying to pass off to the world as beer? Because let me assure you, the answer is ‘a lot,’ Mead.”

“I know.”

“Oh, you know? Then why the hell is the internet full of pictures of you, in a bar, holding a goddamn highball glass full of not–Lone Wolf beer?”

Cooper pinched the bridge of his nose, reminding himself that Jared Golden had contributed a lot of zeroes to his bank account and that hanging up was not in his best interest. “I didn’t drink it.”

“Oh, well, great. Then everything’s fine. I’ll just explain that to the guys at Lone Wolf. Don’t worry! Mead didn’t actually jeopardize his multimillion-dollar contract with you guys by flagrantly disregarding the exclusivity clause in his contract—he didn’t swallow!”

Cooper ran a weary hand across his face. Jared Golden in full panic mode was a lot to take. “I get photographed in clubs all the time. Holding their beer. I’m living up to the deal.”

“Jesus Christ, Coop! You used to get photographed in clubs all the time. Since you went to Portland, you’ve been MIA.”

“I’ve been a hockey player. We’re getting ready for a championship run here. I have responsibilities to the team.”

“You have responsibilities to your corporate sponsors, too! Lone Wolf isn’t the only company we’re on thin ice with. I spent all day convincing PWR Athletics that you’re still the best brand ambassador their money can buy! But I need you on board, Mead. I need you to be seen out and about, and wearing their goddamn T-shirts! You’re already behind on media appearances for them, and don’t think they haven’t noticed. You’re on their radar now, and they’re going to nail you for every breach of protocol they can find so they can put you out to pasture.”

“I’m thirty-two!” The words burst out before he could stop them. Cooper was well aware he was getting up there in the world of sports, but it still rankled. And he was good at hockey—great even. He made sure of it. Which was why he’d devoted more time to training and less time to the gossip blogs lately.

“Exactly. You know the average retirement age for hockey players? Twenty-eight. We need to make money while you’re still a viable commodity! Before they dismiss you and start turning to the new generation. But you need to do your part.”

“If you want viable, then I gotta get some sleep. I’ve got practice tomorrow.”

“I’m serious, dude. You need to keep your eye on the prize.”

“I’ll try not to let us down,” Cooper said drily.

“Don’t be an asshole. You hired me to make you money. And so far, I’ve fulfilled my part of the bargain. But if you want me to convince another gravy train to pull into the station, you’re going to have to do your part. You’ve only got a few good years left.”

Like he didn’t know it.

Thirty minutes later, Cooper sat in his GranTurismo S in a deserted parking lot, questioning his sanity.

After he’d hung up with Golden, he’d lain there on his king-size mattress, staring up at the twelve-foot ceilings of his new condo and feeling sorry for himself before he couldn’t take it anymore. He had to get out. But when he’d rolled out of bed and pulled on some jeans and a black T-shirt, he’d had no intention of winding up back here.

Of course, when he’d pulled on his black leather jacket and double-checked his hair in the mirror before grabbing his keys, there’d been no doubt The Drunken Sportsman would be his destination.

Now that he was actually there—and judging by the lack of cars, he was the only one—he was rethinking the entire trip. There were a lot of reasons to go back home, but only one to stay. A very compelling reason with long black hair, an intriguingly sharp tongue and an ass that wouldn’t quit.

Mind made up, Cooper levered himself out of the matte black Maserati and headed for the door. His security system beeped as he armed it before stowing his keys in his pocket.

Bells on the door jingled as he pushed into the old bar. It smelled like spilled beer and desperation, which he found oddly comforting tonight. Misery loved company, he supposed.

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

Lainey was standing in almost the same spot she’d been when they’d talked earlier, but this time she was hunched over the counter and there was a big textbook open almost to the midpoint on the counter in front of her and a yellow highlighter in her right hand.

“You talk to all your customers that way?” he asked, gesturing to the deserted tables. “In other news, I think I figured out why your bar is empty.” Cooper shrugged out of his coat without breaking stride.

