Part-Time Player: Tender Tarts, #6

By Mandy Harbin

He's a rich football star with a wholesome image. She's a part-time stripper.

 

Benjamin "The Death" Bell is a free agent linebacker being courted by the Miami Wind football team. After four years in Denver and a chilly reception last season, he's definitely interested in going where his talents are appreciated, and with the team putting him in a swanky hotel, it's a nice start. He has one goal in mind on this trip—to seal the deal. But one little blonde woman stumbles into his life and manages to strip him of all senses.

 

"Heaven" Leigh Davis doesn't have time for men…unless they're paying her. She's a stripper working two jobs, but if she gets the new promotion at the hotel, she can hang up her stilettos for good. With a V.I.P. guest checking in, the timing couldn't be any more perfect to display her hospitality skills and land the new position. She won't lose focus...not even when a big, sexy man tackles her at her favorite coffee shop and awakens things inside her she thought long dead. He's hot and all, but she has goals. Even after rejecting him, she can't stop thinking about him, but she knows she did the right thing.

 

Until he strides into her hotel later that night as their V.I.P. guest.

 

Will hot days and secret nights strip them of their careers, or can they play the field without ruining everything?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mandy Harbin
• Release date: Oct 4, 2020
• ISBN: 9781941467480

Book preview

Chapter One

Leigh’s feet were on fire, and not in the way a girl might describe a hot dress. Her platform stilettos were rubbing her little toes raw. Too much longer and she knew they’d start bleeding. She’d hoped by now her feet would be nothing but numb callouses.

Do I have blister pads in my locker?

She couldn’t remember if she’d used the last of the bandages the previous weekend.

Thank god Wal-Mart stayed open twenty-four hours a day. Then again, almost nothing in Miami ever closed, which worked out well for her and her schedule.

She grabbed the pole and twirled seductively as an older man sitting near the stage whistled at her. Five years ago, she would’ve been creeped out by a guy who was old enough to be her grandfather leering at her. Not that she knew who her grandfather was. Neither of them. But the idea of older men salivating at her used to be solidly in the gross category. Now, she didn’t care.

After shimmying closer to him and letting him tip her, she sashayed across the stage as her hands glanced off her sides.

Was she out of oatmeal? She needed to go to the grocery store when she got off work.

Work. Ha!

Other than her feet killing her, this wasn’t work. She could do these routines in her sleep. She’d cut her schedule down to only stripping on Friday and Saturday nights after she’d gotten her job at the hotel a few years ago. It wasn’t full-time, so she couldn’t afford to stop her weekend gig just yet.

Hopefully, that would be changing soon though. Her boss at the Ritz Spa and Hotel let it slip a couple of weeks ago that corporate had approved a new night manager position. She and Nikki had both started around the same time, so Leigh figured Nikki was her biggest competition for the new job. Of course, someone from the day crew might apply, but it took a special kind of person to work night shifts. She had that quality in the bag. She just needed to make sure she went above and beyond the call of duty to show how eager she was to get the promotion. She wasn’t sure how soon they’d be making a decision, but they had at least one important customer—someone the Miami Wind football organization had booked—with whom she could exhibit her stellar hospitality skills. She took pride in her work anyway, but with any luck, the powers-that-be would take notice if someone super important raved about his experience while in her care.

Give it up for our own Heavenly Angel. Catcalls echoed as Leigh scooped up the bills tossed toward her.

She quietly mumbled, "Heaven-Leigh," as she took her leave, not that Buck ever pronounced it correctly. And it was better than just calling her Angel, as he did when she wasn’t on stage. The prick.

As soon as she was out of sight she bent over and took off her shoes, not caring if the floor was clean enough to walk on with her bare feet. The club was on the outskirts of the city, so Buck didn’t have to compete with the larger establishments in the heart of Miami. He didn’t care about the backstage as much as the public areas. A clean place for lap dances was one of the few perks of his place. If he ever had to step up his game to compete for business, they’d all be screwed. But for now, it was out of the hustle and bustle. The real draw for their clientele.

Seclusion.

Yeah, their customers came here because it wasn’t right in the middle of the party scene, but that also worked out well for her because that meant she didn’t have to worry about crossing paths with anyone from her other job. Not that Leigh was ashamed of stripping. She wasn’t living on the streets or off the government. No matter what she did to earn money, she took pride in her work. She’d busted ass to get where she was, and as long as she had her looks, she was grateful she could use them.

She plopped onto the chair at her makeup station, gripped her wig, and pulled it off. She’d begun this part of her life as a bleached blonde and had to start wearing a wig when she’d gone back to her natural, darker blonde hair color. It also afforded her a little more of the anonymity she sought here. Well, the wig and the heavy makeup. She groaned as she tugged on one of her false lashes.

Yeah, for the most part, stripping had been good to her—well, after one big mistake she’d made early on—but if she got the promotion at the Ritz, she’d gladly hang up her stilettos for good.

She glanced at her angry red feet.

And maybe never wear heels again.

Chapter Two

Benjamin Bell. Abigail Roberts booked a rental for me, Benji said to the man behind the desk as he dropped his gym bag beside the larger suitcase he’d had checked for the flight and fished out the confirmation number. Abigail had offered to have a Miami Wind jet routed to pick him up in Denver, but he’d thought better of it. Last thing he wanted was news leaking to the press another football team was courting him.

At least he’d assumed that was what this was all about. His agent had agreed the Wind was interested, which was shocking after his less than stellar season. But he’d been in Denver almost four years. His contract was up, and they hadn’t presented a new one yet. Kitt, his agent, had informed him it was all part of the process when a player became a free agent—not that it made the waiting and wondering any easier.

Ah, yes, Mr. Bell. Just a moment. The man entered something on his computer and pulled out a set of keys. Follow me, sir, he said as he walked around the counter. He paused, looking pointedly at Benji’s bags. I can have your bags sent to your hotel, sir. His voice tinged with confusion. Benji never felt comfortable having people do things like that for him. Not as long as he was capable of carrying his own bags. He’d come from humble beginnings, raised by his grandparents. He understood the value of a dollar, so much so that the thought of just how many of those he had sitting in various accounts left him feeling … well, weird. He knew he was rich, but he didn’t think about it. It made it easier.

I can manage, he said with a smile as he hoisted his duffle bag over his shoulder.

The man—Mike, his nametag said—stared at him, his mouth opening, shutting. Then he frowned. I— Sir, the car Ms. Roberts booked for you is not exactly equipped with a lot of storage. He said the last word slowly.

It has a trunk, right? Benji asked as he grabbed the handle to his rolling luggage.

Technically.

Benji blinked, processing the response. When he found his voice, he said, What kind of car is it?

A Lamborghini, sir.

Of course it was. He would’ve laughed if it wasn’t so ridiculous. He was well over six feet tall and two hundred and thirty pounds. Granted, he knew of some NBA players who were taller than he who drove sports cars like that, but Benji never felt comfortable driving something so cramped. Or low to the ground. No wonder the guy was gaping at him