Dirty Talker (Slayers Hockey #4) - Mira Lyn Kelly Page 0,4

Meets and exceeds every stereotype about professional athletes there is. Acts like he’s God’s gift, and the way he treats women—

Harlow’s pretty smile falters. The skin between her brows pulls together like something isn’t quite right.

“No, fucking way,” Axel mutters.

“Yeah, I see it too.”

“She doesn’t know which player she hooked up with last night.” He turns to me, eyes narrowing. “How drunk was she?”

My shoulders slump. More than I thought. “And we didn’t hook up.”

Harlow

Okay, there’s no way this is the guy from last night.

When I walked in, the first thing I noticed was the bulk and the facial hair. Except that’s as far as recognition went. I figured maybe I’d been even more tipsy than I realized though, because his reaction to my approach was familiar. His smile knowing. His welcome immediate, confident, and smooth… like we were old friends.

But no way is this Dateless.

Not even a barrel of bourbon would have been enough for me to agree to share a cab with this guy, let alone ten days in his hometown.

Time to get out. Climbing off my stool, I force a quick smile. “Well, it was nice talking with you.”

Whatever-his-name-is leans back, letting his eyes roll over me in a perusal so slow and obvious I wonder if it’s possible to catch an STD from a look alone.

“Nah, you don’t have to take off. Whatcha thinkin’, upstairs?”

I blink. “Excuse me?”

“Classy girl like you, figured you wouldn’t be into the bathroom. But I’m not going back to your place for a nooner unless I can bring a friend. You don’t seem the type?”

Wow, that was definitely a question. “No, but… umm… thank you?”

Taking a hurried step back, I come up short as a wide palm meets the small of my back. My breath catches, and before I even turn to check, I know. It’s him.

“Hey, Harlow, sorry to keep you waiting.”

I turn toward that warm, rumbling voice tinged with amusement, expecting— I don’t even know. But not this.

Dateless… Heck, I don’t remember his physical appearance being the thing that stood out about him most. I’d thought he seemed like a guy in a pinch. Genuinely nice. Fun. But this man, with his crystal blue eyes and built-tough body, is crazy good-looking. His hair is neatly cut and nearly as dark as mine. And while normally I’m not a fan of facial hair, the contrast of his close-trimmed beard over that rugged square jaw is… hot.

And so not what I go for.

Really.

Dateless crooks his finger beneath my chin, not so subtly reminding me to close my mouth.

Oh my God, this guy just had to tell me to close my mouth!

And while it seems like that might be the kind of mortifying a girl doesn’t come back from, somehow his gruff laugh takes the sting out completely.

“I am never drinking another Snowflake Martini again.” And then I’m laughing too, because this whole situation is ludicrous.

“Ehh, maybe just one less next time?”

Whoa, and that wink and smile? That explains a lot about last night.

I’ve completely forgotten about the guy from the bar until he wraps a hand around my arm. “Grady, get the fuck out of here with your pickup bullshit. She came on to me first.”

And here’s the thing. While there’s something innately soothing and pleasant about this Grady that draws me in, I don’t like having the bar guy’s hand on me at all.

“Hands off, O’Dwyer,” Grady growls, his voice lethally low.

The offending hand is gone before my next heartbeat.

“Bro, don’t be a douche. Seriously. She’s the one—”

“It was an honest mistake,” I cut in, cheeks flaming. I’d really been hoping to avoid owning up to not knowing my date’s name.

“She thought you were me. We’ve got a date.”

O’Dwyer’s eyes cut to me, and he mutters, “Bullshit.” But he turns back in his seat and picks up his phone.

And then it’s just me and Grady, who isn’t really my date or even my fake date because I’m about to break things off before this madness goes any further.

This is going to be awkward.

“Want to grab a seat?” he asks, nodding toward the back of the bar where there’s a second room. “It’s more private. Quieter too. We can get a table and—”

“Not… upstairs?” I have to ask.

He coughs, doing a double take. Then his brows pull forward and his eyes narrow on O’Dwyer back at the bar before returning to me. “Um… no.”

Tension slips from my shoulders and I nod. “A table would be great.”

Shaking his head, he leads the