She cocked an eyebrow as he approached, recapping the highlighter and stowing it in her apron. Obviously expecting a showdown, she braced her palms on the counter in front of her, on either side of the book. The stance, along with his height, gave him a tantalizing view of her cleavage.

“Oh, you’re a customer, are you?”

He slung his jacket on the barstool to his left and held up his hands in surrender. “I’m just here for the beer,” Cooper assured her, taking a seat. “Lone Wolf, if you’ve got it,” he said, out of habit. Then, just to shove it to Golden for being a prick, “Actually, give me something imported.”

She said nothing as she reached down and grabbed a bottle from an unseen bar fridge. The snap and hiss as she twisted off the cap was the only sound in the cavernous room. For a second, Coop wasn’t sure she was going to give him the beer, but after a moment of contemplation, she set it in front of him.

“How much?” he asked, shifting on the stool so he could grab his wallet out of his back pocket.

To his surprise, she shook her head as she tossed the cap into a white bucket beside the sink. “Don’t worry about it.”

“You sure?”

She nodded, leaning against the counter behind her and crossing her arms over her white tank. “Yeah. Some raging megalomaniac came in earlier and I charged him fifty bucks for unsportsmanlike conduct, so you’re covered.”

Cooper accepted the jibe, raising the bottle in a mocking toast. “To that guy,” he said, before taking a swig of cold, amber liquid.

She bit back a smile, and he was buoyed by the small show of encouragement. “It’s Cooper, by the way. Not mega-whatever you said.”

She tried to stop it, he could tell, but despite her efforts, there was a slight thaw in her demeanor. “Already forgot my name, huh?”

He rubbed a hand over his stubbled jaw. “Ice Queen, isn’t it? Kudos to your mom and dad. It suits you.”

Her smile was real this time. Really real, and it kind of made him wish they’d met this way—because of insomnia and liquor—instead of Brett’s stupid practical joke. It had been a mistake on Cooper’s part. He’d been playing hockey too long to not expect some vengeance from the rookie, especially since Brett had been pretty pissed off when Coach Taggert had given his spot in the starting lineup to Cooper.

He took another sip of beer. “So, Lainey,” he said, oddly vindicated at the slight widening of her gray-blue eyes. He’d caught her off guard. “Whatcha reading?”

“Advanced Principles of Marketing.” She gave a one-shouldered shrug, as if to say, “no big deal.”

He nodded, popping old insecurities that bubbled to the surface. “Not bad. I preferred the sequel.”

“Pickup artist and smart-ass, huh? You’re a man of many talents.”

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry about earlier. I’ve changed teams a few times in my career. I should have seen through this particular hazing ritual. I know Brett’s still pissed I got his spot in the starting lineup. I deserved what I got.”

“Yeah, you did.” She leaned forward, and this time he knew the flash of cleavage was deliberate. Against his better judgment, the sight stirred his blood.

“But,” she drawled, toying with shiny lock of her hair, “there is one way you could make it up to me.”

Cooper’s mouth went dry. He hadn’t drunk enough beer to account for the buzz working its way through his system. It was all Lainey. “Name it.”

She bit her lip as she smiled, a secret sort of smile, and it would have dropped him to his knees if he hadn’t been sitting on the scarred-up stool. She rounded the bar, and he watched greedily as she made her way to the door. Lainey reached into the black apron that swathed her hips, and the jingle of keys accompanied her journey to the door.

She walked with purpose, fluidly, but controlled, giving the impression that she could handle herself. She had an athletic grace that was sexy as hell. Combined with that body of hers—tight, toned, strong...

Cooper took a gulp of beer to drown his hormones.

She locked the door, flipped the sign so that the closed side faced out. They were completely alone now; there was a weight to that that hadn’t been there a moment ago.

Lainey tucked the keys in her back pocket as she approached him, and he was mesmerized by the sway of her hips, the bounce of her breasts. She removed the apron, and even that seemed suggestive, especially when she reached over the bar to drop it on the lower counter and her tank top rode up, revealing a swath of smooth skin that Cooper ached to touch, to nibble, to lick.

