Countdown to a Kiss

by Piper Rayne

  “I have to take care of this. I’ll meet you back at the party.”

  The girl pretend pouts and I sigh, waiting. “Not too long. You promised me a midnight kiss.” She gets up on her tiptoes and kisses his cheek, leaving lipstick on his face.

  I wait for her to finally leave, annoyed that this is my job after everything. I took this job as a means to pay rent and every time I try to leave, Mr. Jacobs throws more money at me. Turns out not every PR rep is willing to put their own life on hold. So, here I am in Florida on New Year’s to pick up his adult son and drag him back to the man like I’m a bail bondswoman.

  Once she’s gone, he unbuckles his pants and tucks in his shirt right in front of me.

  “Why don’t you do that somewhere else?” I ask.

  “Oh come on. It’s nothing you haven’t seen before. Well, smaller versions at least.”

  He laughs and I sigh.

  “Your dad wants you home,” I say.

  He stops with his fingers on the buttons. “He sent you to fetch me?”

  I nod.

  He inhales a deep breath. Among the Jacobs family, it’s no secret that Ford and his dad don’t see eye-to-eye. They hate one another and Ford pokes Mr. Jacobs, loving the reaction he gets in return. From what his sister, Imogen, told me, it has to do with Ford being the only son and not wanting to take over the company. Kind of a classic story, but I’m not sure why Ford is so adamant about making a spectacle of himself. He’s playing professional hockey, put your nose down and play and be happy. His dad would leave him alone then.

  “Well, sorry, I’m not going. Papa Bear is going to be disappointed.” He finishes getting himself presentable and it’s like he’s got magic dust the way he went from rumpled to gorgeous.

  “You have to come. The jet is at the airport. We can stop and get your stuff if you want.”

  He slides his hands into his pockets and looks at me. “Why should I?”

  “Because your dad is asking,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest.

  He nods but I can tell he’s thinking about something behind those sparkling eyes of his and I’m positive I’m not going to like whatever it is.

  “It’s going to look pretty shitty when you show up without me, huh?” He smirks and I give him my best evil stare.

  “Let’s just make this easy. Come home, Ford.”

  He shrugs, keeping his hands in his pockets. “I’m not sure I want to.”

  “I know you don’t want to but if you don’t go to him, he will come down here eventually and most likely surprise you.”

  “Man, you know him well.” At least he looks like he’s considering what I’m saying.

  “I know your stint two nights ago broke another glass in his office.”

  “I’ll have to remember that come Christmas.”

  “Ford.” I say his name with the last ounce of patience I have.

  “Boyd.”

  I wait it out and he laughs.

  “Okay, I’ll go with you. On one condition.” He holds up a finger and I sigh because this will not be good.

  “I’m not going skinny dipping with you,” I say.

  “I’d never ask a woman to strip in front of me if she wasn’t comfortable.”

  “Good to know.”

  “However...” He raises his finger again. “Since you rudely interrupted me just now, I’m left with no one to kiss at midnight.”

  “I think you’ll deal.” I tighten my arms around myself.

  “Everyone needs to kiss someone at midnight.”

  “Why?”

  He laughs again. “You could use some luck when it comes to love, couldn’t you?” he asks. His eyes roam down my body. “I mean you were available to fly down here on New Year’s Eve in leggings and a sweatshirt. Surely, you want to find someone to love?”

  “I don’t believe in superstitions.”

  He steps closer. “Maybe this is your year.”

  I step back and put my hand up. “If you don’t want to come home, I’m fully comfortable telling your dad you refused.”

  “Are you really, Boyd?” He makes a clicking sound with his mouth. “I don’t believe you.” He continues to approach me, and I retreat.

  “Stop playing games, Ford.”

  He holds up his hands. “I’m just doing both of us a favor. We don’t want an entire year of nothing.”

  “Are you insinuating you want to find love this year?” I raise an eyebrow and an evil laugh falls out of him.

