Playing Dirty. Taryn Taylor Leigh

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

      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,