Fuck. He pushed the beer away. Maybe the alcohol was affecting him more than he’d realized.

Then she grabbed his hand, tugged him off the stool and said, “Come with me,” in a way that made him happy to obey, even before she added, “I’ve got something for you.”

Her hand felt small in his, warm and soft, and he was pleasurably contemplating all the places he’d like to let her fingers roam as he followed her.

Then she took a sharp turn down a small hallway on their left. The bathrooms were on the right-hand side, but she pushed through a door on the left that was marked “Staff Only.”

Lainey popped her head back out, and her smile was full of promise. “Just give me a minute?” she begged prettily, and disappeared inside. There was some muffled banging and shuffling behind the door.

Cooper used the brief interlude to check out the mass of framed photos that lined the wall. They were pictures of the same man—and judging by the haircuts and fashion choices, they spanned at least three decades—smiling as he stood beside some of the biggest names in sports. Cooper was amazed as his eyes bounced from photo to photo—Michael Jordan, Jack Nicklaus, Peyton Manning, Wayne Gretzky.

In fact, Coop was so blown away by the star power on the wall that it took him a moment to realize that he recognized the common denominator in the pictures, too.

“Holy shit! Is this Marty Sillinger?”

“Of course you recognize him.” Lainey’s words dripped with exasperation from behind the closed door.

The pieces clicked together in Cooper’s brain with such ease that he couldn’t believe he hadn’t made the connection before. If the last name hadn’t given it away, the fact that Brett wore number 42, just like his old man, should have.

“So you’re Martin Sillinger’s daughter?”

After a moment of muffled banging and shuffling, she answered. “Yep. Lucky me.”

“One of the best enforcers in the league until that back injury put him out of commission. Man, your dad used to go head-to-head with the best the league had to offer. What’s he been up to lately?”

“Nothing. He’s dead.”

Shit. Cooper squeezed his eyes shut at the conversational blunder. It explained a lot about Brett, though. And Lainey, for that matter.

“What happened?”

“Cancer.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

The door swung open with more force than necessary, and Lainey reappeared, stealing his full attention. The flirty smile was gone.

“The guy on that wall is pretty much a stranger to me. After he stopped playing hockey, he wasn’t the same. Between the pain meds and the alcohol and the mistress, I lost my dad a long time ago. So you can save your condolences for Brett. And take these.”

Cooper was too stunned not to accept two industrial-size rolls of toilet paper in one hand and the bucket containing a toilet brush, cleaner and rubber gloves in the other.

“You’re on stall duty.” She reached back in the room to grab a bucket of her own, also filled with cleaning supplies, and a pack of paper towels to refill the dispenser. “I’ll do the sinks.”

Cooper wanted to bail.

Hell, he should want to bail.

Why wasn’t he bailing?

He tried to list reasons that made sense: long black hair, shiny pink lips, enticingly perky breasts. The list sounded shallow, even to him, because while every single lust-inducing feature was true, deep down Cooper knew the real reason he hadn’t walked out.

Jesus.

It was bad news when you were so lonely that you’d rather clean a public restroom in the afterglow of an awkward conversation than go home.

With as much swagger as he could muster, he bowed slightly and gave her the “after you” gesture. She raised an eyebrow, which, if he wasn’t mistaken, signified both surprise and something he hadn’t been expecting.

He was alone with a gorgeous woman and he’d just managed to earn her respect. Like his day hadn’t gone badly enough already.

His last thought as he followed her into the ladies’ bathroom was fuck my life.


3 (#u4ed741de-de81-5135-aea4-36347f24b72b)

DAMNED IF HE hadn’t managed to impress her after all.

Lainey tried to keep her attention on the mirror she was cleaning, but the sight of Cooper Mead in a black T-shirt, jeans and yellow rubber gloves gamely cleaning toilets was too intriguing to ignore.

