Taryn Leigh Taylor - Playing Dirty

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.”