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Peyton

E ither God hates me, or the devil is breathing down my neck. I'm not sure which it is. But I do know a few things for sure: my potential future boss is one of the professional hockey players seated in the booth at the back of the Players' Club, I'm not entirely sure which one he is…and every single one of them is gorgeous. I also know there's no chance this ends well for me. No chance at all.

"What exactly did Jenna say?" my best friend, Serena asks, her gray eyes locked on the team over the rim of her cocktail glass.

"Aside from the fact that my life is over? Nothing much."

Her quiet laugh whispers across the bar. "I'm serious, Peyton. What did she say?"

"One of the guys on the team needs an assistant. Something about a baby or family issues causing him to miss important stuff?" I take a gulp of water. I may have been too busy freaking out to pay attention to the details. "I'm supposed to meet with their publicist on Monday to discuss the details."

"I'd climb any of them like a frigging tree," Serena mutters, still staring at the booth in the back where they're all cloistered. "How are you supposed to work for one of them?"

I cast a furtive glance at the tables around us before shooting her a death glare. "Keep your voice down."

Her full lips curve into a smirk as she meets my gaze. "Please. Every woman here is thinking the same thing." She nods at a nearby table—one packed with women in low-cut tops and barely-there dresses. "They even came dressed for battle."

She isn't wrong about that. How do you even walk in a dress that short without the whole world seeing your ass? I don't know. It's a mystery I have yet to solve, and believe me, I've tried. My attempts led me to the conclusion that I am not nearly graceful enough to pull it off.

I've always been a duckling in a sea of swans. Except I never actually turned into anything else. I'm short, curvy, and I have trust issues. Snark is my love language, and I hide behind it like it's a shield.

There's no way I have my shit together enough to work for one of the world-famous athletes at that table without making a total ass of myself. They're literal hockey royalty. Every single one of them graces magazine covers, has brand endorsements and legions of fans screaming their names.

You know what I have? Student loan debt, a fifteen-year-old car, and a couch with a spring that jabs me in the ass if I sit in the wrong place. For the record, having extra padding back there doesn't help when metal is hellbent on performing an unsolicited rectal exam.

I need this job. Hell, my bank account needs this job. But…gulp.

I cannot talk to men who look like them. I can't even deal with men who look like them. It always ends in disaster. Mostly because I'm mouthy and combative. Guys who look like them don't like mouthy and combative. They like classy and cute.

How the hell am I supposed to work for one of them?

You've got four days to figure it out. Tick tock.

"Crap," I groan, grinding the palms of my hands against my eyes for a moment. I pull them away and glance at the table again. Nope. They're still hot. Especially…Jesus. I don't even know what color blue that is. Cornflower? Cerulean? Navy? Whatever. The giant with the wicked smirk and the gorgeous blue eyes who looks like he'd fuck you dirty against the wall without breaking a sweat? There's something wild in his expression that's a little too attractive.

Judging by the way half the women in the bar keep eyeing him up like he's cattle on the block…I'm not the only one who thinks so. He's definitely not going home alone tonight.

I'm not jealous. Nope. Not. At. All.

So we're lying instead of breathing now, huh? the angel on my shoulder asks.

I pointedly ignore that judgmental bitch.

"So did Jenna say which is your future boss?" Serena asks.

"I have no idea," I whisper. "She didn't give me a name." I groan quietly. "Why did I say yes to this?"

"Because you need a job that actually pays." Serena squeezes my hand. "And because you've got this, Peyton. You can handle it."

I shoot her the look . She knows which one. It's the same one I've been giving her since we were college freshmen together and she convinced me that I could run a marathon.

Spoiler alert: I could not run a marathon. I have asthma!She just grins in response, tucking strands of her dark hair behind her ears. "Don't look at me like that. You know I'm right. You're going to freak out and do the whole Peyton thing because it's what you do, but then you'll be a boss and nail the interview. You'll organize his whole life because that's also what you do. Frankly, it's about time you do it for someone who can afford to pay you what you're worth."

