Playing Dirty. Taryn Taylor Leigh

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