Grinder

GRINDER Vegas Venom: Book Three By Colleen Charles Table of Contents GRINDER Foreword Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Epilogue BENDER SNEAK PEEK Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Copyright To my paternal grandpa, Russell, the inspiration for Mr. Russell. I’ll never forget your galoshes, your clip on sunglasses, your penchant for Cadillacs or our shared love of reading on the ‘davenport’. Thank you for inspiring my unending love of the written word. And to my sister’s college boyfriend, Craig, who did her dirty. Karma’s a bitch, my friend. If you didn’t want to end up as the king of flatulence in a romance novel, you should have considered that authors have very long memories. Foreword Click Here to Subscribe to my Newsletter. Receive email notices about new book releases, sales, and special promotions. New subscribers receive an EXCLUSIVE FREE BOOK as a special gift. Prologue Scarlett Four years earlier… I’ve spent most of my evening hovering around Dante Giovanetti while rapid sips of champagne slide easily down my throat. Getting an interview or even a statement with the owner of the Vegas Venom would be a real coup for a female sports journalist new on this beat. Despite his reputation for being a pain in the ass, I’d love the chance to pick his brain about his plans for the team. For an owner, he’s pretty hands-on, which—depending on who you ask—is either a novel approach or an absolute nightmare. Rumors swirl about the origins of his substantial fortune. Say what you will about the man, but he’s interesting, he’s always good for a controversial soundbite, and he’s put together a phenomenal team despite his limited hockey experience. I wouldn’t mind a chance to interview Anders Beck or Cash Hale, either. They’re both excellent players known to be generous with the press. A stunning, three-tiered, crystal chandelier twinkles overhead as glamorous people mill about. I’m encased in a too-tight, one-shoulder, black-ruched cocktail dress that hugs my ample curves to perfection, but even as the exquisite bubbly teases my senses, my head is still square in the game. I spot one of my targets, Anders Beck, leaning casually against a far wall talking to Noah Abbott. After taking a few determined steps, I stutter to a stop. The new Venom right-winger who’s fresh off the airplane after a trade—the reason for this welcome banquet—appears, and the world tilts on its axis. Every horny cell of my body zeros in on the man. From his chiseled jaw to his smiling eyes and all the way down to the mouthwatering way those suit pants hug every curve of his ass… Down, girl. I have a reputation to maintain. Professional. Smart. Determined. Unflappable. Maybe even a little bit frosty. But a wave of heat threatens to melt it all away. I know it’s unwise to mix business with pleasure, but when a man like Latham Newberry walks into a room, wisdom goes right out the window. My podcast, Scarlett Says, is one of the breakout hockey podcasts in the nation, and my numbers are only growing, which is why my agent sent me to Vegas. I’ve even had some interest from major sports stations that want to diversify their media coverage. The number one way to lose all my credibility? Sleep with a player. Sleeping with a player on the media night celebrating the fact that he just got traded to the Vegas Venom when they’re predicted to be in the Stanley Cup finals? The creamy whipped topping on the ice cream sundae of Don’t Do It, Girl. So don’t sleep with him, my hormones whisper. Just walk up to him and tell him you admire his play and then… lick him a little. Right on his neck. He probably won’t even notice. Ugh, why do I turn into an absolute puddle like a schoolgirl with a crush the second I see this particular player? Latham Newberry has an extremely lickable throat. I bet his abs are equally yummy. There are plenty of other places I’d like to lick him, too, given half a chance. With a heavy sigh, I admit it. I’ve always had a thing for the man. When I heard about this trade, it didn’t hurt my feelings despite the Venom giving up their first-round draft pick to seal the deal. The prospect of talking about him on the air every time I’m behind the mic excites me more than I care to admit. There’s just something about him. He fires my libido like no other hockey player ever has. The itch to do something reckless is right there, clawing at me from just below the surface. The urge hits me just as Latham finishes a conversation with Coach Brenig and turns to me and… Oh. My. God. His eyes meet mine, and his lips curl up in a slow, panty-dropping smile. He lifts his hand in greeting, the way you do when you see someone in the grocery store, and you know that you know them but you can’t recall from where. Without missing a beat, he begins walking my way. Does he actually know who I am? Maybe he’s listened to my podcast? Our gazes stay snapped together like two missing puzzle pieces as my knees give a little wobble just to let me know they’re struggling to support me. Even if I was thinking logically enough to run away before making a bad decision, there’s nowhere for me to go. I’m standing on my own in the middle of a party being thrown in his honor, wearing a thigh-high dress along with strappy, fire-engine-red stilettos that make me impossible to ignore, eye-fucking him from the far side of the room. Of course, he’s