  “Hell no, but I do want to be lucky.”

  “Gross. So, if I kiss you at midnight, you come home without any problems. You’re not going to run away at the airport, are you?”

  He holds up his hands. “I’m strapped in right next to you.”

  Kissing Ford isn’t the worst thing I could do to get him home. He’s calling my bluff because I do not want to show up tomorrow to Mr. Jacobs without Ford. Now that I’m used to living on the salary from Mr. Jacobs, I can’t very well get fired and pay my rent and other expenses.

  “Fine.”

  He doesn’t make a move and I have no idea how close we are to midnight. Ford lifts his wrist and his expensive silver watch glistens under the moonlight. “You’ve got about twenty-five minutes. Make the most of it because you’ll never be the same after you’ve been kissed by Ford Jacobs.”

  “Excuse me while I throw up.”

  He laughs and swings his arm around my shoulders. “Take me home, Boyd.”

  We walk along the side of the mansion and down to the Uber that I had stay, all while my stomach erupts with butterflies that Ford’s lips will be on mine. Damn traitors.

  Chapter Eight

  Aiden

  Joran’s always a great ego boost. The man makes you feel like you’re the first man to walk on the moon half the time. Like you’re the smartest, most athletic, and most good-looking man in the room.

  “You have to just loosen up. I wanted you here so that you could have a few drinks, dance with some ladies, be chill and cool and confident. Your game is bound to return.”

  I hate that word—return. Like my skills to score are stuck in some dense fog that no one can find them in.

  He walks faster than I skate, I swear. Okay, slight exaggeration, but we don’t need to charge through a mansion like we’re paramedics in a rush to save a life.

  As soon as we reach Mr. Gerhardt, he’s talking with someone and Joran stops on a dime and thrusts his hand out like the mom safety belt when I was twelve in the front seat of our conversion van. Yes, we were that family.

  “Hold up.” He flags down a waitress and grabs a glass of champagne, staring down at my hand. “Why don’t you have a drink?”

  I shrug.

  “You need a drink. For God’s sake put a damn smile on your face.”

  I grin, fake of course. He groans. “Why must you twist my balls?”

  “I thought you had a fetish for that kinda thing.”

  I laugh but Joran doesn’t at first. Then he does because hello, I make him money. I’m his client. Don’t get me wrong, I need him. The man has come through with record deals for me. He knows exactly when to hold out and when to give in.

  “What do you want? Beer? Whiskey?”

  “You’d think you’d know what I drink. I mean, I do know that you like your balls twisted.”

  He’s too busy searching for someone to get me a drink to respond. Not sure why it matters if I’m drinking when I talk to Mr. Gerhardt. Do I apologize? Is it customary to apologize to your boss that you’re not producing like the player he’s paying a shit-ton for?

  “Let’s get serious now.”

  “I am serious. Technically, as my agent, you should know how I like my blow jobs too.”

  I’m fucking with Joran because I’m annoyed that I had to leave Saige. Spending time with her was the only part of the night I was enjoying so far. Just another instance of where my job gets in the way of getting the girl.

  But the fact that I have to be here at all because I need
to show my face and kiss ass is the only reason, I even met her. I always told myself I’d retire before my game slips. I wouldn’t be that has-been that people snicker at behind their backs. I’d retire on a high note. But I didn’t think my game would start sucking at twenty-eight.

  “Fine, if it’ll make you smile, point to any girl in here and she’ll meet you upstairs in five minutes.”

  Joran isn’t smiling and I’m pretty sure he’s dead serious. Sad isn’t it? Some guys probably take him up on the offer.

  I pretend to scan the crowd, no sign of Saige or her date. I’d like to see the lucky bastard who gets to take her home tonight. “I’m just joking,” I clap him on the shoulder.

  “Thank God, I haven’t had to do that since the nineties.”

  “Really?”

  He nods and runs his hand through his sandy blond hair like ‘you don’t want to know the stories I could tell you.’