She’d fully expected him to diva-out and leave her to close the bar in peace. That had been the plan. Instead, he’d ruined everything by making her question if he was more than cocky grandstanding and cheesy pickup lines.

She finished with the mirror and reached back into the bucket, her mind racing as she wiped down the sinks, faucets and countertop while surreptitiously sneaking glances at her assistant.

Hell, Brett had a way of getting under people’s skin—she knew that well enough. Cooper’s dogged persistence to get her number earlier could definitely have been more an attempt to stick it to Brett than outright douchebaggery.

Something warm flared in her chest, and when Lainey identified it as hope, she knew she was in big trouble. She scrubbed the ugly green counter with more force. Kind of an “out, damned spot!” thing, and just as futile.

Stupid, she admonished herself. She should have sent Cooper Mead packing the second he walked back into her bar. Instead, she’d foolishly let him stay, and she’d told him more about her father than she’d ever told anyone, and her toilet-cleaning goading had backfired because he’d actually done it, and now she was making excuses for him.

The realization shored her resolve, made her angry. Mostly at herself. “So what are you really doing here, Slick?”

He straightened in the stall—a tight fit for his broad shoulders—and shoved his cleaning supplies back in the bucket. “Insomnia’s a bitch,” he said simply, punctuating the words with a toilet flush.

She could relate. One of the reasons this bar gig suited her so well. Not that she was planning on keeping it. The second someone made an offer on her late father’s ridiculous midlife crisis, she was going to take the money and run.

Lainey kept her gaze on Cooper as he pulled off the rubber gloves and hung them over the side of his bucket before joining her at the sink. The soap dispenser whined out a cloud of grape-scented foam onto his big palm, and he set about washing his hands.

The honesty of the answer surprised her. She gave the counter beside her a last swipe and threw the disinfectant wipe in the trash can. Standing beside him as she washed her own hands, she felt a strange buzz in the chemically scented air.

Cooper reached past her to grab a piece of paper towel from the dispenser, and his arm bumped hers as he tossed the damp ball into the trash can. The innocuous contact hit her like an electrical current, raising goose bumps from her shoulder to her wrist.

She frowned. They were standing in the least erotic of all locations—a public bathroom—and the most innocuous of touches had her all revved up. She had to get out of there. Maybe some space would help.

“We’re done here.” She grabbed her bucket off the counter and retrieved his from the floor, ignoring the way he held the bathroom door open for her. “You can help me change the keg and then you can go.”

She made it an order, hoping he might take issue with it and leave now, but his answer was a genial, “Sure.”

She pushed into the janitorial room, abandoning the buckets by the door for the sake of speed, not even caring that she’d get an earful from Aggie tomorrow about how there was a place for everything and blah, blah, blah.

Cooper followed her into the bar, behind the counter and then into the back room where the kegs were stored. Lainey unhooked the tap the way Darius had shown her.

“It’s a pale ale,” she told him, so he could pick the right silver barrel from the stack. Grabbing the empty keg, she moved it out of the way, watching as Cooper expertly maneuvered the full keg into the spot she’d cleared. He made it look effortless, just a quick lift and push. And if his back muscles moved with jungle-cat grace beneath his T-shirt and his biceps flexed with the power of a cobra about to strike, Lainey certainly wasn’t affected by it. Much.

He flipped the plastic cap off the keg and reached for the coupler.

“You don’t have to—”

Cooper glanced over his shoulder and his grin struck her dumb. “I know you probably won’t believe this, but I’ve tapped a keg or two in my time.”

Again, his deft mastery of the task made her skin flush. It was like his hotness was inversely proportional to the size of the area he was in—and, Lainey noticed on a visceral level, they were standing in a very small area. Self-preservation, she thought, escaping from the back room to behind the bar, where she could breathe properly.

What the hell was happening here?

“Need me to do anything else?” Cooper walked out of the back room as if he owned the place, all confidence and capability as he closed the door behind him, and that was the last straw.

