Page 14 of This is a Kissing Book

But that’s not who I am. I play right wing for the Ottawa Outlaws. We’re a brotherhood and the only way to win is if we do it together. Over the years, some players have come along who’re in it entirely for personal glory. Of course, we all want to do our best, but if we don’t operate as one unit, the whole thing goes off the rails, er, skates, as it were.

So why did I just tear into my new assistant? Simple: I don’t want to be here. I belong on the ice, not behind a desk, playing corporate theater. But it’s not like I have another option.

She dared me to get rid of her and I don’t blame her for not wanting to put up with my ugly mug every day. She probably had a nice office somewhere else in the building—kept an adorable candid photo of her significant other with his arms around her and a bowl of seasonal candies on her desk.

I stagger. Hold on. Yes, she most certainly did. A desk covered in crinkly Lindt chocolate truffle wrappers. It can’t be. I glance over my shoulder with a quiet and unsettling certainty that the woman I flirted with on the phone when the call to my father got lost and misdirected is none other than the woman with the sweet-as-chocolate voice.

The intercom buzzes. I noticed Juliana ordinarily has the voice of a contented kitten, but when she talks to me, she sounds like she’s fixing for a cat fight. “Mr. Sullivan, a Sir Bīriņš the most highborn, undefeated, handsome, eternal herald of hockey …”

What is he doing here?

I break out in a sweat as, from the reception area, my teammate’s accented voice dictates his ridiculous—and fake—royal name to my assistant and very likely will follow up with a request for her number. The man is like a fly to pretty women. You can’t keep him away, yet somehow, despite his bombastic nature, he convinces the sweetest women to date him.

He’s going to take the snot out of me for occupying this office. Instead of sending him in, I press the intercom button. “Be right out.”

Smoothing my tie, I fling the double office doors open like I’m raiding a medieval castle. Only Bīriņš isn’t there.

My assistant stares at me apologetically. Biting her very plump lower lip, she says, “He asked if there was another entry.”

I do my best to seem unruffled. Having the guys barge in and blow the cover I’m trying to keep by blabbing about being a nepo baby or NHL player is the last thing I need.

“Where did he go?”

She points a slender finger toward the hall where the side entrance to my office is. Presumably, she told him.

“Thanks a lot, Yulia.”

She cocks her head. “Now you’re just stretching. Is that even a name?”

I crack my neck because she’s right. I could use a stretch. Hit the gym, run off this tension.

Her eyes narrow. “My name is Juliana.”

I’ll do my best to forget that and the unsettling gray of her eyes. Eyes like my favorite kind of ice, but they’re not at all cold.

Best to keep my distance. Feign indifference.

Giving my head a shake, I turn back to the problem at hand which includes but is not limited to tracking down my teammate, finding out why he’s here, and getting him to leave as discreetly as possible.

From behind, I hear the telltale creak of a chair.

Turning back to my office, I slam the doors and bear down on Bīriņš. With his hands clasped behind his head, he tilts back and kicks his huge, filthy boots on my desk.

“What are you doing here?” I hiss.

“Rescuing you.”

I wipe the dirt off the otherwise pristine surface. “I don’t need rescuing, but you will if you don’t take your grubby boots off my desk.”

He chuckles and doesn’t move, but his gaze skirts the door to the reception area. “In that case, I’m here to save the damsel who you’re keeping locked up in this ivory tower.”

“She’s not locked in? Damsel?” Feeling wrapped around the spokes, I try to get my head on straight. “Bīriņš, you can’t be here.”

In his ribald and stilted way, he says, “It’s officially summer. A beautiful day. My cousins and I are going full throttle on the lake.”

“I told you, I have to—” Read reports? Populate spreadsheets? Make my father another million?

“Icing on the Lake is gassed up, the cooler is stocked, we’re just waiting for you, eighty-three.”