Merry Kissmas, page 1
Merry Kissmas
Piper Rayne
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
© 2024 by Piper Rayne®
Piper Rayne® registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
Cover Design and Illustrator: By Hang Le
1st Line Editor: Joy Editing
2nd Line Editor: My Brother’s Editor
Proofreader: My Brother’s Editor
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About Merry Kissmas
Six years ago, he was her one-night stand, and now they’re sharing a villa for the holidays.
* * *
I thought I was over him. That his good looks and British accent couldn’t affect me anymore. But the minute our eyes lock across the elevator, all those feelings come roaring back to life.
* * *
Then I find out we’re competing for the same job.
* * *
Next comes the realization that we have to spend a week together on a ski vacation because of some six-degree-of-separation nonsense.
* * *
The real kicker is when I find out the two of us have to share a villa. A very small, very cozy villa.
* * *
Needless to say, this Christmas getaway is starting off rockier than the mountains we’ll be skiing down.
* * *
I’ve stayed away for years, what’s one week? But I forgot how much easier it is to ignore him with an ocean separating us—especially when he’s determined to win me back.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Epilogue
Also by Piper Rayne
Cockamamie Unicorn Ramblings
About Piper & Rayne
Chapter One
Brynn
I’m not off the plane and in the taxi for more than a minute when my watch vibrates.
Mom.
I should’ve known. Ever since my siblings and I agreed to give her the ability to track us as an early Christmas gift, she’s been texting or calling whenever I’ve hit a pit stop on my journey from Portland to New York City.
I send her to voicemail and dig my phone out of my purse to send her a quick text.
Hey, I’m in the taxi. Will call you when I get to the hotel.
Just wanted to wish you good luck on the job interview!
Thanks.
Can’t wait to see you. The snow makes for great skiing here. Your snowboard made it safe and sound.
My thumbs hover over the phone. I love my mom, but this is her way of finding out if I’m still upset about spending Christmas in a mountain resort town in Utah instead of my childhood home outside Portland, Oregon. My older brother, Tre, and his wife, Tessa, were the ones to bring up this winter escape to Utah. There was a family vote in October, and needless to say, I was the single one who voted to stay home.
Who cares about a lifetime of traditions? None of my family obviously.
Can’t wait to hit the slopes.
The three dots appear immediately.
Love you. Remember, they’d be lucky to get you.
Me: Thanks. Love you too.
I tuck my phone inside my purse and sit back in the taxi, admiring Christmastime in New York City. It doesn’t come close to comparing to my small hometown of Climax Cove, but I chalk up my comparison to the sourness I feel about not getting my way.
That damn expectation from being the baby of the family popping back up.
The city glitters under the glow of colorful holiday lights. Strands of garland and wreaths hang on storefronts as shoppers bundled in heavy coats and wool hats hustle in and out with handfuls of shopping bags.
I jerk forward in my seat when the cab stops at a red light. The driver is busy honking his horn, yelling at the guy in front of him, while I admire the windows of a department store alive with animated dancing ballerinas.
There’s a pulse to the season here, even in the gridlock of traffic, that isn’t present in Climax Cove. The city is alive, exciting, and electric. The holidays are everywhere you look.
But I’m not sure I can see myself living here.
There’s a reason I decided to take a position with a marketing firm in Portland after college. I want to be close to my family, and New York City is about as far away as I can get. Sure, I have one brother, Carter, here, but everyone else is out west, and I love Oregon so much.
That said, there’s also no way I was going to pass up an interview to be a marketing director with one of the biggest advertising firms in New York City. Who would have thought Enzo Mancini would call me, a twenty-five-year-old fresh face in the industry, off a referral from a mutual client? Not me.
The cab stops beside the curb in front of the hotel. I pay with my phone then step out, grabbing my suitcase and thanking the doorman when he opens the door.
The luxurious hotel lobby has been decorated with an elaborate array of twinkle lights, red bows, and more poinsettias than I’ve ever seen in one place in my life. Holiday music rings out, and a Christmas tree with fake snow on each branch and matching ornaments in red and green sits right in the middle.
I roll my suitcase over the marble floor, heading to the reception area to check in. After the attendant there gives me my room keys, I follow his instructions to the bank of elevators and press the up arrow.
