Boss Girl (Minnesota Ice #2) Read online

  “Oh, of course not...” I smile at him, but he doesn’t return it. Instead, I find a sense of contentment there, a quiet calmness. “At the moment, I’m happy you’re excited to meet with me. I really believe that together, we can do great things, and—”

  Boxer gives a low laugh, and I stop talking.

  “I didn’t ask for a sales pitch,” he says in his deep voice. “Work doesn’t count. What else makes you happy?”

  I narrow my eyes at him, thinking on it. It’s harder than I’d like to admit.

  “I enjoy my spin classes in the morning,” I begin. “The endorphins make me happy.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Tell me something about you,” I say before he can pester me for more. “What’s something I should know about you?”

  “Oh, Miss Jones—”

  “Jocelyn.”

  “Anyone ever call you Joss?” Boxer asks. You seem more like a Joss.”

  I blink in surprise. “Only my dad.”

  “Well, your dad has good taste.”

  “Yes,” I agree, not bothering to correct Boxer with the correct tense. My dad had good taste. “I haven’t been called that since I graduated high school. It just didn’t seem as... professional.”

  “I get it. My name is Landon, but my brother called me Danny growing up. I prefer Boxer.”

  I size him up, pretending to study his physique. “You look like a Landon to me.”

  He gives a quiet laugh. “Only my mom calls me that.”

  I catch a drip of ice cream on my tongue before it falls to the ground, surprising myself with how long I’ve gone without looking at the clock. Even more surprising, I’m in no rush to leave. “What else should I know about you?”

  “I have a daughter,” Boxer says, his face lighting at the word. “Her name is Charli. Well, it’s Charlotte, but she’ll poke your eyes out if you call her that.”

  “A daughter.” Another drop of ice cream snakes down the side of my cone, but I’m not quick enough to stop it from skidding toward the ground. “Are you married?”

  “No. Never was, actually.” He stands and reaches a hand out to pull me to my feet as I finish the last of my cone. His has long since vanished. “Are you ready?”

  “How old is Charli?” I accept his proffered hand, allowing his giant one to engulf mine. His fingers are warm, gentle even, as he guides me onto the sidewalk.

  “She’s five, almost six. Hard to believe how fast the time goes.”

  “That it does. Do you have other children?”

  “It’s just the two of us at home.”

  “You’ve been raising her alone?”

  “For almost five years, yeah.”

  I shouldn’t pry, but I’m genuinely curious. “You can tell me to bug off if I’m being inappropriate, but I’m just curious how she came to be yours.”

  He laughs, and I realize the awkwardness of my question a beat too late. I don’t deal with kids often, and I’ve rarely considered having any of my own. Talking about children feels alien, so I cringe and apologize.

  “No, it makes sense, but that’s a funny way to ask it.” We walk side by side, Boxer’s face beaming at the mention of his daughter. “I don’t suppose Charli came to be mine—she’s always been mine.”

  “Of course.”

  “You’re not prying. This is what friends do,” Boxer explains. “As for Chali’s mom? We fell in love about seven years ago. I proposed, but she told me no.”

  “Why?” The word comes out a gasp, and immediately I’m awkward multiplied by ten. “Er... she wasn’t ready to get married?”

  “I suppose she was young and hopeful, among other things.” The blue of Boxer’s eyes darkens, masking a flash of hurt. “She liked the idea of dating a hockey player more than the reality of it. I tried to keep up with her—the parties, the events, the premiers, but that’s not me. Eventually, it wore us down.”

  “Oh.”

  “Then, Charli happened,” he says. “Nearly six years ago now. We tried to make it work for another year after she was born, but it only lasted a few months. Lauren—that’s her mother’s name—took off for greener pastures. Last I heard, she’s dating a football player in Miami.”

  “Oh, Boxer.”

  My hand reaches for his of its own accord, and I give a concise squeeze. I’ve never been much good at offering sympathy, but this feels right. And when the touch happens, a rush slides through me, a zing of excitement and sympathy and compassion.

  “I’m sorry that happened to you.” I pull my hand away before I lose my train of thought. “I really am.”

