“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