Delivery Girl (Minnesota Ice #1) Read online

  “What question?” His eyes are dark and hooded, as if he’s thinking dirty thoughts in that beautiful head of his. “I’m distracted.”

  “Why you opened the door next to naked!”

  “I was in the shower and didn’t realize you’d get here so quickly. I hopped out expecting some pimply-faced kid.”

  I grin at his honesty then change the subject again. “I’m sorry about your car.”

  “Don’t apologize.” Ryan shifts in the doorway, leans closer to me. “It’s already fixed. I have a buddy who gave me a great rate.”

  “I want to pay for it,” I say. “Maybe I can just pay out of pocket. Or, if you need something—you know, a housekeeper or whatever—I can work off the payment. I’m in school now, so cash is tight.”

  “Nope, we’re all good.” Ryan takes a glance at the note in his hands. “So long as you agree that this breaking up business is bullshit.”

  “Bullshit,” I offer with a nod.

  “I don’t want to see other delivery girls,” Ryan says. “I’d like to be exclusive with you, Andi Peretti.”

  I clear my throat and bob my head again. It’s safer to remain silent, seeing how my mouth has been doing nothing but getting me into trouble.

  “Come inside for a slice,” Ryan says easily. “It’s just pizza, I promise.”

  “No, I…can’t. I have other deliveries.”

  “I’ll take care of that.”

  “You’re going to deliver my other pizzas?”

  “I have a different idea.” Ryan raises an eyebrow. “I’ll pay your dad for all the deliveries you need to make tonight. Will that keep him happy?”

  I tilt my head to the side, trying to decide if he’s drunk. He doesn’t look it, smell it, or act like it, so I conclude he’s sober. “I can’t let you do that.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes.” Ryan reaches out and grabs my hand. “Will you come inside for a coffee? My brother’s housekeeper is home, so we won’t be alone. I promise I won’t try anything on you. I’m just new out here, and I like your company.”

  I bite my lip. It’s tempting—very tempting—but I can’t decide yet, so I let my mouth babble away. “Hey, how did you know I was outside the house? I didn’t even knock when I showed up today.”

  “I was waiting for you.”

  “Me?” I squeaked.

  “I mean it, Andi! Your visits are the most eventful parts of my day.”

  Well, that does it. I’m a puddle. I don’t even know what he means by eventful, but the fact that he was waiting for me to arrive with those puppy dog brown eyes of his makes me weak. So, I agree, somewhat overenthusiastically.

  “I think I’m in love with you—” The words slip out, and before I can rein them in, they’re out there, sitting right there in the open.

  Ryan’s eyebrows shoot up so high they almost disappear into his hairline.

  I have to do something, so I stutter. “Y-your abs. Love th-the abs.” This is not much better, but I’ve already failed enough today, so I leave it at that. No sense digging my hole any deeper.

  Then, Ryan does something I don’t expect. “Well, if that’s the case, then here. Hopefully this will make your decision easier.”

  I’m confused as he reaches for the bottom of his sweater. He lifts the edge, exposing the slightest hint of skin there. Though I can’t see much of him at all, what I can see is solid—hard, defined skin completely and utterly ready for kissing.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, still staring.

  “My abs would like to invite you inside for a coffee.”

  He lets his abs sit on display for a solid thirty seconds. I hate to admit that, during those thirty seconds, I look, and I look, and I look some more. When he drops his sweater again, I clear my throat and meet his gaze.

  “Do you flash all your delivery girls?” I ask, and luckily, this breaks the tension.

  Ryan laughs a deep, genuine laugh that makes his chocolate eyes dance. He adjusts his shirt. “You’re the first, Andi. I’m doing whatever I can to get five minutes with you. I’d beg, but that wouldn’t be very manly of me.”

  If anyone else had shown me their abs and invited me inside, I’d have called them a cocky bastard and hightailed it out of there. However, the way Ryan’s eyes glimmer with life, fill with amusement, dare me to say yes, I can’t help it. I snort.

  “Fine,” I agree. “You’ve worn me down. I’d love a coffee.”

