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

by Lily Kate

  “Yep,” I say. “Gran’s up there with Bre, too. They’re looking for cheese sticks.”

  “Well, I could use some cheese sticks, so...” My mother blushes and waves her hand at us. “Carry on.”

  Cohen’s eyes close as my mother vanishes, and our journey is resumed. “If we have one more interruption,” he begins. “I’m going to—”

  “Do you have a minute, Annie?” This time, the voice is hesitant. Unsure and questioning, which is new, coming from my father. “I have... uh—oh, I’m sorry. You’re obviously busy.”

  I untangle myself from Cohen’s embrace. “Hey, dad,” I say. “What’s up?”

  “I’m going to...” Cohen points down the hallway. “Uh, take a shower.”

  “Don’t let me bother you,” my dad says. “I can talk to you a different time, Annie.”

  “No, this is fine,” I say with a bright smile, giving a hint of it to Cohen as I tell him I’ll be there in a second. “What’s up?”

  My dad has started to come around in recent years, thanks in a large part to the appearance of his granddaughter. He’s been at three of her four birthday parties, and at least one of her dance recitals. It’s definite progress.

  Getting him to come on this trip was a bit of a stretch but, to my surprise, he made it work. If only Bre knew the power she’d brought to this world. She’d been the cause of our family’s shaky steps to reunite.

  My mother and father are able to be in the same room together these days, and they’ve even held a civil conversation. To see how far we’d come as a family had eased an ache in my heart that’d been there for years.

  “I brought a present for your birthday, and I was going to give it to you tonight.” He coughs, clears his throat, and I can tell this is difficult for him. “But I wanted to do it personally, in private, and explain.”

  “Aw, dad. I told everybody not to bring presents. Everyone being here on the cruise is plenty.”

  “It’s a selfish gift,” he says, offering a handsome smile my way. “It’s as much for me as it is for you. Will you open it now?”

  “Oh, uh, sure.” I accept the beautifully wrapped box—probably the work of his assistant—and pull the ribbons back. Carefully, I peel open the shiny blue wrapping paper, tucking it under my arm as I reveal the box inside. “Thank you, dad! We can definitely use a camera.”

  “It’s not—not about that.” A pinch of pain masks my dad’s face. “I know you have your cell phones and what not, but my assistant said this one is top of the line.”

  “You shouldn’t have spent so much, dad.”

  “It’s not the camera that’s the point,” he continues quickly. “I just want... I know I missed out on a lot of your life, your childhood, the years that really matter, and I still haven’t forgiven myself for that.”

  I’m shaking my head, trying to tell him it’s okay, but the lump in my throat prevents me from speaking.

  “I don’t want to miss Bre’s life, or her brother’s.” He nods toward me, offers a smile. “I want to be a part of their lives, and I’ve been working on it. I promise to be there, to show up to every ceremony I can get to, but in case there’s a moment I miss, capture it with this. My point is that I’m sorry, Annie. Your daughter is lucky to have a great mom, but also to have a great father.”

  “Cohen is wonderful,” I say, blinking back tears. Must be pregnancy hormones. Or just regular hormones. “Thank you, dad. This is so sweet. We all love you. Bre’s lucky to have you as her Gramps.”

  My father opens his arms, and I sink into them. It’s familiar now, these last few years having brought us closer together than ever before. I am in no hurry to move, or to rush this embrace, so I wait until my dad runs his hand through my hair and steps back.

  “I should let you get back to...” He waves a hand. “Whatever you were doing.”

  “Thank you, dad. This is really special.” I hold up the camera as he picks up the wrapping paper that’s fallen to the floor. “We’ll use it, I promise.”

  He nods, then turns and wanders down the hall. I watch as he goes, taking a moment to calm my breath. I never thought the day would come that my dad—and my mom—would brave the confines of a cruise ship together. Of all the birthday gifts I could’ve received, that one took the cake.

  COHEN

  “Finally!” I’m laying on the bed, having rinsed off quickly and stripped down to my boxers. “I thought you’d gotten lost.”

  Counting the seconds until my wife walked through that door felt excruciating. Somehow, everyone had felt the need to interrupt our precious time alone. As much as I loved Annie’s family, I wanted to make good on the birthday promises I’d whispered into my wife’s ear ten minutes before.

  As Annie closes the door behind her, there’s a softness to her movements, a gentleness that doesn’t reflect the urgency of moments before.

  “Annie?” I sit up. “Everything okay?”

  She turns to face me, the most beautiful woman in the world. Her hair cascades around her shoulders, teased by the sea breeze. She’s got a flower-patterned dress-thing on that whips around knees, a set of sexy legs peeking out from underneath.

  But on her face is a single tear, streaking down pink-tipped cheeks. One of her hands is holding a box, the other is resting on her stomach. I want more than anything to rip the box out of her hands, leaving it to crash to the floor, as I take her on the bed.

