Page 2 of Power Play Daddies (Miami Icemen #1)

CHAPTER ONE

Daisy

Janice leans against the edge of my desk, arms crossed, her expression as grim as the coffee I forgot to sweeten this morning.

“Two days, Daisy,” she says, her voice low but firm. “Still nothing from your uncle?”

I shake my head, not meeting her gaze. “I’m working on it.”

Janice sighs, rubbing her temple. “You know they’re already talking layoffs upstairs, right? The higher-ups are… less than optimistic. It’s not a secret anymore.”

“Yeah, I’ve noticed,” I mutter, twirling a pen between my fingers. “Everyone’s walking around here like they’re on death row.”

She gives me a look, equal parts exasperation and pity. “Listen, I’m not trying to pile on, but you’re our last hope. If you can get the Icemen, it might be enough to pull us out of this mess. If not…”

“I’ll figure it out.” I sit up straighter, trying to sound more confident than I feel. “I’ll find a way in.”

“I hope you do.” Janice pushes off the desk, smoothing her blazer. “But don’t burn yourself out, okay? You can’t save the whole company on your own.”

“Right,” I say, watching her walk away. “No pressure or anything.”

By the time I make it to my office, I’m ready to scream into a pillow. Instead, I push the door open and come to a halt when I see Logan lounging in my chair, spinning it back and forth like a kid at an arcade.

“Make yourself at home,” I say, dropping my bag on the floor.

“I already did,” he replies with a grin. “Rough meeting?”

“Understatement of the year.” I flop into the chair opposite him. “What’s up?”

“Thought you might need a drink after your meeting with Janice. There’s no way you’re ready to go home and relax after one of her pep talks.”

I glance down at my outfit—plain black slacks and a wrinkled blouse I regret putting on this morning. “I’m not exactly dressed for the club, Logan.”

“Neither am I,” he says, gesturing to his equally boring office attire. “But who cares? It’s Friday. Let’s hit Finnegan’s. They don’t give a damn what we’re wearing.”

I hesitate for a second, but honestly, he’s got a point. “Fine. One drink.”

“Two,” he counters, standing up and grabbing his bag.

“Don’t push it,” I warn, but I’m already following him out the door.

Finnegan’s is exactly what I need tonight—dim lighting, sticky floors, and a jukebox in the corner that hasn’t been updated since the early 2000s. The crowd’s a mix of locals and office workers like us, all looking for an escape.

We grab seats at the bar, and Logan orders us two beers.

“Cheers to surviving another week in hell,” he says, clinking his bottle against mine.

“Barely,” I say before taking a sip. The cold beer is a welcome distraction, if only for a minute.

“So,” Logan starts, leaning on the bar, “what’s the plan? How are you gonna pull off this Icemen miracle?”

“I’ve got no idea,” I admit, setting my bottle down. “But I’ve been thinking… what if we’re going about this all wrong? Like, what if the problem isn’t just the content but the format?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Go on.”

“Okay, hear me out,” I say, warming up to the idea. “What if we switch from print to digital? Scrap the print edition altogether and go fully online. We could cut costs, reach a bigger audience, and?—”

“Hold up.” Logan raises a hand. “You wanna take a magazine that’s been in print for, what, fifty years, and just… ditch it? You’re nuts.”

“Maybe,” I admit, “but think about it. Who even buys paper copies anymore? Everyone’s online. Take the sports section, for example. We could do live game updates, interactive articles, video content—stuff you can’t do in print.”

Logan takes a sip of his beer, considering. “You know, that’s not the worst idea I’ve ever heard. But convincing the old farts upstairs? Good luck with that.”

“Yeah, I know. They’re stuck in the Stone Age.” I take another sip, feeling a little more hopeful now that I’ve said it out loud. “But if we don’t do something drastic, we’re screwed. This might be our only shot.”

Logan’s phone buzzes on the bar, and he glances at the screen. “Hold that thought. It’s Henry.”

“Tell him I say hi.” I wave him off.

Logan steps away to take the call, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the noise of the bar. I sip my beer, staring at the neon sign above the bar that flickers every few seconds.

Slim would probably disapprove of my life choices right now , I think with a smirk. But at least I’ve got one ally in this mess. Logan has always stood by me, even when I didn’t deserve his loyalty.

Logan slides back onto his stool, practically glowing. “Henry’s here!”

I blink at him. “What?”

“He’s in town! The sneaky bastard flew in to surprise me. He’s waiting at the hotel right now.”

“That’s amazing!” I grin at him, genuinely happy.