More people join me in waiting while others walk past, and soon, I feel crowded in the small space like a herd of cattle at feeding time. The elevator dings, the doors open, and a rush of people file out before I’m shoulder-to-shoulder with strangers, moving toward the open doors and vying for a spot.
“What floor is everyone?” a man with a British accent asks, but I can’t see his face because a guy I have to assume is a professional basketball player stands in front of me.
“Fifteen please,” I squeak out.
“Done,” he says.
Other people call out their floors, and I say a small prayer on our way up that we aren’t over the weight limit. I’m not claustrophobic or scared of elevators, but the words death and trap come to mind.
The elevator stops at every single floor, and finally the man who might be taller than the Christmas tree in the lobby exits. I inhale a deep breath after being stuck in the corner. But the problem is, when I look around at who is left, the first person I get an eyeful of is the British man who took up the impromptu job of elevator operator. He’s leaning with his back against the wall, ankles crossed, his head buried in his phone.
I freeze for a split second, and the air all rushes out of my lungs because I know exactly who he is.
I look left and right, as if I can escape before he sees me, but it’s not a scene from Mission Impossible. Although I don’t consider myself completely risk averse, I’m not up for the whole “opening the hatch to the elevator and climbing out the top” thing. As I’m about to turn around to give him my back, hoping he gets off on a floor before me, the elevator stops, and he glances up to check which floor we’ve stopped on.
Our eyes meet, and the affable look on his face transforms into shock first, confusion second, and finally settles on wariness.
I lift my hand and wave like an idiot, but hello, surprises make me antsy, especially the bad kind.
Chapter Two
Pierce
Why my cousin loves this city, I have no clue. He should have stayed in London with me. With the way people push and crowd onto the elevator, you’d think the world is ending, and this thing is going to teleport us all to safety. And when did people stop having manners and common courtesy?
Of course, I get a spot right by the elevator buttons and have to chance getting everyone’s winter cold by pressing every number from two to sixty.
As I wait for my floor, I don’t want to engage in conversation, so I bury my head in my phone as if I’m someone important who can’t spend a minute on an elevator without someone demanding my time.
The fine hairs rise along the back of my neck, and I get the distinct sensation that someone is staring at me. The elevator dings, giving me an excuse to look up, and bloody hell, I can’t believe who’s looking back at me. It can’t be her.
Yet I know it is.
Long dark hair, brown eyes that drew me in all those years ago at the pub where we first met. I’ve thought of her too many times to count over the years. She’s gorgeous now, whereas I would have described her as cute and adorable back then.
Brynn lifts her hand up warily as if she thinks I’ve forgotten her. Never.
The doors shut, and the elevator lifts, along with my stomach.
All these years between us, and now she’s standing in front of me.
I’m not a man accustomed to losing his ability to speak. Hell, I’m a professor, or at least I was a professor, of marketing.
“Hello, Brynn.” I pocket my phone and step closer.
She steps back.
So, she still hates me. Got it.
“Hello, Mr.…Pierce.”
I chuckle because that was our exact problem, wasn’t it? Who exactly was I to her? Not who I wanted to be, that’s for sure, but there was a lot riding on my future when we first met.
“How have you been?” I ask.
That’s the best I can do? I sound like a complete prat.
I really hate the judgmental arse who lives inside my head.
“Good.”
Brynn looks next to her, where a petite woman is staring between the two of us, watching our interaction. Her smile is wide and welcoming as if we’re a show, and she won first row seats.
“You?” Brynn asks, looking away from the woman.
“Good.”
So, we’re both good. That’s good.
“What are you…” she asks at the same time I ask, “Do you live here?”
You knob. Why would she be at a hotel with luggage if she lived here?
“My cousin lives here,” I answer first, with the hopes she’ll forget what I asked her.
“Nice. No, I’m here for…well, I don’t live here.”
So, she’s being dodgy about why she’s here. Interesting. I didn’t speak all my truth either, so I can’t fault her.
“Fifteen!” a man calls when the elevator stops and the doors start to open.
Brynn smiles. The same one she’d give me in front of Professor Jorgensen. There’s not one genuine muscle working in her face right now.
“It was nice seeing you. Enjoy your holiday.” She wheels out her suitcase.
I almost don’t get off because I don’t want to seem stalkerish. But my room is on this floor, and it’s absurd that I’m worried what she’ll think when we’ll likely go another six years without seeing one another again.