  That tear, however, is troublesome. As always, when she hurts, I do too, so I push away my burning desire to have her, and I ease the box—a camera?—from her hand, before gently guiding her to the bed.

  “What’s wrong, sweetheart?” As she lays on the bed, I let my hands trail over her skin, making ribbons of goose bumps as I move, just how she likes. “What did your dad say to you?”

  “He wanted us to know that he’s determined to be an even bigger part of Bre’s life, our life,” she says with a shaky breath. “The camera’s so we can capture moments when he’s not around.”

  I don’t point out that we have cell phone cameras that capture those moments just fine. As I’ve learned over the last five years as a husband—I’m a male, and males don’t understand sentimental gifts. But since it’s so emotional to Annie, I murmur something that sounds like, “that’s nice.”

  “I know, I’m being silly. Blame it on my crazy hormones and my uncooperative tear ducts.”

  “No, you’re perfect,” I tell her, meaning it as I lean in to kiss the tears from her cheeks. “It was thoughtful of him. He’s already been around a lot more since Bre was born.”

  “You’re perfect, you know that?” She hooks a hand around my neck as I’m leaned in, and holds on tight. She doesn’t let me go, even as she crashes her lips to mine in a possessive way that has me instantly at attention. “I’m so glad I didn’t know how to swim.”

  “Christ, me too. I want you so badly, honey. Let me...” I ease her swimsuit bottoms off, running my hands up and down her legs, teasing her with promises of more. “Happy birthday, baby. Just relax, let me make you feel extra special.”

  She sighs, and it’s a beautiful sound as her eyes close. “Your hands are magic. Can you just... never mind.”

  “What?”

  “My feet are killing me.”

  “Say no more.” I pull one of her feet into my lap, massaging the pale skin and dainty toes while imagining what’s to come next. “How’s this?”

  “Ah...” she says, her voice breathy. “—mazing.”

  “Good. Just relax.” I’m twitching and alert, needy for her in so many ways, but I can be patient. Take my time to ease her stresses, make her body writhe from the tips of her toes to the edges of pleasure. “Relax, birthday girl.”

  I massage one foot first, my eyes closed as I focus on each and every movement, turning myself on more and more with each touch of my wife’s skin. I move up to her calves, rubbing there, and then switch to the other foot.

  It’s not until I’ve reached her calf on the second leg that I rea
lize I haven’t heard anything in a long while. No moan of pleasure, no groans of happiness or cries for more. I’ve been too wrapped up in my own fantasies of undressing her slowly, taking my sweet time kissing every inch of her body, nearly bursting from the anticipation.

  That’s when I realize we have a problem.

  She’s snoring.

  I hide a smile as I lay her feet back on the bed. Standing, I move to the side, pushing flyaway hairs back from her face, her full lips poised for a kiss. I issue one, gentle and soft, meant not to wake her, before I retrieve a blanket from the chair and cover her up to her neck.

  Struggling to remain silent, I slide under the blanket and pull her body against mine. She shifts and, in a sleepy voice, murmurs an I love you against my neck.

  My heart is melted as I hold her tight, brush my lips to her cheek, and whisper, “Sweet dreams, birthday girl.”

  The End

  Author’s Note

  Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you enjoyed the story!

  If you’d like to be kept posted on the release date for the next book in the series—another standalone coming soon!—please sign up for Love Letters from Lily at LilyKateAuthor.com or find me on Facebook.

  Lastly, if you happened to enjoy the story and can spare five minutes out of your day, honest reviews at the retailer of your choice are always welcome and appreciated.

  Thank you so much in advance!

  Stay tuned for Hangry Girl, releasing on October 24th, 2017!

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  Ladies & Gents,

  I sold my soul for a hamburger.

  And I have no regrets. When a girl is trapped indefinitely in an elevator with a smoking hot burger and an empty stomach, even the strongest of women will crumble.

  The story goes like this: Bradley Hamilton, former professional hockey player and the most frustrating human alive, offered me half of his hamburger in exchange for a date. I took him up on the offer—while under duress—and now I’m stuck with the consequences. Specifically, the scorching kiss at the end of our date that has me drooling for more.

  However, there’s one whopper of a problem. This man has been a thorn in my side for the last twenty years—ever since he moved next door and became my older brother’s best friend. We’ve gone head to head for years, and now, he’s trying to buy out my restaurant in order to plop one of his big fat gyms there instead.

  I refuse to let him ruin my business. Unfortunately, Bradley Hamilton is like an order of french fries: you just can’t have one. It appears our lips are addicted to kissing. He’s alarmingly handsome. Deliciously confident. And worst of all? Underneath that salty exterior he’s starting to show signs of sweet.

  Brad Hamilton is my guilty pleasure, my cheat meal, my greatest craving.

  Which is why he’ll be one habit that’s hard to kick.