Birthday Girl: A contemporary sports romantic comedy (Minnesota Ice Book 3)

by Lily Kate

  “No.” He cuts me off sharply. “Today is about you.”

  If I’d been able to think, maybe I would’ve responded. I can’t do more than bite down, however, as he raises my hips higher, brings the kiss deeper, and carries me toward the edge of all logic.

  It’s too late to slow down, to bring him with me—I’m frozen in bliss, and it’s all I can do to hold onto him as he murmurs my name, warms my neck with his kisses, and sends me spiraling into the stars, just as he promised.

  I cry his name as the waves come, carry me through with an intensity that has me crumbling to him, the wash of adrenaline slowly winding to a halt. I repeat his name, pressing my head to his chest and dragging him down so his weight, his beautiful body, is rested against me.

  “Cohen...” I whisper again, my hands stroking his hair a few minutes later. “I don’t... I don’t know what to say.”

  “You didn’t like it?” A flicker of uncertainty crosses his eyes as he tilts his gaze to meet mine. “God, Annie, I haven’t asked—are you a virgin?”

  “Oh, no! Not at all.” I can’t summon more energy, so I fall silent, stroke his hair some more, until I can pull together some thoughts from my scrambled brains. There are no words to do this moment justice, so I whisper against his ear. “That was incredible. Thank you.”

  “No, thank you.” He draws tiny circles on my chest, his lips curled into a smile. “For trusting me. It was incredible.”

  “I feel bad,” I say. “You’ve done all of this work to get me on a date, all of these sweet gestures, all of this foreplay, and then here you are ready to go, and I keep saying no—”

  “Stop.” He says it matter of factly, as if there’s no sense in my arguing. “Whatever you’re going to say, stop it. I care about you, Annie, and that means I’ll wait. However long you need. Believe me when I say I get more pleasure out of watching your face than you can imagine.”

  “But I’m worried that when... er—if we sleep together—”

  “When,” he says with a smile. “I prefer when.”

  I laugh, but my hands are twisting around his neck. I’m anxious, anxious about something I’ve never before voiced. “What if you’re disappointed?” I clear my throat. “I’m not exactly, uh... great at sex.”

  “Where’d you get that idea?” He raises an eyebrow, a ghosted smile on his face. “You rocked my world, and I haven’t even been inside of you. I’d say you’re just fine.”

  “It’s just... I’ve only been with one other person,” I tell him. “My ex. And he told me that I had a lot to learn before I’d be any good at...well, it.”

  “Well, fuck. That’s a flat-out lie, Annie.” Cohen’s fingers are shaking, a rage burning in his eyes. “Does he have a name? What an ass. I’d like to find this idiot and see what—”

  “No, Cohen, don’t. He was probably just being honest with me.”

  “False.” He shifts onto his elbows, holds himself over me, his eyes piercing. “If he were honest, he’d be telling you this: Annie Plymouth, you are the most beautiful woman on the face of the planet. But not only are you beautiful, you’ve got more brains than most men or women can dream of possessing. You’re sexy, and the way you move—”

  “You don’t have to do this, Cohen.” I shift under his gaze. It’s as if he’s staring straight through me and analyzing my soul, and it puts me on edge with what he might find. “It’s ok. Forget it.”

  “The very way you exist is elegant. The way you breathe, hold my hand. The way you curl up next to me during a movie and try to pretend you’re awake when really, I can see that your eyes are shut.”

  I’m blinking now, fast, furious blinks, but Cohen doesn’t let go of my arms. His eyes are locked on me with an intensity that’s almost frightening, and I can’t do anything but return his gaze.

  “When I saw you sleeping in my bed last night, I wanted you more than I’ve ever wanted anything in this world. You’re perfect. The way you look at me...” He shivers, as if the words are too much to say aloud. “You have more passion in a single touch than anyone I’ve ever met. Believe me, there is nothing wrong with you, Annie. If sparks weren’t flying before, it’s because he didn’t deserve to see them.”

  He leans in, brushes his lips against mine in a kiss that’s as tender as cotton candy clouds—soft, almost non-existent. It sends chills across my body.

  “If you’ll let me, I plan on making you feel this good day after day, night after night, for as long as you’ll have me.”