“Actually, this is my floor too.” I step out, the doors shutting behind me.
“Oh, well…” She looks at the signs for which direction to head for her room. “I’m this way.”
“Me too,” I say, shaking my head, following her.
“This is getting weird.” She stops so abruptly I almost trip over her suitcase but catch myself. “What room are you in?”
“Fifteen-thirty-one.”
She pulls out her keycard envelope, and her jaw opens when she holds it up at me. “Fifteen-thirty-three.”
Meaning we’re sharing a wall. How wonderful. I get to spend the night thinking about how she’s only feet away from me. This year keeps giving over and over again.
I’m not sure what to say before we part, but that arse inside my head speaks up before I can stop him. “Want to get a drink?”
She’s quiet, and the regret of asking sinks deeper into my skin as if it’s a toxin that’s making my temperature rise.
“Sorry, I’m super tired from my flight. But I’m sure with that accent of yours, you’ll find someone to join you in no time.” She turns and aggressively tugs her suitcase down the hall.
I follow her. “Not everyone loves a British accent.”
She stops at her door, and I stop at mine, then our eyes lock. “Let’s not pretend I’m the only American girl you’ve had in your bed.”
“You’re not the only one, but you were the best.”
She huffs, and her eyes, perfectly lined with a dark eyeliner, narrow. “And here I thought maybe you’d changed. Lost that cocky attitude of yours.”
“On the contrary, I’m paying you a compliment, not myself.” I pull out my keycard, and she raises hers, both of our cards hovering just above the locks.
“Well, it wasn’t what happened in the bed that you needed to work on. It was what happened afterward where you fell short.”
How have we possibly just gone from shock, to cordial, to throwing insults.
“I see you’re still as immature as a teenage girl.”
She scoffs as if I can’t make a dig at her. “Sorry I wasn’t one of the groupies following you around campus. I had higher goals than being your Wednesday night girl.”
I shake my head, frustration mounting because she’ll never understand that what happened with us wasn’t all under my control. “Bloody hell, I was your TA. What did you want me to do?”
Are we really going to have this knockdown, drag-out fight in the hallway of a hotel?
“Treat me like I wasn’t just some girl who landed in your bed that you could just toss to the side. I was just as shocked as you when I got into that classroom,” she whisper-shouts as if we’re back at the university with ears all around.
“It was my first year, I was trying to make a good impression. The fact that I slept with a student wasn’t going to win me any brownie points with the professor. There are rules in place.” The anger and frustration I felt then that my hands were tied, that there wasn’t anything I could do about my feelings for Brynn, rises to the surface. Especially because I felt something I hadn’t felt with any other woman prior.
“It was a conversation, Pierce. I never asked you to sleep with me in secret.” She scans her keycard, and I want to rip it out of her grip, not let her step into that room and disappear from my life again. She twists the doorknob, and my stomach sinks.
“Let me buy you a drink,” I blurt like a bumbling fool.
Her laugh echoes through the hallway. “Funny, that’s what you said to me the first time we met. But I’m not as foolish as you seem to assume, and I don’t repeat my mistakes. Happy holidays, Pierce. I do hope Santa brings you some coal for your stocking.” Her smile is sarcastic, and she walks into her room, the door slamming behind her.
Goddamn it. I slide my own keycard into the lock and disappear into my room.
This is not what I need the night before the most important interview of my life.
Chapter Three
Brynn
I ditch my suitcase by the dresser and throw myself on the bed.
Seriously, universe? You pick right now to bring him back into my life?
I scramble to get up, grabbing my purse and digging for my phone. I need to talk to someone about what just happened.
Then I realize, I never told anyone about Pierce. And I don’t feel like going into the embarrassing story about how little Brynn was a foolish girl thinking one weekend spent with a guy she met in a different country was some form of kismet.
I shake my head at that version of me’s idiotic idea that the first guy she picked up at a pub was somehow waiting his entire life for her to walk through the door. As if there was a warm yellow glow lit behind her.
So naive.
So stupid.
So delusional.
But seeing him again stirs up all those feelings. His tall, lean, yet muscular frame still holds an air of confidence that he’s comfortable with himself. The way his eyebrows pinch together when he’s thinking about something. His stupid defined jawline and strong nose. He’s damn perfection, and even though it’s been years, the sight of him makes me draw a shallow breath.