  And I probably don’t. I’ve seen a lot of shit go down on my way to becoming a professional athlete.

  A waiter comes by with a beer in a glass for me. Joran shoves it into my fist right as Mr. Gerhardt ushers us over to talk to him like he’s holding court.

  Okay, smile, jackass, he’s your boss.

  “Aiden, it’s great to see you.” Mr. Gerhardt shakes my hand and I allow him to overpower my usual strength. It’s a tactic.

  “It’s a great house. Thank you for having me.”

  He smiles big and I catch sight of his silver cap, surprised it’s not made of gold or diamonds. Maybe he’s thrifty when it comes to his personal appearance.

  “I’m glad you could come. Let’s go for a walk.” He claps me on the shoulder and leads me the way I just came from outside to his balcony.

  “Sure thing.”

  “It’s a beautiful night.” Joran follows at our side, but Mr. Gerhardt puts up his hand. “You can stay here, Joran.”

  “Okay,” he says, and I glance over my shoulder. He looks like a scorned dog watching his entire family leave from the front window, desperate to get in the car with them.

  We’re outside before I can process and he’s rambling on about when he bought the Florida Fury. “It was in the dumps. They couldn’t fill seats. No one cared about hockey in the Sunshine State.” He holds out his arms, but right as he’s carrying on about the gorgeous weather here, Saige walks up the stairs. She stops for a moment when our eyes catch then propels herself forward and disappears through the doors. Unfortunately, she’s probably off to find her date. It should be rounding midnight soon.

  “Are you listening to me?” Mr. Gerhardt asks.

  I turn my attention away from the door and sip my beer, facing him. “Yes. It is hard to believe anyone from Florida wants to sit in a cold ice rink. I’m sure it was a tough sell.”

  “It was. I had to sell the community. The town. The state. And I’ve made them addicts for hockey now.”

  He’s right. The man made Florida Fury an empire down here. Still gives me shivers seeing my name and number on the back of some kid’s shirt.

  “And when I brought you down here, I got the respect of the fellow owners. I understand it must be hard to feel the pressure to perform. I might not be some world-class athlete, but I am a successful businessman and I have the pressure to pay my employees and I can’t do that without asses in the seats. And without wins, there are no fans. And in order to get wins, I need the guys I hire to perform.”

  I nod and swallow. “I understand. I know this hasn’t been my year so far.”

  “No, it hasn’t, but we’ve got some time to turn it around. Win me the Cup and all is forgiven.” His laugh is loud and jovial, but it’s laced with truth. Still, he wants me to win him the damn Cup when I can’t even score a goal these days?

  “I promise things will turn around.” I’m hoping I’m injecting enough enthusiasm into my voice to sell it, even if I’m not feeling confident.

  “Well, you have until the end of the season before your contract is up, so I hope you’re right. You’re the heart and soul of this team, I don’t want to lose you, but I want you to understand that it’s a business I’m running. Slump or not, I have to fill those seats.”

  I nod and press my lips together. “Understood.” The alcohol in my stomach turns sour after our conversation.

  There isn’t much else I can say to him. My word means nothing without the performance to back it up. I sip my beer with the hope this conversation is finally over.

  “You should know that I hired a shrink just now.”

  I choke on my beer, sputtering. “What?”

  He nods toward the mansion. “Yeah, she’s here and we talked, and she’s agreed to come on for the year. I think all the boys will get some use out of it. I don’t necessarily believe in the whole psychology thing. My first wife made me go to counseling and we still got divorced. But Joran thought it was a good idea too, so she’s starting in two weeks. I’ll put you at the top of the list.”

  I swallow my beer. “Great,” I squeak out.

  I’m fine with the therapy thing, although I think some players will not be so cool with it. But a psychologist is not going to fix my game. Figuring out whatever has turned my luck to shit will.

  “Glad we had this talk.” He slaps me on the shoulder. “I think of you like a son, Aiden.”