She hated that she noticed his body—the height of him, the breadth. That she wanted to flirt. Touch his arm again. Run her fingers across all the muscles she’d pretended not to notice.

Because that way lay madness.

That way lay hockey.

“What’s your game here, Slick?”

“What?”

His genuine surprise at the attack pissed her off.

“You walk in here like you’re God’s gift to womankind and now that you’ve cleaned a toilet and changed a keg, I’m just supposed to forget what an asshole you were earlier?” She was coming in too hot; she knew it even as she stepped toward him.

Too much had happened today—too much yelling at Brett, too much talking about her father and too much Cooper short-circuiting her common sense.

Thankfully, she managed to rein in her irrational anger before she poked him in the chest like an insane person.

“What’s your problem? Jesus, I told you I was sorry about earlier. What else do you want me to say?”

His chest rose and fell with anger. Dark brows slashed over brown eyes that sparked with heat. Proximity turned the frustration simmering inside her to something else—something hotter—a potent mix of resentment and lust.

She grabbed a fistful of black T-shirt and pulled him down until their mouths were practically touching and the throb in her wrist beat like a drum. She’d broken it a long time ago, but for once it was urging her to focus on the present instead of dredging up the past.

“I don’t want you to say anything.” Lainey caught Cooper’s bottom lip between her teeth, raked them along the sensitive flesh. When she pulled away, their heavy breathing had synced.

Breathing as one, staring at each other, his eyes reflecting the wild desperation that pulsed through her in that suspended moment of calm before she unleashed the angry lust that coursed through her veins.

She smashed her mouth to his, a little too hard, so that his tooth jabbed her lip. But she relished that moment of pain, that tie to reality, proof she was still in control of herself, of the imperfect moment.

Then his tongue traced across her bottom lip, soothing the sting of their lustful collision, and Lainey was lost, swept away in a tidal wave of hormones so potent she needed Cooper—no, not him, she reminded herself. She needed sex. That’s all this was about.

Lainey kissed him, desperate to keep control, and he drew her to his body—his hard, unyielding body. He was a phenomenal kisser, she decided, slanting her mouth against his. His five o’clock shadow had turned into full-fledged stubble at this late hour, and the rasp of it against her face made her hotter. That little bit of pain-edged pleasure kept things from being too perfect, and made this beautiful train wreck exactly what she was looking for.

Then his hands breached the hem of her tank and she stopped dissecting her questionable life choices and focused instead on the exquisite sensation of his warm palms against her torso.

Impatience surged along with lust, and she tugged on his black T-shirt, revealing abs. Pecs. Arms. He let go of her to tug the shirt over his head and dropped it on the counter.

She pulled him close. Bit his neck, then soothed it with her tongue.

Oh, God, he felt good. Big. Strong. Like he could handle what she was dishing out.

She wanted sex. She wanted to punish him for making her feel this way. For making her want things she’d convinced herself she shouldn’t want.

He fisted one hand in her hair, pulled her head back so he could work her mouth. The moment of pain was swept away in something else when his free arm pulled her tight to him.

At five-ten, she’d sometimes considered herself too tall. Right now, though, she was glad for every single inch that put their bodies in such perfect alignment. She wrapped her arms around him, clawing at his back as their tongues dueled, both of them vying for control. When they finally came up for air, Lainey pulled away, needing skin-to-skin contact more than she needed resolution to this petty battle.

Lainey stepped back and yanked her tank top over her head, tossing it on the counter beside his T-shirt.

Cooper’s eyes flared as his gaze traced her body, pausing long enough on the contents of her lacy black bra that her nipples tightened at the hungry look in his eyes.

Her breasts weren’t overly large, but he didn’t seem disappointed—he seemed the opposite, really. And even as her body melted at how beautiful that made her feel, she cursed the inward show of weakness.

Get it together, Lainey. It’s just sex.