“I hate to bail on you, though.” He frowns, shoving his phone in his pocket. “I mean, we haven’t even finished a drink.”

“Logan, seriously, go!” I wave him off. “Your husband flew in to surprise you. I’m not about to stand in the way of that.”

“You’re the best.” He leans over and gives me a quick hug. “I owe you big time.”

“I’ll collect. Go.”

With one last grin, he rushes out, leaving me alone at the bar. I take a sip of my beer, relaxing into the buzz of the room.

Then the karaoke machine starts up.

I don’t know who chose it, but the opening notes of a ridiculously cheesy love song blast through the speakers. A drunken guy stumbles to the mic, slurring his way through the first line.

“Oh, no,” I mutter under my breath, trying not to laugh.

I glance toward the stage, and that’s when I see him.

Dark brown hair, messy like he’s been running his hands through it all night. A black leather jacket over a white T-shirt, ripped jeans, boots scuffed to hell. He’s leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, and there’s this look on his face—like he’s trying not to cringe at the singing.

And then he looks at me.

His lips curve into a slow smile, and my stomach flips.

Holy shit. It’s Beau Callahan. Beau “Blaze” Callahan.

I try to play it cool, but when he stands up and starts walking toward me, I’m pretty sure I forget how to breathe.

“Hey,” he says, stopping in front of me. His voice is low, a little rough.

“Hi,” I manage, my own voice surprisingly steady.

“I’m Beau.”

“I know.” Crap. That sounded weird. “I mean… uh, I’m Daisy.”

He chuckles, the sound warm and deep. “Nice to meet you, Daisy.” He glances toward the door. “Your boyfriend ditched you?”

I laugh, shaking my head. “That was my friend. He went to meet his husband.”

“Ah.” His smile widens, and he motions to the stool next to me. “Mind if I sit?”

“Not at all.”

He slides onto the stool, signaling the bartender. “So, Daisy, you from around here?”

“Yeah. You?”

“For now.” He orders a whiskey, neat. Of course, he would drink whiskey.

“Work?” I ask.

“Something like that.” I can tell he’s deliberately avoiding the topic, so I decide to abandon that line of conversation.

The guy at the mic hits a high note—badly—and we both wince.

“Wow,” I say, biting back a laugh.

“That’s one way to clear a bar,” he says, smirking. I laugh, and he glances at my beer. “Not a whiskey fan?”

“Beer’s cheaper,” I say with a shrug.

“Fair enough.” He lifts his glass, and I clink my bottle against it.

For a while, we talk about nothing and everything. I tell him about Slim, and he tells me about the Doberman he had as a kid.

His smile is easy, his laugh infectious, and there’s an energy between us that makes the rest of the bar fade away. Neither of us talks about our jobs, and I have a feeling he has no interest in talking hockey.

“So, karaoke,” he says, leaning back in his stool. “What’s your go-to?”

“‘I Will Survive,’” I say without hesitation.

He laughs. “Classic. I’m more of a ‘Friends in Low Places’ guy.”

“Predictable.”

“Says the woman who picked Gloria Gaynor.”

We keep trading jabs, his grin getting wider with every comeback. When the bartender comes by, he orders us a round of shots.

“To surviving bad karaoke,” he says, raising his glass.

“To surviving this night,” I counter, and we knock them back.

As the night goes on, the conversation gets more playful, the touches more deliberate—a hand on my knee, his fingers brushing mine as he passes me a napkin.

“You’re trouble,” he says, his voice dropping.

“Me? You’re the one buying the shots,” I shoot back, grinning.

He leans in, his blue eyes locking on mine. “Fair point.”

By the time last call rolls around, we’re leaning into each other, his arm draped casually over the back of my stool.

“I should get us an Uber,” he says, pulling out his phone.

“Us?”

“You don’t think I’m letting you walk home, do you?”

I raise an eyebrow. “Chivalrous for a guy who just dared me to take two tequila shots in a row.”

He laughs, tapping on his phone. “Come on, Trouble. Let’s get out of here.”

Moments later, we slide into the backseat of the Uber, and before I can say anything, he turns to me.

“I’ve been dying to do this,” he murmurs, and then his lips are on mine.

The kiss is slow, deliberate, like he’s savoring every second. His hand slips to the back of my neck, pulling me closer, and I melt into him.

“God, you’re dangerous,” he mutters, his lips brushing against my jaw.

I laugh softly, my hands sliding up his chest. “You started it.”

He groans and pulls me into his lap. His hands grip my thighs as he kisses me like he’s got nowhere else to be.

“Come home with me,” he whispers, his breath hot against my ear.

“Yes.”

It’s not even a question.