  Bullshit, I’m only his son when I’m scoring three goals a game. He knows it and I know it. So, if I want to stick around as the Florida Fury captain, I better get out of this funk right fucking now.

  Chapter Nine

  Saige

  Joran doesn’t even notice when I enter the house because he’s focused on Aiden and Mr. Gerhardt. Ten minutes later, he finds me at the bar. I really want to order a shot, but I request another glass of white wine instead.

  “Are you enjoying yourself?” His hand lands on the small of my back. He’s older than me and I wonder if that has something to do with the reason why he’s so entrenched in his work all the time, even though he asked me here as his date. Maybe he’s just grown accustomed to it over the years.

  “Yes.” It’s a polite answer but if he was my actual boyfriend, I would’ve had a piece of my mind to share with him. But it’s hard to stand on your moral high ground when you’ve been with another man exploring the grounds.

  “Good.” He glances up. “It’s almost midnight.”

  “A half hour,” I say, because I just checked while I was waiting for my drink. More because I’d like to leave this party and go home, pull the covers over my head and forget it ever happened.

  How can I be attracted to Aiden, a professional hockey player? My body should instinctively know he’s trouble. But instead of me pushing him into the back corner of my mind never to be found again, I keep running over our time outside together. The way he looked at me on the beach, how eager he seemed when I said yes to go out with him. It’s only tormenting me more.

  “I passed Mr. Gerhardt talking to someone on my way in a second ago.”

  Joran sighs, accepting his glass of dark liquid from the bartender. “Aiden Drake. He’s my client and things haven’t been going well for him lately.”

  “How so?”

  He holds his arm out for me to walk away, dropping a twenty in the tip jar. “The kid is one of those once-in-every-decade kind of players. Like he was born to play the sport. Although, he practices like no other person I’ve ever met, he’s been off the past few games.”

  “A few?”

  He blows out a breath. “Eight, to be exact.”

  “Oh,” I say, trying not to react too much. But I manage enough athlete accounts to know that when your game isn’t going well, the press and your fans usually start attacking you, which can’t make it any easier to get out of the funk.

  “Exactly. His contract is up this year and if he doesn’t turn this around, he’s either going to take less money, be called a has-been at twenty-eight, or even worse the other owners will say he never had it to begin with and he won’t get a contract—anywhere.”


  We find a corner in the room that most guests are in, but Joran keeps looking toward the back as though he can’t fully concentrate on our conversation. I think the only reason he’s telling me so much is because he’s worried.

  “And what does that say about me if the kid ends up not having the career everyone predicted? I took him on as a client. It means my eye isn’t good.”

  I sip my wine. Slightly disgusted with how athletes are bought and sold for their talent like cattle. Or maybe I’m holding a soft spot for the guy who must not enjoy the spotlight and wanted a quiet evening in for New Year’s Eve.

  “That’s beyond your control,” I say.

  “When athletes sign with me, whether good or bad, it says something about them just for the fact that I’m taking them on as clients. You probably don’t know this, but I’m considered the best in the business.”

  I don’t say anything to that. I don’t keep tabs on sports agents, but the ones I’ve met in my life, which has been more than most “normal people” in this world, says they’re all the same. It’s their reputation that matters most. They’re not necessarily always in it for the actual athlete’s best interests.

  His gaze strays once again toward the back door and I want to tell him to just go. That having half his attention isn’t any better than how we’ve spent most of the night—apart.

  “I’m sure he’ll turn his game around.”

  “You know athletes and their superstitions.” Boy, do I. But I would never tell Joran how familiar I am with superstitions because he might just walk away from me now. “Something happens, and they have a good game and then they need to recreate the exact scenario again thinking it’s why they won.”

  “Maybe he needs to find that again.” I offer advice I shouldn’t.

  “Aiden says he’s never needed a superstition or good luck charm. I think he’s the only person. His damn teammate ate Taco Bell for an entire week. I can’t even get Aiden to carry a damn rabbit’s foot around.”