I snort. Loudly. Though I don't disagree. I've had some great bosses since we graduated two years ago, but working for peanuts in a city like this? Well, my student loans aren't paying themselves.

Gosh damn it.

"Tell me what you know about the team," I sigh, resigned to my fate. This will probably end in disaster, but whatever. If disaster pays the bills, I'll be a tornado.

Serena's expression lights up, excitement firing through her eyes. The girl knows her hockey. Her brother plays. Me? I know you play the sport on ice with a stick and a puck. And that's about all I know.

"Archer Graves, dark hair, brooding in the back corner," she says. "Team captain. Well-liked. He's a great player. No family though, so it's probably not him. Jordan Silvestri is seated beside him. He's the hunk with the piercing and tattoos. Everyone says he's difficult. He got booted from his last team for beating up the captain, but he's an incredible player. Also, no family."

I glance at Jordan, my eyes wide. "What did his captain do?"

"No clue." Serena shrugs. "River St. James is seated beside him. Avoid him at all costs. He sleeps with everyone, but he's fearless on the ice. Obviously, he doesn't have a family at home."

I wrinkle my nose. Why am I not surprised? River looks like the kind of guy women can't resist…dark blond hair, blue eyes, dimples he flashes at everyone.

"See the guy next to him? The one who looks about eighteen?" Serena waits for me to nod. "That's Diego Tapia. He's not nearly as young or as innocent as he looks. Avoid him too. No family at home. The guy in the glasses next to him is Micah Rushing. He plays defense. Very popular with the fans." She taps her bottom lip. "He could be your guy. He just had a baby."

He's laughing at something the giant with the gorgeous blue eyes said. He seems nice, approachable. Maybe I could work for him.

"What about the giant next to him?" I ask, my gaze drifting back to him in time to see him slip his phone from his pocket, his lips pulling down into a frown.

"That's Logan Moreno," Serena murmurs. "He's the new goalie."

"Is that all you know about him?"

"Avoid him," she says, her tone firm. "He's trouble."

"What kind of trouble?"

"The kind you want to avoid."

I tear my gaze away from him to glance at Serena.

"He just got traded from Nashville," she says. "He raised all kinds of hell out there, was in the paper every few weeks for one thing or another. He's fearless in the goal, but he doesn't take anything seriously. I don't know why we signed him."

"You don't like him."

Serena shrugs. "We don't need the bad press. He's nothing but bad press."

"So he probably doesn't need an assistant then."

Serena snorts. "He needs a babysitter, not an assistant, Peyton. I highly doubt you'll be working for him."

I exhale a tiny breath before turning back to the table. He's still texting, a furrow carved between his brows. He looks like he could be trouble. But he doesn't look like that much trouble. What do I know, though?

"Who else is over there?" I ask after a moment.

"Joaquin Reed," she murmurs. "I don't really know much about him. He's been on the team for a while, but I guess he flies under the radar. I don't think he has a family, though." She shrugs. "The player who just left the table is Nash Whatley. He was just traded, too. He's an incredible player. Everyone says he's a great guy. I don't know much about him, either. Just what the papers say."

"What do they say?" I ask, curious.

"His parents were killed in an accident when he was younger. He opted out of the draft to take care of his sister." She falls silent for a moment. "They bring it up a lot."

Of course they do. No one is ever allowed to grieve in peace, are they? Not even hockey players. The papers always want all the gory, grisly details. It's never because they actually care, either. It's simply so they can turn you and your misery into a story. In their eyes, pain is dollar signs and the people who feel it? Well, they might as well be fat stacks of cash walking around.

"Who else on the team has a family?"

"Trenton Wembley, Jeff Twomey, Carter Akers, Vito Santiago, and Arlo Santos," Serena answers. "They're third and fourth line."

"I have no idea what that means."

