My Lustful Arrangement With The Hockey Player

ISABELLA I never thought I'd be here, fleeing home in search of greener pastures, only to find myself working more jobs than a human should legally be allowed to handle. The American Dream? A scam. A beautiful, glittering scam. Back home, I imagined my future self sipping mimosas by a penthouse window, laughing at my past struggles while my friends partied inside. Instead, I was speed-running life as a waitress, bartender, and occasionally a human coat rack when drunk men mistook me for a decorative piece. But hey, at least I had variety. Tonight, I was late. Again. I tumbled out of the cab, my heel catching on the pavement. "¡Mierda!" I cursed under my breath in Spanish, catching myself before I face-planted. The driver shot me a look before speeding off, but probably thanking his lucky stars, I was no longer his problem. The event hall loomed ahead-grand, glittering, and filled with the kind of people who probably never had to check their bank balances before ordering a drink. A sports event, which meant two things: stunning models with legs for days and men with enough muscles to double as furniture. I pushed through the crowd, dodging six-foot-tall beauties and athletes laughing too loudly. A model in a tight red dress eyed me like I'd personally offended her by existing, and I flashed her a quick, polite smile before slipping past. My apron was halfway around my waist when I reached the staff entrance. If my temporary boss saw me now, I was done. Fired. On the streets. Probably resorting to selling lemonade from a cart like some tragic movie character. I ducked behind a group of servers and secured my apron. One crisis avoided. "Took you long enough," a voice sneered beside me. I turned to find Tiffany, the human embodiment of a headache, smirking at me. Why the f**k did I have to meet her here again? The last time we worked at this charity event, I nearly beat her up, but I had to remind myself that I was here in the US and could get charged and probably deported. She flipped her blonde ponytail, eyes filled with delight. "You sound like a cartoon," I mused, deadpan. She blinked. "Excuse me?" "Nothing." I snatched my tray and turned away. I had rent to pay, I couldn't afford to waste energy on a girl who thought 'exotic' was a compliment. The night blurred into a rhythm of taking orders, dodging drunk hands, and trying not to think about how exhausted I was. After I was done serving a couple of people drinks and sniffing out the perfumes I had inhaled, I turned a corner, my body nearly giving out with fatigue before colliding with a wall. No-wait. A man. A very tall, very solid man. My tray clattered to the floor, champagne flutes shattering. I sucked in a breath, already preparing for impact-someone was about to yell at me, and I was about to apologize profusely to keep my job. And obviously get a cut from my pay for the damages I obviously didn't fully play a part in. But he didn't yell. Instead, he swayed slightly, blinking down at me with the kind of lazy smirk that suggested he was either heavily intoxicated or naturally that smooth. "Didn't see you there, cariño," he murmured. His voice was deep, slurred just enough to confirm my suspicions. My gaze traveled upward. Dark brown hair, tousled like he'd just rolled out of bed. Chiseled jaw, a hint of stubble. And then-his eyes. Blue. A deep, piercing blue that made me momentarily forget how much I hated my job. I took a step back, hands up. "You're drunk." He chuckled, tilting his head. "And you're beautiful." Oh, boy. People were already watching. I needed to get him out of sight before my boss spotted him using me as a leaning post. I grabbed his wrist, firm but not unkind. "Come on, let's get you somewhere quiet before you embarrass yourself." To my surprise, he didn't resist. He let me guide him through the hall, away from the flashing cameras and judging eyes. When we reached a dimly lit hallway, he exhaled dramatically. "If you wanted to be alone with me, you could've just said so." I rolled my eyes. "Right, because my dream is to babysit a drunk stranger in a dark hallway." His laugh was rich, unbothered. "You're funny. I like that." I helped him sit on a nearby bench, his body brushing against mine in a way that sent an unexpected shiver down my spine. I pulled away quickly, clearing my throat. "Stay here until you sober up." I turned to leave, but before I could take a step, his fingers wrapped gently around my wrist. "Stay," he murmured. I hesitated. "I have a job. A very underpaid, exhausting job that I might lose if my boss catches me slacking." He grinned, his gaze darkening. "Don't worry about it." I arched my brow. "Oh, sure. I'll just tell my landlord that some guy told me not to worry about rent. That should work." His laugh was low, warm. "It's a lifetime opportunity." I snorted and rolled my eyes. "You sound like a scam. Not convincing enough." His hand slid down to mine, his thumb brushing over my palm. The touch was light, teasing, but it sent an unexpected warmth through me. "I don't do scams," he said smoothly. I swallowed. Hard. I hadn't felt like a woman in a long time. I'd been too busy surviving, too caught up in the grind of making ends meet. But this man-this smooth-talking, ridiculously attractive man-made me forget. His fingers traced idle patterns along my wrist, his touch confident yet unhurried, like he was waiting for me to pull away. I didn't. I should have. But I didn't. I had to get back to work. I had to make some meagre money to keep me till the next f*****g day, but that didn't matter right now. Not when I was blessed with the attention of this really good looking man. Now, I understand why men like these get into women's skirts so easily. His gaze lingered on my lips. "Tell me to stop." I opened my mouth to say what, I wasn't sure. But then he kissed me. Soft at first, like he was testing the waters. Then deeper, like he knew exactly what he was doing. And damn it, I let him. Heat coiled in my stomach, my fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. He tasted like whiskey and something else, something intoxicating in a way that had nothing to do with alcohol. "You're beautiful," he murmured against my lips. "So damn exotic." I rolled my eyes even as I kissed him back. "You rich guys really need to find a new word." He laughed, a low, delicious sound, before pulling me closer. One moment, we were in a dark hallway, stealing kisses like teenagers. The next, we were stumbling into his suite -sprawling, luxurious, a world away from the tiny apartment I called home. Clothes hit the floor. Skin met skin. For the first time in forever, I wasn't just surviving. I was living. And if I wasn't getting paid tonight, at least I got the best damn experience of my life.