  “Why?” He looks at me in surprise. “I’m not sorry at all.”

  “But Lauren—”

  “It wasn’t the life for her,” he says. “But that’s okay—this is my life. I can’t imagine a day without Charli. If anything, I’m a very lucky man.”

  It’s a good thing I let go of his hand when I did. Otherwise, I might’ve slipped my fingers between his and left them there. I’m not known for my emotional intelligence or my ability to comfort my friends—I don’t expect sympathy from others, so I’ve never learned how to gift it in return.

  However, Boxer’s not looking for sympathy, and this throws me for a loop. I can’t think of the right words, so I settle for a smile and a nod.

  “Do you have kids?”

  “No,” I tell him. “None.”

  “Any desire?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” I shrug. It’s the truth; I haven’t thought about it much. “I haven’t figured out how to balance a career and a family yet, I suppose.”

  We approach his car, and he stops walking. “It’s not that hard.”

  “Of course it is! There are blogs and books and advice on the subject everywhere,” I say. “I’ve read half of them, and none of them make it sound easy.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you my theory.” Boxer opens the passenger door to his SUV, and I note a doll upside down on the backseat. “Hop in.”

  I slide in, brushing against his arm as I do so. A jolt shoots through me, just like the last time we touched. It jumbles my thoughts.

  “There you are,” he says, tucking the strap of my purse into the car. “You liked the ice cream?”

  “Loved it.”

  Boxer shuts the door, then makes his way to the driver’s seat. Once he’s settled, he looks across the center console, studying my face for a long minute. Eventually, I’m forced to look away—I pride myself on my ability to maintain eye contact in tricky situations, but this one is different. He’s not looking to intimidate, but to understand. In a world of business, this is unusual.

  “There are only a few things you need to know about me,” he begins, finally dropping his gaze from my eyes to my lips—for one moment only—before he looks through the window. “I’m a pretty simple guy.”

  “I’d beg to differ.”

  He grins. “Then you’re making this too difficult.”

  “Humor me,” I say, unable to hide my own smile. “What am I missing?”

  “I love my daughter more than anything,” he says. “And I love hockey a close second. That’s all there is to it.”

  “That’s...” I struggle to comprehend, stumbling for a response. “That doesn’t sound so simple at all.”

  “Well, there’s one more thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Ice cream,” he says. “It’s a close third.”

  Chapter 4

  Jocelyn

  Like a gentleman, Boxer drops me back off at the agency’s building, waiting until I open the front door before pulling away. As I walk through the lobby and hit the elevator button to bring me to the office, I turn and watch his taillights disappear into the distance.

  I’m still thinking about him when I reach the office. I close my door and sit down to work, cramming in one meeting after the next until the agency is technically closed. When a knock on the door alerts me to the darkness outside, the late hour, I’m startled to find he’s still on my
mind.

  “Diana, that reporter, called.” Lindsay, my assistant, pokes her head in. “Sorry to startle you. I just hadn’t heard from you, and I was wondering what I can do to get you home before midnight.”

  “Haven’t I told Diana a hundred times that I’m not open for an interview?” I blink and look at the clock. “Lindsay! It’s eight thirty. Didn’t you say you had a date tonight?”

  “I cancelled. And I already told Diana no; I just thought I’d run it by you. It’s never too late, you know. Might not hurt to do one interview.”

  “Go! Shoo. If it’s not too late, un-cancel your date!”

  “I don’t mind. I wasn’t all that excited about it anyway.” She shrugs. “Plus, I finished up some paperwork.”

  “But—”

  “How’d it go today?” Instead of evacuating the premises like I’d suggested, Lindsay slides inside the room and grins. “You had a meeting with Boxer?”

  “It went...” I pause, sitting back in my chair. “It was interesting.”

  “I’ve heard he’s a great guy.”

  “From who?”

  She shifts her weight from one foot to the next, her long, flowy skirt rippling around her legs. On anyone else, it’d look a bit hippie in style, but she’s paired it with a sharp tank top, a jacket, and a beautiful pair of black heels to make the outfit complete. “Well, Duke used to come by on business sometimes. He always spoke highly of Boxer.”