"It means they're good, but not nearly as good as the guys sitting at that table." She nods in their direction. "Everyone wants a piece of them and Nash."

"So my future boss might not even be here?"

"It's possible." Serena shrugs. "It's probably Micah, though. He's the only one who just had a baby. And he's the one with brand endorsements and everything else flying his way. He's a hot commodity now that he has a kid."

I glance back over at him, trying to imagine myself working for him. He seems…safe. Safer than Logan Moreno, anyway. Could I actually pull it off? Maybe. Or maybe I'll crash and burn in a blaze of humiliating glory, sinking my reputation before I even manage to build one.

My gaze drifts to Logan again. He's still messing with his phone. His dark hair hangs over his forehead, drawing attention to the furrow between his brows. He's tense, his body rigid. He seems worried, stressed almost.

What's he looking at?

Curiosity gets the better of me, and I slide from my chair before I can stop myself. "I'm going to order nachos. I'll be right back." I take a step away from the table and then pause, glancing back at Serena. "Behave while I'm gone."

She just smirks at me…which may or may not mean she's going to listen. Who knows with her? Unlike me, Serena has no problem talking to men. She's a swan, with a sea of sharks chasing after her. One day, she might actually stop swimming and let one catch her.

I stride across the bar, casting furtive glances at the team's table as I close the distance between me and it. Logan is still messing with his phone, but everyone else is giving Jordan a hard time about something. He casually lifts his middle finger in the air as if to signal his feelings on the subject.

I'm not entirely watching where I'm going as I cross in front of their table, trying to catch a glimpse of Logan's phone, so it's absolutely my fault when I smack right into a man passing by, nearly knocking us both off our feet.

He rears back, his bleary green eyes rolling over me as he towers over me. He's cute in a disheveled kind of way. His suit is wrinkled.

"I'm sorry," I mumble, rubbing my forehead where it cracked against his shoulder. "I wasn't watching where I was going."

His lips curve into a slow grin as his eyes rake down my body. "No harm, no foul, gorgeous. You okay?"

"Fine. Sorry again." I move to step around him, eager to escape the pungent scent of alcohol and cologne before my future boss has a chance to notice me. The last thing I need is to sink my chances before I even interview.

The guy steps with me, blocking my path.

"Excuse me," I say politely.

"Where you rushing off too?" Suit's smirk grows, his gaze firmly locked on my chest. Great. I would run into the one guy in the bar who wants to stare at my tits. "Maybe I should walk you. Make sure you don't bump into anyone else."

Jesus. What decade does he think we're living in?

"Uh, no. I can handle it myself."

"I insist." He reaches for my arm, still leering at me. "It'll be fun."

The way he says that clues me in to the fact that it'll be anything but fun for me. He's either an overbearing asshole…or a creep. I don't intend to find out which.

"I said no," I growl, taking a step backward.

He tries to grab my arm anyway.

He isn't that drunk. And he isn't deaf. So creep it is, I guess. Lovely. Why is there always one in every bar? It's like they spend their lives staking these places out, just waiting to make asses out of themselves. Does it ever actually work out for them anymore?

I contemplate asking him that question, but he grabs for me again, and my temper flares. I spin to the table behind me, my eyes falling on the half-empty pitcher of beer situated near the edge. Every player at the table glances in my direction, conversation abruptly ending.

"I'm borrowing this," I say, snatching it off the edge before anyone can protest. I spin again, flinging the contents at the asshole who doesn't know how to take no for an answer.

"What the fuck?" he growls as beer splashes him in the face.

"I said keep your damn hands off me," I snap.

"You stupid little…" Rage flashes across his face as he takes a step toward me, his hand lifted.

I square my shoulders, too mad to back down or cower. Maybe that's my problem. I never know when I should quit. I may not know how to talk to men, but letting one walk all over or bully me? Hell no. That'll never happen.