  “I’m glad we’ve made up,” Ryan says, pulling me into the house, his hand wrapping around my lower back. “I don’t know how I’d survive if you broke up with me.”

  “Eat a salad?”

  He frowns. “Don’t joke about such things.”

  ***

  Andi

  Me: Angela, can you cover for me? I had something come up and won’t be able to make it back for my next delivery.

  Angela: Ooh, let me guess. What is…

  Me: You watch too much Jeopardy.

  Angela: What is…Ryan’s penis?!

  Me: Please cover?!

  Angela: On it.

  Me: Thank you, I love you times a million. xoxoxox<3<3<3<3

  Angela: Enjoy his hockey stick.

  She sends an eggplant emoji. It’s obvious what she’s insinuating with that poor fat eggplant, so I turn off my screen before Ryan can see the messages. Then, I follow him into his brother’s home.

  Ryan’s busy giving me a moment of privacy as I finish sexting with Angela and her eggplants. When I look up and smile, he closes the door behind me.

  I step farther into the entryway and take special care to brush against the front of Ryan’s sweater. He smells edible—shower gel mixed with the scent of the pizza on the nearby table. He smells so great, I wouldn’t mind sniffing him, but I refrain, because that’s weird.

  I look up and admire the vaulted ceilings, which make the entryway feel a little like a museum. “Nice place,” I say, but it feels like I’ve called the Louvre pretty good.

  Ryan shrugs, unimpressed. “It’s my brother’s taste.”

  Past his shoulder, stainless steel appliances glimmer down the hall. Over the scent of pizza, I smell flowers, which is different than my house. Our house always smells like food—my sister is usually baking one cake or another, though sometimes she’ll try her hand at cookies. She gets it from my mom. My mom loved desserts.

  “The place smells fabulous.”

  “I’ve never figured out how it smells that way. I’m guessing it’s some cleaning shit Marissa uses.”

  “And Marissa is…”

  “The housekeeper.”

  “Right.” I finger the flowers on the entryway table. “Beautiful.”

  “I suppose.” Ryan looks through the flowers. “I don’t know why she stocks them since my brother and Lilia are hardly ever here. They travel all the time.”

  “I think they’re a nice touch.” I pause awkwardly, looking down at my feet, wondering if this is the sort of home where I should take my shoes off and bathe them in frankincense before walking around.

  My jeans and collared shirt feel wildly out of place, despite Ryan’s jeans and sweater. He looks like Zeus on Zeus’s day off, while I look like…well, a pizza delivery girl.

  “Wine?”

  Ryan gestures for me to follow him into the kitchen before I even have a chance to say yes or no. I’m just here for a slice of pizza, I remind myself.

  “This escalated quickly,” I say with a smirk. “What happened to coffee?”

  I decide this is a shoes-off sort of place and slide my feet out of my sneakers. I stare at my socks, wondering if they need to go too.

  “Leave your socks on,” Ryan says, reading my thoughts. “Don’t think so hard. Whatever goes at your home goes here, too. Now come into the kitchen and please, relax.”

  Damn, I like a man taking charge—especially when that man fills those jeans out the way he does, and…oh, God. I’m staring at Ryan’s ass again, and he catches me in the act.

  “Would you like
to touch it?” Ryan doesn’t look at me as he selects an ancient-looking bottle of wine from the rack above the counter. “Be my guest.”

  “Touch it?” I step forward, reach for the bottle, and poke my finger at it.

  “I meant my ass.” He turns, catching me in his arms. We’re in an awkward sort of hug, and I can’t quite meet his eyes because I don’t have a good answer. “I caught you staring.”

  I cross my arms, determined to look confident, even if I feel like a trembling leaf inside. “I saw you checking out my rack earlier. Fair is fair. You look at my boobs, I look at your ass. I’m all about equality.”

  “Me too.” Ryan sets the bottle of wine on the counter, takes out two glasses, and sets them down, but he doesn’t pour the drinks—not yet. Instead he puts his hands on my hips and guides me back, pressing me gently until my rear end hits the countertop.

  My breath catches in my throat, and all of a sudden the world crashes around me. Here I am, Andi Peretti, standing in the kitchen of Ryan Pierce, and his hands are in the vicinity of my vagina. No. Shit.

