Taryn Leigh Taylor - Playing Dirty

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.