"Don't even fucking think about it," a deep voice snarls from behind me before Logan Moreno quickly steps in front of me, partially blocking me with his body. He shoves the asshole who couldn't take no for an answer, sending him sprawling across the floor a few feet away. "She told you to keep your goddamn hands to yourself. If you want to keep them, I highly suggest you listen."

"She threw beer on me!" Suit protests into the silence of the bar. Literal dead silence. Everyone is watching this scene unfold.

Crap. This is bad.

"And you're lucky that's your biggest problem right now, motherfucker," Logan says, stepping toward him when he tries to push himself back to his feet. "Get up, and you'll be leaving here with a broken jaw."

"I didn't do anything."

"Bullshit," Jordan Silvestri says, stepping up on my other side, his arms crossed. "We all heard her tell you to keep your fucking hands to yourself. We saw you preparing to hit her."

A chorus of agreement echoes from his teammates, who are all standing behind me now…and none of them sound happy.

"Get the fuck out before I toss you out my goddamn self," Logan snarls.

Jordan motions for someone, but I can't see who. I might as well be standing next to literal giants because they tower over me, blocking out the rest of the bar. But not even fifteen seconds later, the security guard who let us in an hour ago appears. There are muscles, and then there's this man. He's definitely been eating his Wheaties. He probably throws iron bars and cars for fun.

"Toss his ass out of here, Jett," Logan murmurs to the man. "And don't let him back in. He tried to grab her and wouldn't take no for an answer."

"On it," Jett mutters, plucking the man from the floor like he's a bug.

There's something oddly satisfying about watching a grown man being manhandled by a much bigger grown man. Suit's feet actually dangle from the floor as Jett marches him across the bar, completely ignoring the way he blusters and curses and demands to speak to a manager.

As soon as they're out of earshot, Logan spins, his gorgeous eyes locking on my face.

"Cornflower," I mutter.

"What?"

"Your eyes are cornflower blue," I say…and then squeeze my eyes closed when his lips quirk into a grin. "Never mind. Pretend I didn't just say that."

"Nah, you said it."

"Did not."

"I heard it," one of his teammates mutters behind me, laughter in his voice.

"Shut the fuck up and sit back down, Diego."

Diego laughs and then there's a whole lot of shuffling behind me. I don't open my eyes. I do not want to know what's happening. Maybe if I don't look, the floor will open up and swallow me. A girl can hope, right?

It doesn't work.

"I'll get us more beer," Jordan mutters a moment later.

I reluctantly peel my eyes open to find everyone else back at the table. Except Logan. He's still standing in front of me, all broad shoulders and corded muscle…staring. He looks like sin. Probably tastes like it too.

Maybe I should close my eyes again.

"You okay, angel?" he murmurs, practically looming over me. He's so close I feel the heat of his body searing into mine. "You look like you're trying to decide if you want to pass out or throw up. For the record, I'd go with throwing up. It's far less complicated."

"Uh, do you pass out often?"

"It's been known to happen. A puck to the head hurts like a son of a bitch." He actually has dimples when he smiles. They soften him a little, turn him from wild devil to mischievous man. I think Serena was right, though. Logan Moreno is definitely trouble. It's written all over him.

"Maybe don't get hit in the head anymore?" I suggest.

"I'll take that under advisement." His chuckle rolls over me, all rich and warm. As sinful as the rest of him. "Maybe I'll start hiding behind the goal instead of standing in front of it. Think that'll win games?"

"How should I know?" I gape up at him. "I know nothing about hockey."

"Nothing, huh?" He takes another tiny step towards me. This one puts him right up against me. His thigh brushes mine. His arm rests against mine. Everywhere we touch, wildfires break out. "Well, that's the most interesting goddamn thing I've heard all night."

"What? Why? Plenty of people know nothing about hockey. It's not a very popular sport, Logan." That could be a lie. I don't know.

His eyes drop to mine, probing and inquisitive. "You know nothing about hockey, yet you're in a bar in our arena and you know my name."