  Boxer’s current agent is turning seventy-five next month. Someone finally convinced Duke to retire—probably the saint of a wife he’s held onto for over fifty years. Whether Boxer wants to or not, he’ll need new representation, and soon.

  “Did you eat dinner?” I ask. “Let’s order something.”

  “I’ll pick something up on the way home.”

  “Look, Lindsay, I appreciate you working so hard, but you don’t have to stick around until the middle of the night every time I do.” I wave a hand across my desk. “You shouldn’t cancel your dates to stay late.”

  “Meh, I’m using you as an alibi. My date seemed like a loser. He asked the color of my underwear, and we’ve never met!”

  I laugh, which is a refreshing change of pace from my normal workday. When I’d hired Lindsay as an intern, she’d been a cute brunette with bright brown eyes, eager to please. She’d worked round the clock on a measly intern’s stipend.

  Four years later, she’s still with me. We’ve upgraded her salary, her job title, and her responsibilities. I live in mortal fear that one day, she’ll up and decide there are better career paths for her elsewhere.

  I’d die before I let that happen. She runs my life, so I make sure to pay enough that it’s worth her while. People like Lindsay are hard to come by. Media may call me the Ice Queen, a cold and ruthless bitch, but they’ve never called me stupid. I know when I have a good thing, and Lindsay is a great thing. So is Boxer.

  “At least let me buy you dinner,” I insist. “I’m happy to be your alibi anytime.”

  “I’ll put in an order of lasagna from Peretti’s Pizza.”

  She bounces out of the room, and I wonder, not for the first time, how she’s managed to keep her pleasant, rose-tinted view of the world firmly in place. She’s a few years younger than me—she’s pushing twenty-five, and I can’t help but think that when I hit twenty-five, I’d been scrambling my way up the corporate ladder. I’m now twenty-eight, and I’m still not sure where that ladder is leading.

  Though I’m proud of my career, a tiny part of me wonders what it’s like to live life like Lindsay. She leaves the job at the office, has fun with her friends, texts boys about her underwear color... It’s all so curious to me, but it makes her happy.

  I’m in the middle of jotting a note down about needing to call Duke—maybe pick his brain about this whole situation—when my phone rings. It’s the direct line to Lindsay, so I hit speaker.

  “There’s someone here to see you.”

  I pick up the phone and put it to my ear, confused. “Who is it?”

  “Andy Rumpert.”

  “Andy?” I groan. “What does he want?”

  “Business. But if you have dinner plans, I can send him away.”

  I think on it for a minute. Lindsay’s sharp. She’s given me an easy loophole if I want to send him away. However, Andy’s like an annoying wart that won’t go away, and I decide it’s better to deal with him now. Otherwise, he’ll just pop back up, more annoying the next time.

  “Miss Jones?”

  “Send him in.” I sigh. “I’m in a good mood tonight. Let’s see if he can ruin it.”

  “Aww.”

  “You can head home, Linds. I have a feeling I know what this is about.”

  “You’re brave,” she whispers into the phone. Then louder, she speaks to Andy. “She’ll see you now.”

  Footsteps approach my door. I’m about to hang up the phone when Lindsay comes back on the line.

  “Miss Jones?” she says in a hushed voice. “Last week, I heard one of the PR girls blabbing on her phone in the lobby that Andy’s going through a divorce and is extra mean. I’m sending in lasagna in twenty minutes, and you can make me kick him out if things go south.”

  “You’re a lifesaver.”

  “Jocelyn.” Andy appears, giving a useless knock on the door, seeing as he’s already halfway inside the room. A smile tilts his mouth upward. “Just the beautiful woman I wanted to see.”

  “Your wife won’t be happy to hear that,” I say, trying to remain calm. Andy is pond scum, and I don’t say that lightly. He’s been known to lie, cheat, and steal clients from various agents in a very public way. “What do you need, Andy?”

  “Nice to see you, too,” he says, a flash of anger shooting across his face.

