Sand, Sun...Seduction!

by Stephanie Bond

  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 fan-girl minutia, like the fact that Cooper Mead was a south paw.

  “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 gig 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 WAIT STAFF 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 post-season 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 spor
tscasters 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 laying 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.

  Still, that didn’t keep her from imagining firing Darius at least three times per shift, if only for the peace and quiet.

  “Give me a hard time for not keeping my workspace clear, but I show up to a mess of bottles on the counter when you’re in charge,” he muttered, the way he always did when he was trying to get under her skin.

  “It was recipe development,” she said simply. “It’s called a Black Widow.”

  Darius frowned as he set the Cinnamon Schnapps back on the shelf. “You put all this stuff in the same glass? Whoever he was, he must’ve really pissed you off.”

  Embarrassed, Lainey rubbed her fingers against her cheek in a vain attempt to extinguish the lingering prickle where Cooper’s knuckles had touched her. “Don’t think I didn’t notice that you’re late.” She made sure her voice was as frosty as the draft mugs that rattled when she slammed the cooler door. “For future reference, your shifts are posted in Pacific Time.”

  Darius glanced over his shoulder as he returned the Kahlua, the Blue Curacao, and some banana liqueur to the appropriate shelves. “He definitely pissed you off.”

  “You pissed me off,” Lainey corrected, standing. “I know Martin let stuff like this slide, but I’m trying to sell this place. I can’t afford not to have things running smoothly.”

  “You keep saying that, but you’ve been here for three months and counting. I’m starting to think we’re never gonna be rid of you.”

  Lainey pulled a face at his broad back when he turned to clean up her mess.

  “You know I can see you in this mirror, right?”

  She schooled her features into a neutral expression. “And you know that I have the power to fire you, right?”

  “Well, before you let all your authority go to your head and I end up suing you for wrongful termination, you should probably check your phone. I texted you that I was running late. But I’ll let it go, because I’m in a stellar mood. Sandra and I shared a hell of a goodbye before her Uber showed up to take her to the airport.”

  Darius’s expression was dripping with satisfaction. “Which is why I got here late, if you know what I mean.” He waited a beat. “And what I mean is that we had copious amounts of sexual intercourse.”

  “Thanks for the clarification, wonder stud.” Lainey rolled her eyes at him. “But I’m not sure that’s the type of excuse that will stand up in court. As a future lawyer, you’ll want to familiarize yourself with labor laws.”

  The well-timed entrance of Agnes Demille saved Lainey from Darius’s retort. The zaftig waitress materialized from the “staff only” door to their right, plopped her massive gold lamé purse on the counter behind the bar, grimaced and slung it back on her shoulder. “Honestly, you two. I’ve been here for thirty seconds, and there’s already a table full of customers with no beer and a sticky counter. This ain’t no way to run a business. ’Specially on game night. Let’s get a move on, people! Darius, hand me that rag.”

  Darius peeled the blue rag from the sink and dropped it in front of Aggie, who set to work immediately, scrubbing at the sticky rings on the counter. “So, Lainey,” she said, not bothering to look up from her task, “I’m thinkin’ the two of us need to have a little chit-chat.”

  Lainey ignored the resulting shiver down her spine. Aggie could size up a room quicker than anyone Lainey had ever met, and she didn’t miss a detail. Especially not a ridiculously handsome one wielding a glass full of sludge. In an attempt to sidestep the conversation, Lainey placed a tray on the counter and systematically loaded it with six frosty bottles of beer from the cooler. “Beers for Larry’s table, as requested.”

  Unfortunately, the announcement didn’t faze the formidable woman before her. “They can wait. What you just did to Cooper Mead can’t.”

  “What?” Darius’s brows dove into a V as he scanned the customers. A sharp bark of laughter confirmed he’d located his target. “Are you kidding me? The Black Widow was for Cooper Mead? That is so awesome!” He held up an expectant palm in her direction, then thought better of it and aborted the high-five. “Man, it sucks I was late! I would’ve loved to have seen his face when you handed it over. So what’s Mr. Big Shot doing here, anyway?”

  “Bible study starts in ten minutes.”

  Darius shot Lainey a pained smile as she 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 th
e 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’.”