  I find my voice as he holds me against the counter and ask, “What are you doing?”

  His fingers dig lightly, deliciously into my flesh, the slight prick of his nails making my stomach twist into knots.

  “If we’re both about equality…” Ryan steps back, holding his hands out in a gesture for me to stand still. His eyes catch mine, those dark eyes killer against my willpower. “Then I need to make things equal. You checked me out, I get to check you out. Fair is fair.”

  “But—”

  “Andi.” Ryan’s voice rumbles in a pleasingly low octave, his smoldering eyes sending my body bursting into flames.

  I’ve never been looked at the way Ryan looks at me—with an appreciative eye. Sure, his gaze lingers on my chest, but also my face, my curves, and most importantly, my eyes. Though I have a feeling he was teasing with the whole equality speech, when his gaze meets mine, it’s not filled with laughter.

  There’s a longing expression there, almost as if he’s hungry. It’s then that I look over my shoulder and see the pizza on the counter. My sail of excitement deflates a bit. “Would you like a slice?”

  He looks startled by my voice. “Not of pizza.”

  My sail goes right back up. “Interesting.”

  The way he laughs is happy, reflecting the bright smile in his eyes. It’s more intimate than before and, I can’t help it—I can feel myself fluttering toward him like a moth to a flame.

  “Thanks for coming inside.” Ryan pours two glasses of wine. “There’s not much to do out here when you don’t know anyone.”

  “What are you doing out here?” I ask. “You mentioned business?”

  He hesitates.

  I wave a hand. “You don’t have to answer, I’m being nosy.”

  “You’re not being nosy.” He brings a glass of wine to his mouth, and in doing so, brushes against my arm. “I’m out here in talks with a new agent. My brother has always been my agent, and he’s great, but it might be time for something bigger. Jocelyn Jones mean anything to you?”

  I suck in a breath. “She’s big. Well, big-time, I mean.”

  “That’s what I’m hoping,” he says. “We’ve met a few times, and she’s getting to know me, whatever that means.”

  I give him a blank stare. “You know what that means.”

  His eyes crinkle as if he’s truly clueless. “Do I?”

  It’s my turn to hesitate. I don’t follow much hockey—except for the pretty faces, of course—but even I’ve heard of Jocelyn. She’s the Ice Queen slash Blonde Bitch, depending on whether she loves or hates a person.

  Regardless, she’s rich, stunningly gorgeous, and usually dating someone with a famous face. “She’s dated hockey players before,” I say. “You haven’t considered that she might be trying to hit on you?”

  “Jocelyn?” His forehead crinkles. “No. We’ve already talked about that—well, not about us.” He clears his throat. “One of the conditions of me signing with her is that I can’t have a love life.”

  “Sorry, but that’s insane.”

  He shrugs. “I understand her point. Ricky Anderle signed with her a few years back, fell in love, and ditched her midseason to move to South America. He was destined for big things.

  “But love distracted him.”

  “Guess you could say that. She got burned pretty bad, so now she makes a big stink about signing young players in new relationships.”

  “But you’re not in a relationship,” I say. “So what’s the problem?”

  “There’s no problem, but it’s a tough career,” he says. “She’s right in saying that I do need to be focused on the game, especially at this point in my career.”

  “I mean, I don’t like hockey but your face is familiar, so I think that means you’re doing okay.”

  “Don’t like hockey, huh?”

  “I’m from LA! The closest I get to snow is the fake crap at The Grove during Christmas.”

  He laughs. “Well, I’m at a point where my career can go either way. If I focus and do well, the sky’s the limit. Or, I could screw up big time and blow everything and I’ll be working at Starbucks tomorrow. Not…” He stutters and backtracks. “N-not that there’s anything wrong with the food services industry.”

  “Don’t worry, I work in the food industry, and I wouldn’t recommend it. For me, it’s temporary. I’m in school now, studying to be an accountant.”

  He looks surprised. “Really? I would’ve pegged you for something…different.”

  “I hope that’s a compliment,” I say. “Because I don’t want to be an accountant, but my dad was adamant that I finish school before doing anything else.”