  “What are you here for?

  “Boxer’s mine,” he says, sitting himself in the chair across from me without an invitation. He’s wearing an expensive suit and he’s shiny, I’ll give him that. Shiny hair, shiny shoes, shiny glint in his eyes, but it’s all fake. “I just wanted to give you the chance to back out of the race for his business with grace.”

  People might not like me or my boldness, but nobody has ever called me a liar, a cheat, or a fake. That’s the difference between Andy and me—we both work hard, we can both be ruthless, but I won’t cross certain lines. Andy doesn’t have the same scruples. He calls it a weakness. I call it morals.

  “Back out of what?” I ask, trying for polite. “You’re free to try and recruit Boxer. So am I. When did this become a race?”

  “Of course it’s a fucking race,” he snarls, temper flaring up. “Duke’s retiring, we both know that. The old ball and chain is making him hang up his skates.”

  “Mrs. Landingham is a nice woman. I’m glad they’ll be able to spend some time together.

  “What the hell are they supposed to do at that age anyway?” Andy shakes his head. “Sit around and wrinkle? I want to be working or dead at that age, if you ask me.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “I’m going to take Boxer on as my client,” Andy says. “So why don’t you give up now and make things easier—and less embarrassing—for both of us?”

  “I could say the same to you.”

  “Not clever enough to come up with your own retort?”

  “Not bothering to waste my breath on it.” I stand, fold my hands in front of my body, and give him a smile. “Did you walk into my office tonight to intimidate me, Mr. Rumpert? If so, it’s not working.”

  “You going to run crying to the press? Feed them a story about me?”

  “Of course not.”

  “I’m sure there’s some law you could bend to make this about harassment.” His eyes challenge me. “Go ahead, give it a try.”

  I’ve never once run crying to my boss, screaming to any authorities, or whatever else he’s suggesting. The man’s got some sort of complex about being challenged by women in the workforce, and I don’t intend to fuel his fire. I intend to beat him. Fair and square.


  “Good night, Andy. Please see yourself out.”

  “Is this defeat?” His eyes glint. “Let me buy you dinner as a truce. Come on, my treat.”

  My stomach roils at the thought. I’d rather stick the Peretti’s lasagna into my eyes and starve than have dinner with him.

  “No, thank you,” I say, resting one hand on the door. “But if you think you can walk into my office and try to intimidate me away from the biggest deal of the year, you’ve gone about this all wrong.”

  “Is that right?” He leans extra close on his way out, breath reeking of smoke. “What’s the right way?”

  “Give up on Boxer now,” I tell him. “You don’t deserve him.”

  “And you do?”

  “He’s mine.”

  “Feisty,” he says. “I like it.”

  “Not feisty, let’s call it focused. I’m the best in the business, Rumpert. He’ll sign with me.”

  Andy takes a long look at my chest, and it’s everything I can do not to punch the smirk right off of his face. I practice that stupid meditation breathing again, though I’m pretty sure the only thing I need is a kickboxing class and a pack of Tums.

  “You going to make this deal go as smoothly as the one with Ryan Pierce?” He raises an eyebrow on the way out. “Good luck, sweetheart. We all know how that went. You’ll need the luck.”

  With that, he’s gone before I can throat punch him for calling me sweetheart. I know, I know, I should be meditating the crap out of this moment, but he brings the violence out in full force. I slam the door shut and return to my desk, dropping my head in my hands.

  I’m shaking, trembling from head to foot. There’s a knock on the door, and I assume it’s Lindsay with the lasagna, so I tell her I need a minute. I take one deep breath, then another, wishing my heart to stop racing and my body to steady.

  When I trust my voice not to crack, I call Lindsay in, mumbling some excuse about needing a second to jot down notes. She doesn’t believe me for a second, wrinkling her nose in disbelief.

  “Don’t worry about him, Miss Jones,” she says, putting the food on the corner of my desk. “He’s slime. Everyone knows it. Even his clients know it—I overhear things working the front desk, remember, and I’ve never heard a single good word about that man.”