Playing Dirty. Taryn Leigh Taylor

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СКАЧАТЬ his hormones.

      She locked the door, flipped the sign so that the closed side faced out. They were completely alone now; there was a weight to that that hadn’t been there a moment ago.

      Lainey tucked the keys in her back pocket as she approached him, and he was mesmerized by the sway of her hips, the bounce of her breasts. She removed the apron, and even that seemed suggestive, especially when she reached over the bar to drop it on the lower counter and her tank top rode up, revealing a swath of smooth skin that Cooper ached to touch, to nibble, to lick.

      Fuck. He pushed the beer away. Maybe the alcohol was affecting him more than he’d realized.

      Then she grabbed his hand, tugged him off the stool and said, “Come with me,” in a way that made him happy to obey, even before she added, “I’ve got something for you.”

      Her hand felt small in his, warm and soft, and he was pleasurably contemplating all the places he’d like to let her fingers roam as he followed her.

      Then she took a sharp turn down a small hallway on their left. The bathrooms were on the right-hand side, but she pushed through a door on the left that was marked “Staff Only.”

      Lainey popped her head back out, and her smile was full of promise. “Just give me a minute?” she begged prettily, and disappeared inside. There was some muffled banging and shuffling behind the door.

      Cooper used the brief interlude to check out the mass of framed photos that lined the wall. They were pictures of the same man—and judging by the haircuts and fashion choices, they spanned at least three decades—smiling as he stood beside some of the biggest names in sports. Cooper was amazed as his eyes bounced from photo to photo—Michael Jordan, Jack Nicklaus, Peyton Manning, Wayne Gretzky.

      In fact, Coop was so blown away by the star power on the wall that it took him a moment to realize that he recognized the common denominator in the pictures, too.

      “Holy shit! Is this Marty Sillinger?”

      “Of course you recognize him.” Lainey’s words dripped with exasperation from behind the closed door.

      The pieces clicked together in Cooper’s brain with such ease that he couldn’t believe he hadn’t made the connection before. If the last name hadn’t given it away, the fact that Brett wore number 42, just like his old man, should have.

      “So you’re Martin Sillinger’s daughter?”

      After a moment of muffled banging and shuffling, she answered. “Yep. Lucky me.”

      “One of the best enforcers in the league until that back injury put him out of commission. Man, your dad used to go head-to-head with the best the league had to offer. What’s he been up to lately?”

      “Nothing. He’s dead.”

      Shit. Cooper squeezed his eyes shut at the conversational blunder. It explained a lot about Brett, though. And Lainey, for that matter.

      “What happened?”

      “Cancer.”

      “I’m sorry for your loss.”

      The door swung open with more force than necessary, and Lainey reappeared, stealing his full attention. The flirty smile was gone.

      “The guy on that wall is pretty much a stranger to me. After he stopped playing hockey, he wasn’t the same. Between the pain meds and the alcohol and the mistress, I lost my dad a long time ago. So you can save your condolences for Brett. And take these.”

      Cooper was too stunned not to accept two industrial-size rolls of toilet paper in one hand and the bucket containing a toilet brush, cleaner and rubber gloves in the other.

      “You’re on stall duty.” She reached back in the room to grab a bucket of her own, also filled with cleaning supplies, and a pack of paper towels to refill the dispenser. “I’ll do the sinks.”

      Cooper wanted to bail.

      Hell, he should want to bail.

      Why wasn’t he bailing?

      He tried to list reasons that made sense: long black hair, shiny pink lips, enticingly perky breasts. The list sounded shallow, even to him, because while every single lust-inducing feature was true, deep down Cooper knew the real reason he hadn’t walked out.

      Jesus.

      It was bad news when you were so lonely that you’d rather clean a public restroom in the afterglow of an awkward conversation than go home.

      With as much swagger as he could muster, he bowed slightly and gave her the “after you” gesture. She raised an eyebrow, which, if he wasn’t mistaken, signified both surprise and something he hadn’t been expecting.

      He was alone with a gorgeous woman and he’d just managed to earn her respect. Like his day hadn’t gone badly enough already.

      His last thought as he followed her into the ladies’ bathroom was fuck my life.

       3

      DAMNED IF HE hadn’t managed to impress her after all.

      Lainey tried to keep her attention on the mirror she was cleaning, but the sight of Cooper Mead in a black T-shirt, jeans and yellow rubber gloves gamely cleaning toilets was too intriguing to ignore.

      She’d fully expected him to diva-out and leave her to close the bar in peace. That had been the plan. Instead, he’d ruined everything by making her question if he was more than cocky grandstanding and cheesy pickup lines.

      She finished with the mirror and reached back into the bucket, her mind racing as she wiped down the sinks, faucets and countertop while surreptitiously sneaking glances at her assistant.

      Hell, Brett had a way of getting under people’s skin—she knew that well enough. Cooper’s dogged persistence to get her number earlier could definitely have been more an attempt to stick it to Brett than outright douchebaggery.

      Something warm flared in her chest, and when Lainey identified it as hope, she knew she was in big trouble. She scrubbed the ugly green counter with more force. Kind of an “out, damned spot!” thing, and just as futile.

      Stupid, she admonished herself. She should have sent Cooper Mead packing the second he walked back into her bar. Instead, she’d foolishly let him stay, and she’d told him more about her father than she’d ever told anyone, and her toilet-cleaning goading had backfired because he’d actually done it, and now she was making excuses for him.

      The realization shored her resolve, made her angry. Mostly at herself. “So what are you really doing here, Slick?”

      He straightened in the stall—a tight fit for his broad shoulders—and shoved his cleaning supplies back in the bucket. “Insomnia’s a bitch,” he said simply, punctuating the words with a toilet flush.

      She could relate. One of the reasons this bar gig suited her so well. Not that she was planning on keeping it. The second someone made an offer on her late father’s СКАЧАТЬ