In a move designed to wrest back control, she reached out and placed her hand against his skin, over his heart. His muscles tensed under her palm. His chest was chiseled and his skin was tanned, even now, in the middle of winter, and Lainey couldn’t help but notice that he put the statues she’d studied in her Art History class to shame. Cold marble had nothing on flesh and blood.

She felt the hitch in his breath as she moved her hand, trailing her fingertips down his sternum, across each ridge of his abs, like a mini roller coaster that led down to his belt buckle.

“Do you have a condom?” she asked, tugging at the black leather.

God, she hoped he had protection. She didn’t want to retrieve her purse from the locker. She needed this. It had been so long since she’d had sex, since she’d felt that sweet thrill of arousal, since she’d let herself feel anything.

Lainey didn’t realize she was holding her breath as Cooper reached behind him. A moment later, he pulled a foil square from his wallet and set both items on the counter beside her right hip. She turned to face them, eyes focused on the condom.

Fucking hockey players, she thought, but there was no heat to the words, and only the slightest bit of resignation. Always so damn sure of themselves.

She lifted her head, and when her eyes met Cooper’s in the mirrored backsplash, a shiver of anticipation zipped down the length of her spine. To her surprise, he stepped behind her, and the heat radiating between her back and his stomach was enough to make her knees wobbly. Then he reached around her hip. Thanks to their reflection, she knew he was going to touch her a split second before he did, but the warm, heavy weight of his palm on her stomach still wrung a surprised gasp from her.

In the scratched-up mirror above a bottle of Crown, Cooper’s gaze was locked on her parted lips, and her tongue darted out to moisten them. His groan rumbled against her back as the pressure of his hand pulled her tight against him.

The dual sensation of watching Cooper’s hand trek down toward the waistband of her jeans and the feeling of his calloused palm sliding down the sensitive skin of her stomach was too much.

Lainey swore as she let her head fall back against his shoulder and closed her eyes.

Everything slipped away—the buzz of the fluorescent lights, the stale smell of beer, the niggling thought that she was in way too deep—everything but Cooper. There was nothing but his solid presence behind her, his fingers breaching her jeans and the warm twist of sexual anticipation thrumming through her body. She reached for her belt, unbuckling it to give him better access and expelled a stuttered breath of pleasure as he accepted the invitation and his hand sank lower, fingers flirting with the lacy hem of her underwear.

She reached for the button, but a familiar twinge shot through her right wrist as she grasped the denim.

Not now, she thought, even as the strength in her thumb waned. Not right now.

Lainey squeezed her eyes shut, focusing past the pins and needles. She just needed to undo her pants. She didn’t want to think about hockey right now. Didn’t want the memories to swamp her. She needed to feel whole, to feel okay, just for this moment.

Cooper’s breath against her ear soothed the panic that was blooming through the lust.

“I got it.”

And then his right hand covered hers, and the button popped open before he tugged down the zipper. She was ready for him before his hand slid under her thong and then, finally, came the slow, sweet friction she craved. She might have gasped, she wasn’t sure, because she couldn’t think through the pleasure that swamped her.

All she knew was that his touch was as hot as he was. She could feel his arousal against the small of her back, his breath on her cheek, and his fingers...oh, God, his fingers.

“Yes.” The word came out in a weird half moan, half whisper that would have mortified her if her brain were functioning on more than the most basic level. Cooper slipped one broad finger inside her and his groan of pleasure, along with that exploratory thrust, made her knees give out. His arm tightened on her waist, kept her steady even as his words stole her balance.

“I can’t wait to be inside you.”

He proved he meant it, pressing two fingers into her now, and she was so worked up that the increased pressure had her close, so damn close. She rocked her hips in a slow, sensual rhythm that increased the pressure on her G-spot. Cooper picked up the hint, changing the angle and mimicking her pace.

She reached back, needing to cling to something—raking her nails against his denim-clad thighs as she fisted her hands, desperate to anchor herself in a world spinning out of control.

