Up in Flames

by Kira Sinclair

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  Playing Dirty

  by Taryn Leigh Taylor

  1

  “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.