Page 1 of Dirty Play

Chapter one

~LIVIA~

The line at the café feels like it’s moving backwards. My heels tap a steady rhythm against the floor as the barista fumbles with the espresso machine. I’m trying to be patient, but patience has never been my strong suit—especially not when I’m twenty-three minutes away from the most important first day of my life.

Yes, I’ve got exactly twenty-three minutes before I need to be at the Panthers’ headquarters for my first day as their new PR agent. Twenty-three minutes until my new life begins.

Just last week, I was set to be the PR agent for the LA Blades. Then—plot twist—I got reassigned."Welcome to the Panthers!"Now I’m staring at a roster full of names I don’t recognize. I wasn’t hired for my hockey knowledge—I was hired to fix their mess. Young, unattached, and coming in with no baggage. The problem? If I accidentally shoutGo Blades!like I’ve been rehearsing all week, I might not make it past day one. Last thing I need is to be eaten alive by Panthers.

I pull out my compact mirror and check my reflection. Blazer: crisp. Mascara: not smudged. Hair: surviving the humidity—barely. I look calm, even if the butterflies in my stomach are throwing a rave.

I close the compact mirror and slide it back into my purse with a deep breath.

Today’s the day. No more doubting myself. No more wondering if my parents were right when they said I’d come crawling back to our farm in Wyoming. This job is my shot to prove to them and to myself that I belong in LA and that I can thrive in a world that doesn’t smell like hay and cow poop.

The line inches forward, and the woman in front of me moves aside with her coffee, making way for me. I glance at the clock above the counter. Twenty-one minutes.

“Good morning.” I smile at the barista, ready to finally order. “A large latte with a pump of hazelnut, please.”

That’s whenhewalks in.

At first, it’s his sheer size that catches my attention—tall, broad, and solid in a way that makes you rethink the definition of muscular. His dark brown hair is just wavy enough to look annoyingly perfect, and tattoos snake down his arms, disappearing beneath his shirt sleeves. One even climbs up the left side of his neck like a daring secret. And then there are his eyes. Piercing green and sharp, like they see more than they should.

He walks right up to the counter, taking more space than a regular-sized human would, ignoring the rest of us entirely like he’s the only one who matters.

I blink.Oh, hell no.Scratch what I said. He’s short, scrawny and ugly. And he’s about to find out the meaning of a line.

“Excuse me?” my voice slices through the café noise, loud enough to turn a few heads.

He freezes for half a second before turning his head toward me, the sharp angle of his jawline looking even more pronounced. I ignore the tension coiling in my belly and square my shoulders as his green eyes lock with mine.

“Yes?” His voice is deep and calm, with the kind of authority that makes people listen.

“You just cut in front of, oh, I don’t know,everyone,” I say, gesturing to the line behind me. “There’s a system here, sir. It’s called waiting your turn.”

There’s a flicker of surprise across his stupidly handsome face that makes me feel smug, but it’s short-lived.

His eyes flick to the line, then back to me, giving me a once-over. “I’m on a schedule.”

“Oh,you’reon a schedule?” I ask, my brows shooting up to my hairline. “And the rest of us are here for the ambiance?” I wave toward the people waiting behind me.

He watches me for a second before tilting his head to the side. Most guys would get defensive by now, but not him. No, he just stands there, calm and unbothered, like he’s deciding whether I’m worth the effort.

“Are you done?” he asks finally, his voice as smooth as it is infuriating.

Jerk!

“Not even close,” I snap. “But since you’re clearlysoimportant, by all means, go ahead and cut. The rest of us will just stand here basking in your superiority.”

For a moment, I think I see the corner of his mouth twitch. It's not quite a smirk; it's more like he’s trying not to be amused.

“Thank you for your permission,” he says simply, turning back to the barista. “Large americano. No sugar.”

The barista hesitates, clearly caught between serving him and respecting the line. But then the man slides a bill across the counter, crisp, folded, and big enough to settle any debate. He then leans across the counter, towering over the barista, to say something I can’t hear. The barista looks up at him with a nod before hurrying to make his coffee.

I fold my arms across my chest and shoot daggers at Mr. Line Cutter’s broad back. I’ve said what I needed to say. The next step is to pay an Etsy witch five bucks to hex him.

The barista returns in a few moments, carrying a large cup.

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