  “Oh,” I say, and it’s more of a reaction than a logical thought. “Well, what a horrible burden to bear.”

  “Yes, I’m a fucking martyr.”

  “Let me touch you now. Please. Let me show you how good you make me feel.”

  Something flashes through his eyes, and he seems to consider my offer for a moment. But he shakes his head no. Standing, he reaches for my hands and pulls me to my feet, landing us an inch apart, nose to toes.

  “Not today, sweetheart. Someday, if you’d like, but not now.”

  My cheeks heat with the thought of someday, delicious ideas swirling in my head. “Someday, then.”

  “Can I take you out tomorrow?”

  “On a date?”

  “No, on a horse. Yes, of course a date.”

  “Well, yes,” I agree, surprised to feel my heart beating quicker. “I suppose that’d be perfect.”

  “I won’t even try for sex. That’s how patient I am.”

  “No! I told you to keep trying.”

  “Well, hell, Annie Plymouth.” He holds out a hand and twirls me into his chest. “Your wish is my command.”

  Chapter 32

  ANNIE

  A few weeks later, I’m freezing my butt off in the hockey arena as the final whistle blows. Cohen’s on the ice, skating toward his teammates when he pauses, glances into the crowd, and locks eyes on me. Even though I’ve been coming to his games for weeks now, this moment still gives me the thrills.

  I cheer as he gives a big, unabashed smile, and salutes in my direction. I wave back like a slightly nutty fan girl. Meanwhile, next to me, Chelsea is making vomiting sounds in her mouth.

  “You two are gross.” Chelsea turns from the seat next to me, her jaw open. “Girl, what’d you do with the real Cohen James?”

  “Sorry?”

  “I don’t get it.” She shakes her head in slack-jawed amazement. “He lost the last game of the regular season, and he’s smiling? That’s not the Cohen I know. The Cohen I know would sulk, and then go straight to the bar, order a whiskey, and ignore everyone for the rest of the night.”

  “I guess he’s changed?”

  “He’s acting like a big old butterfly instead of an ugly little caterpillar.” Another laugh-snort from her. “Must be some awesome sex.”

  “Oh, no.” I wave a hand, watching as the teams leave the rink to head to the locker room. “We haven’t slept together.”

  As I let that sink in, a stream of curse words all colors of the rainbow punctuate the air. Chelsea’s clearly in shock, poor thing. A disgruntled mother strolling past us ushers her child away, hands clamped over his ears and a frown on her face.

  “You’re kidding me,” Chelsea says finally. “You’re freaking kidding me. Pulling my leg. Lying.”

  “No, really. It’s true.”

  I like Chelsea—she’s great, really. She’s the one who invited me out tonight for the final game of the Stars’ season, which is convenient because both Leigh and Sarah have seen more hockey than they ever wanted to see over this past month. And since the actual act of “doing sports” is lost on me, I enjoy the company more than the game.

  We wait, somewhat patiently, for Cohen to finish up whatever business that needs attending. Meanwhile, I polish off our popcorn while Chelsea quizzes me in the hallway about ‘this no sex thing’ that Cohen and I have going. No matter how much I try to explain, she’s baffled.

  “There you are.” Finally, Cohen sidles up to where we’re waiting. “What’d I do to ha
ve the prettiest girl in the room waiting for me?”

  Chelsea rolls her eyes as Cohen plants a chaste kiss on my cheek.

  “You two are sickening. I’m going to pick up Rich from the airport and do some swooning of my own. Goodbye.”

  “Oh, Chelsea don’t go!” I call after her. “When are you leaving?”

  “Few days.” She gives a shrug. “We didn’t find a dress yet, so I need to go one more time with my mom.”

  Chelsea had flown into town to do some wedding dress shopping with her family, and we’d hung out a few times. As it turns out, it’s nice to have a girlfriend who knows Cohen. Sure, I have other girlfriends, but Sarah is shy and develops a strange tick where she loses the ability to speak coherently every time Cohen’s in the room.

  Then there’s my mom, but I haven’t exactly told her I’m dating anyone. I just get the feeling she might not approve—not now, when I have so much else going on in my life with school, her wedding, graduation, and more.