"Um…" Panic shoots through me. For a split second, I consider making something up, but I've never been a very good liar. I might as well tell the truth. "My friend, Serena, is a fan. I brought her with me to do recon."

"Recon?" His lips twitch. "Why the fuck are you doing recon in a bar at the arena?" His eyes narrow, his expression tightening incrementally. "Please don't tell me that you're a reporter."

"A reporter?" My nose wrinkles. "Do I look like a reporter to you?"

"You'd be surprised."

I'm not sure if that's a compliment or an insult, so I decide to ignore the comment. "I have an interview next week," I whisper instead, fighting the urge to shiver when he dips his head as if to hear me better. It puts his lips right up against my crown. "I was scoping out my future boss."

"What kind of job?"

I wave my hand. "Just an assistant position for someone on the team. It's not important because I don't think I'm going to get it now. I basically stole your team's beer and caused a scene. Not a great first impression."

"I disagree entirely. I'm impressed." He shrugs when I eye him sideways. "You don't take shit from assholes in bars, you don't let pricks touch you without permission, and you know how to stand up for yourself. What's not to like about that?"

"I…" I gape at him. This is not going the way it should be going. Mainly because he's still here, complimenting me. He's supposed to be back at his table already, laughing about the crazy fat chick who stole their beer.

In my experience, that's what happens when men who look like him talk to me. I say something rude or snarky or defensive, and then they report back to their buddies and have a good laugh.

It's been that way since high school. I may have grown up since then, but some things never really change. Guys like him still treat me the same. It's not even just because I'm curvy, either. That's part of it, sure. But it's mostly just…me. I'm too many of the things they aren't. Combative, awkward, snarky, defensive, poor.

Men like Logan Moreno and girls like me are from two different worlds. Just ask my father. He's one of them: rich, successful, adored by the masses. He also wants nothing to do with me. Not even after…well, that doesn't matter. The point is, I learned early that I have a place in this world, and it's as far from guys like Logan as possible.

"It's not really fair."

"What isn't fair?" I ask, a little afraid I may have inadvertently said something out loud that was most definitely supposed to stay in my head. Wouldn't be the first time.

"You know my name, but I don't know yours," Logan murmurs. "Even the playing field, angel. Tell me your name."

I hesitate for a long moment before deciding any damage is already done. There's no mitigating it now. "Peyton," I murmur. "My name is Peyton Cloud."

His grin is a deadly weapon. It's also far too damn sexy. No wonder women throw themselves at him. No wonder Serena says he's trouble. The devil lives in that damn smirk. And part of me wants to invite him out to play.

Bad idea. Bad, bad idea , my meddling angel whispers.

She's right. Of course she's right…but I don't want to listen. Maybe that's why he's trouble. That smirk could tempt an angel straight to hell. Or maybe it's the man who could do that. There's something about him that's downright magnetic.

And I've always been drawn to trouble like a freaking moth to a flame. It's precisely how I got myself kicked out of three different group homes and two foster situations as a teenager. I'm definitely drawn to this man. My entire body is humming like it's singing a hymnal. The closer he stands, the louder it sings.

Has it ever done that before? Ha. No.

The few dates I've been on ended in handshakes and hugs at the end of the night. The only humming going on in my life is the kind that comes from a battery-operated wand and an active imagination. Sad, I know. But like I said, I've got trust issues.

"So, Peyton Cloud, how do we salvage your recon mission?" Logan asks.

"We?" I arch a brow at him.

"Yeah, baby. Whatever you're up to sounds a helluva lot more interesting than anything my asshole teammates are doing. I'm definitely down. Am I starting a fight? Pulling the fire alarm?" He waggles his brows at me. "Put me in, Coach. I've got you."

"I…" I gape at him, pretty sure he's deadly serious. If I asked him to pull the fire alarm or start a fight, he'd do it. For no other reason than because I asked. Good Lord. This man is trouble.