Cooper ducked his head and pressed his lips against her neck. “I got you. Just let me drive for a while.” He twisted his wrist and just when she thought she might die of lust, he pressed the heel of his hand against her clit.

“Oh God, oh fuck!” Lainey couldn’t stop the curse words. Unlike most guys, who changed things up when the going got good, Cooper doubled down, and when the sweet shock of orgasm radiated through her, Lainey leaned back against him and, taking his advice, she let go while he drove.

* * *

JESUS.

Cooper was desperate for her. Turned on and rock-hard and so fucking desperate.

He’d told her he couldn’t wait to be inside her, and he’d thought he meant it—he had meant it—but now that he’d watched her come apart in his arms? The words he’d used weren’t basic enough; they were too polite for what he needed. He was ravenous for her. He wanted to fuck her until she screamed.

He dragged his mouth up her neck, seduced by the slide of her hair on his chest, the feel of her taut skin under his palms, so soft and smooth. He tugged her jeans down her thighs, doing his best not to be too rough, but she was so damn responsive, and he couldn’t breathe through the all-consuming lust she ignited when she leaned forward, placing her hands on the counter in preparation for what was to come.

Then he got his first glimpse of the smooth globes of her ass, bisected by a sexy swath of black lace thong, and he was done for. His cock surged in response, and he freed himself from his boxer briefs and rolled on the condom, shoving the wrapper into his jeans pocket.

He didn’t wait. He couldn’t.

He slid inside her, and the sweet, hot friction of their bodies wrung a groan from him. Cooper tried to go slow, he did, but even as he told himself to hold on, his hips pumped faster. The slap of their bodies, her whispered curse words and the roar of his blood were the soundtrack to an encounter that was spinning wildly out of control. He dug his fingers into her hips as she used the counter for leverage and pushed back against him, meeting him thrust for thrust.

He ran his hand up her spine, past the clasp of her bra and up the column of her neck. He’d come here expecting a beer, a hard time and temporary respite from his solitude. And now, behind the counter of a run-down sports bar, he’d found heaven.

Cooper caught sight of her in the mirror, and couldn’t look away. She was so fucking gorgeous, so wet, so wild for him. He wanted to make it good for her. At least as good as it was for him. Even as his hips bucked, driving deep, he forced himself to breathe deeply, an attempt to keep from blacking out with pleasure as he tried to focus, to learn her expressions as she told him without words how to please her.

When she bit her lip again and reached between her legs, it took everything Cooper had not to come. Not yet. He grasped her hips even tighter, thrusting high and deep, determined to get her there, gritting his teeth against the exquisite sensation when her fingers brushed his cock as she drove herself to the peak and then she opened her eyes and looked right at him, and finally, finally, he felt her fall over the edge, her muscles pulsing against his cock, legs trembling as he pumped again, and then one more time, his climax hitting hard and fast, wringing everything from him.

He’d never...it had never been like this before. And it wasn’t just the fact that she might be the first woman he’d been with who didn’t porn-moan. The mirror had allowed him watch her expression change, shifting from anticipation to determination to pleasure. He knew, could tell, she’d never meant him to see all that. That she’d forgotten her reflection was selling her out, the way people forgot you could see them singing in their car, that the glass couldn’t hide their love of disco.

And he wanted more.

She straightened, hair sexy and tousled, and Cooper reached for her, because he couldn’t help himself, but she sidestepped his embrace, adjusting her thong and tugging her jeans up her thighs with a series of cute little hops. She struggled for a moment with the button of her jeans, and he let her. She’d made it plenty clear she only needed him for one thing, but as her movements grew less sure, more panicky, he couldn’t just stand by.

“Can I—”

“It’s fine,” she bit out, buckling her belt over her still-unbuttoned jeans. Lainey pulled the zipper up awkwardly with her left hand before she turned to grab her tank off the counter.

Cooper frowned at the dismissal, discreetly taking care of the condom. “Okay, sure. Then maybe we could grab something to eat?” He tugged his jeans into place. If sleep had been elusive before the adrenaline surge he’d just experienced, well... Besides, dinner had been hours ago. “Is there an all-night diner around here? I’ll buy you some eggs.”