  Meanwhile, Gran is more interested in hearing the details about Cohen’s washboard abs than anything else. She’s big into abs.

  “How do you feel about lunch tomorrow?” Chelsea asks me. “Girls only. Sorry, Cohen.”

  “One o’clock?”

  “Great,” she gives a smile. “Let’s go to that cute place next to the chocolate store we went to after the bread restaurant.”

  “Yes! I’ve been wanting to go!”

  Chelsea leans in to give me a kiss on the cheek. Almost as an afterthought, she waves at Cohen. “See ya.”

  “Gee, and to think we used to be friends,” Cohen says as Chelsea struts in the other direction. “I’m glad you two get along.”

  “Oh, we do. We both love those crappy hot dogs that are actually delicious.”

  Cohen’s not listening anymore, instead focusing on his hands, which have taken to winding underneath my puffy outer layer, searching for the warmth of my body. I have on a tank top and a long sleeve underneath my winter jacket, which leaves Cohen with quite a labyrinth to work through in order to reach skin.

  “Success,” he says, his fingers finally finding gold. “So many damn layers.”

  I shiver, yelp softly as his fingers connect near my lower stomach. He’s dangerously close to a zone that makes me weak at the knees, and I wriggle away because other people are starting to watch us with interest.

  “Cohen,” I hiss. “People are staring.”

  We might not have formally consummated our relationship yet, but we’ve done plenty of other fun things. There’s only one problem now. Things are going so well between us that the mere thought of screwing everything up by sleeping together has me terrified. What if everything goes wrong once it finally happens?

  What we have now is not enough, I know that. It’s special. He’s special. We’re special, and the closer we get to one another—the more time we spend together—the more I want him, all of him. This period of blissful existing as we are won’t last forever, but I’m afraid of what will come next. The next leap, the next jump, the next hurdle.

  Meanwhile, Cohen makes no secret about his intentions. Even now, in public, his hands roam wild and free in a hungry sort of way. When he reaches my rear end, he gives a possessive squeeze, his arms around me as he backs me against the nearest wall.

  “I don’t know what you do to me,” he murmurs, that post-game adrenaline giving his eyes a brighter gleam. He tucks us behind a vending machine in the now mostly deserted hallway, out of the way of prying eyes. “I can’t keep my hands off you.”

  “I’m not complaining.”

  “Chelsea’s right,” he says. “I’ve just lost the last game of regular season, and all I can think about is getting you out of here, back home. Alone. You don’t have plans tonight, do you?”

  “With you, I do.”

  I let my fingers trail down his chest. Those bricks he speaks of, the wall around my heart—it’s started to crumble these past weeks, one brick after another until a whole section of the wall has completely disappeared. My defenses are collapsing, and I’m not sure how it happened, just that it has.

  “Good,” he says, the hoarseness in his voice a mix of post-game laryngitis and a hint at what’s coming later. “But first, I need to kiss you, or we’ll never make it home.”

  He lifts me with ease, and my legs wrap around his waist. We fall back against the wall in a tangle of heat as he takes the brunt of the impact. One of his hands drags through my hair, the other supporting my weight as I wind my arms around his neck.

  We have one moment of a whirlwind kiss before it comes to a crashing halt. A sound emerges from the other side of the vending machine—once, twice, finally three times before I recognize it as a male clearing his throat. A male that is definitely not Cohen.

  Cohen hears it too, his hands stilling under my jacket as he glances over his shoulder. Based upon the widening of his eyes, he recognizes the figure standing before the vending machine, a dollar frozen in the newcomer’s hand.

  “Hi, uh, coach,” Cohen says, somewhat groggy. “How’s it going?”

  I freeze, mortified. Coach. Coach?! I poke my head around Cohen’s to catch a view of a well-dressed man, his hair slightly ruffled with frustration, stalled with a bill halfway inserted into the machine.

  “Uh, hello,” I echo. “Coach.”

  “This is Annie,” Cohen says.

  “I’m Annie,” I say.

  “Annie,” Coach says. “Pleasure to meet you.”