Why do I like that so damn much?

"Hey," Serena says, suddenly materializing at my side, concern written all over her heart-shaped face. "I saw what happened. Are you okay?"

"Um, hi," I squeak, trying to put a little space between myself and Logan. It's a useless attempt because as soon as I create space, he closes it with a little frown. "I'm fine."

"What an asshole," Serena mutters before glancing at Logan. "Thanks for saving her."

"She did that herself," Logan says, his eyes still locked on me.

"Um, Serena, this is Logan Moreno. Logan, this is Serena Moss."

"Hey." Logan barely even glances at her.

"Hi, Logan." She looks him over before shooting me a smirk that says I'm going to live long enough to regret asking for her help tonight. Why don't I have any normal friends? Oh, right. Because I live in hell and they're all demons. "Well, I'm heading out. I just wanted to check on you."

"I should go with you."

"You should stay," she says, shooting me a pointed look before cutting her eyes at Logan. I was wrong. She isn't a demon. She's Satan incarnate. "That dick could still be hanging around out there, waiting for you to leave. Completely unhinged."

I am going to kill her. Slowly. Painfully. After I give her an award for her utter lack of shame and subtlety.

A soft growl rumbles from Logan's lips, his expression hard. "Why don't you let me drive you two home?"

"Oh, I can drive myself," Serena says. "But I'm sure Peyton would appreciate a lift." She shrugs innocently, batting her lashes. "You know, opposite sides of the city, dangerous madman with a grudge, etcetera, etcetera."

I shoot her a death glare…which she ignores as she flings her arms around me in a hug. "You're welcome," she hisses in my ear. "Love you! Bye!"

"Love you too," I grumble to her back as she practically speed races away like the bar is on fire and she set the blaze.

Logan simply chuckles, shaking his head.

"You don't have to drive me home," I mutter, massaging my temples. "Serena is just…Serena. Honestly, that's the only excuse for her. I love her to death, but she's a wild woman."

"I got that impression," he drawls, cocking his head to the side. "But she's right. He could be out there waiting for you. Let me drive you home, angel."

"Is this you trying to get me to tell you where I live?" I ask, mostly teasing. Of course he probably doesn't want to know. He's just being nice because Serena basically made it sound like I was going to die if he didn't drive me home. We do not live on opposite sides of the city. We share the same dang living room!

"Maybe." He leans in close, his eyes locked on my face. "Or maybe it's just me trying to get you alone."

My stomach turns a flip, my lips parting slightly as I stare up at him, looking for the tease. Except…I don't find it. He's serious.

Logan Moreno wants to get me alone.

"I…" Never have I ever wanted to kiss anyone as much as I want to kiss this man right now.

"Say yes," he murmurs, brushing his lips across my crown. "I'll be a perfect gentleman."

"No, you won't." The words are out before I even think them…but we both know they're true. If I let him drive me home, he won't be a gentleman. He'll be the exact opposite of a gentleman. And I don't think I care. Actually, I know I don't. I want to know precisely what kind of trouble he is.

It's not like I'm getting that job with Micah on Monday anyway. That ship sank in the Mariana Trench. Why not live a little for once? If I live to regret it…well, at least I'll actually have something to regret for once.

This is insane , that little angel whispers.

She's a wise bitch. There are rules about not hooking up with strangers you met in a bar. I'm sure they probably still apply even when said stranger is a famous hockey player. But right now? Tonight? I don't care about the rules. They've never gotten me anywhere in life.

My body is humming. Logan is looking at me like he wants to eat me. And, frankly, I want to know what it's like to have this man all over me. If that's wrong, fine. I can regret it later.

"You can drive me on one condition," I say before I lose the nerve.

"Name it," he growls, his eyes meeting mine.

"Take me to your place instead."

His expression turns downright feral as he links our fingers, silently pulling me through the bar toward the doors.

I follow in his wake, my entire body still humming.