He didn’t think he’d ever invited a woman to breakfast after a one-night-stand, but he didn’t stop to analyze his motives.

“I have to close up the bar.” Lainey pulled her tank top over her head and tugged down the hem.

“I can help,” Coop offered, fastening his jeans and pulling his belt back into place.

“You’ve done enough. It’s not a two-person job,” she told him, and though he wasn’t wild about the idea of her in this place alone in the middle of the night with a bunch of cash, he reminded himself that she’d probably locked up a thousand nights before.

“Look, Slick. Tonight was great. The sex was great. But that’s all it was—a night of great sex. So stop trying to turn it into something more.”

She busied herself by grabbing a rag from the sink and wiping the counter down, but Cooper got the impression it was more about avoiding eye contact with him than any actual need for cleanliness.

“Lainey, c’mon. I didn’t propose marriage.” He pulled his T-shirt on, then ran a hand back and forth across his hair. “It’s just breakfast.”

She looked at him then, but there was no coyness in her eyes. Nothing flirty. “I don’t date hockey players.”

“Yeah. Okay. Right.” Cooper shrugged, trying to let her rejection roll off his back. No big deal. He’d eat alone. He preferred it that way. It wasn’t like he was looking for a relationship or anything. He’d just thought...hell, he didn’t know what he’d thought. “Just sex. That’s the best kind, right? Well, it was a pleasure meeting you, Lainey Sillinger.”

“Harper. I took my mother’s maiden name.”

“Harper. Got it,” he relented with tip of his head, grabbing her phone off the counter as he walked by. He was relieved to see it didn’t require a passcode.

“Hey, give that back!”

“Just in case you change your mind and get hungry later,” Coop explained, texting himself a quick message as he stepped out from behind the bar. “And word to the wise? You should lock this. Anyone could pick it up and check out whatever naughty videos you’ve got stored on here.”

He came to a stop beside the stool where he’d left his jacket before relinquishing her phone. She practically lunged at the counter in her haste to snatch it. With a grin designed to rankle, he picked up his coat and he headed for the door.

“Cooper?”

He stopped. There it was. Something vaguely like relief flooded through him as he turned to face her.

“That door is locked. You mind going out the staff entrance in the back?”

“No problem.” He shook his head, hoping it didn’t look as robotic as it felt, even as he followed in the direction she was pointing, past the storage room she’d been coming out of when he’d first laid eyes on her. It felt like a lifetime ago, though it had only been hours. A short hallway with doors on either side brought him to a beat-up metal exit door, and he pushed through it to find himself standing in the parking lot, next to a Dumpster, about ten feet away from his car.

It had been a hell of a day.


4 (#u4ed741de-de81-5135-aea4-36347f24b72b)

THE EAR-SPLITTING SHRIEK of the whistle echoed through the chilly arena air, and the rest of the ambient noise—the scraping of skates, the tapping of sticks and the boom of pucks hitting the boards—faded out.

“Okay, guys, last drill of the day. Let’s make it count.” Coach Taggert’s heavy baritone echoed down the rink.

Cooper stood by the boards, elbow resting on the end of his hockey stick, watching as center Eric Jacobs—or Cubs, as he was better known to his teammates—turned on the jets and blew past the rookie on the outside. But instead of hustling back into position, Brett slammed his stick on the ice, upset at getting beat.

That pulled Sillinger’s defensive partner out of position, and Cubs capitalized on the defensive error by sending a beauty of a cross-crease pass to a wide-open Luke Maguire, who easily tapped the puck into the net.

It was all Cooper could do not to roll his eyes as the kid swore and flung his glove at the boards, not even having the grace to look embarrassed when he lumbered over to stand beside Cooper.

“What are you looking at?” Brett demanded, all little-man swagger as he unsnapped the chin strap on his helmet.





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