  “Yep, same to you.” I wiggle my hips, hoping Cohen will recognize it as the signal to let me down. I grit my teeth, wriggle harder, but still, Cohen doesn’t move. It’s like his brain has stopped working.

  “I think the lovely lady can stand on her own two feet, Mr. James, don’t you?” Coach gives him a half smile. “Though it’s generous of you to give her a hand. Or two.”

  Cohen nods absently along with his coach’s words. It takes some time for them to sink into his brain, but when they do he moves in a hurry. He doesn’t just set me down, he drops me like a hot potato.

  I clatter to my feet, using the wall to stabilize myself for balance. When I gather myself into a somewhat normal standing position, I come face to face with Coach giving Cohen a weird look.

  “I didn’t mean you had to drop her on her ass, James,” he says, before turning to me with a concerned look on his face. “Are you all right?”

  “Just dandy!” I straighten my tank top under my jacket, which has somehow gotten all sorts of bunched around my boobs. “I’m great.”

  “You must be the mystery girlfriend.”

  “Excuse me?” I glance between them. “Mystery girlfriend?”

  “I’ve been dying to put a face to your name for weeks.”

  “Cohen’s girlfriend?” I murmur. “Weeks?”

  “Oh, Cohen didn’t say anything.” Coach reaches out, claps his star forward on the shoulder. “I put two and two together when this guy stopped acting like an idiot on Friday nights and showed up to practice with a smile on his face.”

  Cohen cinches me tighter, not bothering to disagree. Just being around him, next to him, has my heart racing, my emotions swirling like a pot of chocolate fondue—sweet, warm, perfect.

  “You two are either sickening or adorable. I don’t know which,” Coach says. “Anyway, nice game, James. Don’t lose focus now though. Playoffs are coming. Keep him on the straight and narrow, will you?” Coach turns a searching gaze on me.

  A wave of nerves rushes through my body. The man’s intense and serious and intimidating. He makes the perfect coach, seeing as he can melt a grown man with one of his scorching glares. “Absolutely. I will keep my boyfriend on the straight and narrow.”

  “Good. Then I suppose congratulations are in order. Goodnight, folks.” Coach stares at us intently, since neither of us move. “Well?! Do me a favor and take this—whatever the hell is going on here—somewhere private. Don’t need the media on you now, do we, James?”

  Cohen takes my hand.
“Yes, sir.”

  “Great.” Coach finishes inputting the dollar bill into the vending machine and raises his eyebrows. “Glad we understand each other.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Since Cohen has reverted back to his frozen state, I take charge, pulling him down the hallway and out a back entrance. Once we burst into the parking lot, it’s as if we’re both released from a spell, and the pair of us collapse in a fit of laughter against the wall.

  When Cohen finally calms enough to speak coherently, he pulls me to my feet, balancing me against him as he pushes a loose strand of hair away from my face.

  “So,” he says, watching every one of my features. “Did you mean it?”

  “Mean what?”

  “You called me your boyfriend.”

  “Didn’t seem like I had much of a choice.”

  “Then let’s make it official,” he says, swinging me into his arms. “Will you be my girlfriend, Annie Plymouth?”

  Chapter 33

  COHEN

  I think Annie just agreed to be my girlfriend.

  We slip into the car, and I hold her hand as we drive toward my place. I’m still contemplating what just happened. I asked her again after we got outside if she meant it. She said yes.

  I’m still feeling a little out of my element, somehow having acquired a girlfriend in the last half hour. I hadn’t thought it’d happen so soon—not with how slow Annie’s been moving things along.

  I can’t help but wonder if tonight will be the night. The one we’ve both been waiting for—the night she’ll trust me enough to take things further. Because as much as I want her, I need her to come to me, to tell me she’s ready. But damn if waiting ain’t hard.

  “Cohen...” Her voice is soft as she looks over to me. “About what just happened—are we dating? Really?”

  “Do you want to be?”

  She hesitates, then nods. “I wasn’t seeing anyone else. Wasn’t planning on it, and I don’t want to.”

  “Me neither.”

  I’ve been needing her since I laid eyes on her, but I don’t tell her this. I already know that there’s no one else who can give me this feeling, this crazy desire that’s been driving me nuts for months. The only way to quench this need is with her. When she’s ready.