  “What is it you love, Andi?” The way he asks the question tells me he’s found his passion, knows exactly what he’s talking about. His eyes light up when he talks about hockey, and the way he emphasizes the word love says it all. “If you could do anything, what would it be?”

  “I like to make people laugh,” I say, surprising myself with the honesty. “I’m working to become a comedienne.”

  “Now that makes more sense,” he says. “You’ll be great at it.”

  I blink and look down, surprised at how much his simple vote of confidence means to me. All my life I’ve been told that it’s impossible to make anything of myself in the entertainment industry, especially in such a male-dominated field.

  Even my dad, who tries his best to show his love in his own weird ways, has explained in no uncertain terms that he feels strongly that I need to get a degree just in case.

  I understand his point and am doing as he suggested, but the underlying message is also there: you won’t succeed in doing what you love, Andi, so find something that pays the bills.

  “Hey, I get it,” he says. “Nobody’s supposed to make money playing hockey either, but look at me. I did it and believe me, if I can do it, you can do it.”

  “But I don’t want to play hockey,” I say with a small smile. “I want to be a standup comic.”

  He grins. “When did you know that’s what you wanted for a career?”

  “It’s hard to describe,” I say. “I sort of feel like I was born to do it. It was never really a choice—I didn’t decide on anything. Once I uncovered what I loved to do, it was simple. For a while, it was just hiding underneath what everyone else told me to do.”

  He nods, and it’s clear he can sympathize. “I’ll always remember the first time I strapped on skates. It’s magical finding something like that, something to love in all of its purity.”

  “I don’t know how pure comedy is,” I say on a laugh. “But I know what you mean. You’re skilled with words, Mr. Pierce.”

  “That’s not the only thing I’m skilled with.”

  I eye him as I reach for a glass of the deep red wine. “Is that right?”

  “I meant my hockey stick.”

  “Sure you did.”

  “On the ice.” Ryan takes a sip from
his cup. He glances at mine, which is mysteriously half-empty after just a few sips. He refills it. “You didn’t say when you decided to become a comic.”

  “When I was five, my grandpa died,” I say, my fingers tapping the glass as I stall. “I was just old enough to remember how much I loved him, just old enough to feel the hurt when I started to realize he’d never come back.”

  Ryan reaches out, squeezes my hand in his. “I’m sorry.”

  I shake my head. “At the funeral, we were all sitting around the table, and my mother…it was the first time I’d seen her cry like that, all shaky, as if her entire soul was sad.”

  Ryan rubs small circles with his thumb against the skin on the back of my hand. “Andi, I’m so sorry.”

  “No, it’s okay, really. I remember that day. At the dinner table after the ceremony, I made a joke, something about Grandpa being proud we’d included hot dogs at his wake, and everyone laughed, even my mother.”

  I blow out the breath of air I was holding, shocking myself at how tightly the story has wound my stomach into knots. It still hurts to remember, even though years have passed. Ryan’s touch on mine helps, however, and I continue.

  “I never forgot the sound of her laughter that day, or the way it felt to see my family’s eyes light up when nothing else could make them smile.”

  I pause for a breath, Ryan’s hands tight against mine.

  “You’ll succeed, Andi,” Ryan says. “I might barely know you, but I’ve just got this feeling.”

  “How can you say that?”

  “You’re too stubborn to fail,” he says with a grin. “I know because I am too.”

  My chuckle is a little hollow. Somehow, Ryan has opened a vein in me, and I’m not done bleeding. “I sort of forgot about my dream for a long time. I was good at math in school, all my teachers told me to be an analyst, blah, blah, blah…”

  “What happened?”

  “A few years ago my mom died, and it was hard. So hard. She was my best friend.”

  He pulls me into a hug as I swallow past the lump in my throat. I try not to cry—I’ve cried plenty over her absence—but it happens anyway, just a few tears that hardly make an imprint on his shirt.

  When I pull back, I brush a hand over my eyes and sniffle. “Look at me. Bet you didn’t think your delivery girl would end up crying on your kitchen counter today, did you?”