Hard Luck by Liv Morris

my entire gazillion dollar Northwestern education with Uncle Sam.
    I climb out of the cab onto the circle driveway entrance and wait for Brady to follow. Placing his hand on my back and pressing against me, he begins to walk forward with me in tow, heading toward the front entrance. A couple passes by us dressed in black formal attire. They give Brady a semi-smile. When they glance at me, their faces go blank and I feel suddenly out of place in my off the rack dress—at least my shoes rock.
    A uniformed man opens the glass entrance door. “Good evening, Mr. Luck. In for the night?” he asks, and I believe he’s paid to do this task. Who knew rich people couldn’t handle a door by themselves?
    “Evening, Mario. And I’m not sure.” The man turns to me and winks with a teasing smile. Is he flirting with me? I blush at the thought. He has to be as old as my father.
    After a few steps, I ask, “What’s with him? He seems to know you pretty well.”
    “He’s my doorman. I live here too,” Brady confesses, and now I understand the wink.
    “Oh no! He thinks I’m your number two-hundred and something.” I stop in the middle of the marble lobby of the building with my hands on my hips. I don’t want Mario, the doorman, to see me as just another conquest. I don’t want to look cheap and stupid.
    “Don’t worry, he’ll be seeing a lot of you.” Brady tips a corner of his lips up and nods his head.
    “He will?” I ask. “What’s going on?”
    “Come with me,” he says while taking my hand.
    I gasp at the intimate touch and look down at where our hands are joined. His large one covers mine to where his fingers are all I see. The warmth of his touch spreads through me as I glance up at his face. He’s gazing down at me with an expression I can’t read. I wonder if he feels the buzz between us, or is it just me?
    He tips his head, directing me forward, and I’m powerless to hold my ground or ask more questions. We walk to a bank of elevators and I expect him to drop my hand since I’m complying with his wishes, but he doesn’t. Instead, he stands closer to me and brings my hand to his side where it grazes the denim of his jeans. I push my hand against his leg and feel steel once again.
    “You know, you’re like Superman,” I blurt out before thinking.
    “I wish I had his X-ray vision,” Brady says with a smirk. I roll my eyes. Of course he does. Jerk.
    “You’re disgusting,” I say through gritted teeth, pulling my hand out of his grasp. To think I was about to compliment his hard body. As if.
    “I’m just being honest. What man wouldn’t want that?” I roll my eyes and turn away to hide a smile, because Brady’s right. All men are animals, though some are more domesticated than others. Players like Brady never change their spots—or is it stripes? He’s just like Mitchell. Living for action now that he’s in the big leagues.
    We enter the elevator and I take the wall opposite from Brady, needing space to breathe and think. Plus, I get a better view of him from a distance, and he’s a gorgeous sight to gawk at in his navy sport coat. Brady swipes a keycard, then pushes the PH button.
    “Penthouse?” I ask, though I’m not surprised. The professional sports lifestyle is totally out of my league—and ninety-nine percent of the earth’s population. Hell, I can barely afford my one-bedroom apartment in Wrigleyville.
    “Top floor,” Brady flashes a million-dollar grin, likely what his Coach’s apartment costs and then some.
    “Does your coach give the access card out to all the guys or are you just special?” I raise my brow in challenge.
    “Just the ones who live across the hall from him.”
    “What? You’re kidding me,” I say, bringing my hand to my chest. He shakes his head at me and laughs.
    He gets perks all right. No wonder he’s so conceited. He is to-die-for handsome, has a big cock—when it’s working—and can afford a place high above this city. At only twenty-five,