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

by Lily Kate

  “I’m serious! Actually, if we have a few minutes now, maybe you can help me out.”

  I stand there dumbly. My brain considers speaking, but it never makes its way to my mouth. Almost cautiously, I step forward as she tests the water with a toe.

  I’m getting mixed signals here. Her tone is light and unassuming, but I can’t help the shock of having her talk to me in a pleasant sort of way.

  “Unless you’re busy?”

  Her question brings me back to reality. “Not at all! Of course I’ll help. Why don’t you slide in, and I’ll grab the noodle.”

  She dips her toe again into the shallow end, testing the water for a second time. Daintily she eases in up to her hips, then to her chest, as a shiver wracks her body and her lips tremble.

  Part of me wants to jump in there next to her and hold her against me. For body heat, of course, and because I’m a nice guy.

  Not because she looks smoking hot in that bikini and finally doesn’t want to kill me.

  “Did you have a nice week?” I ask, careful to keep my tone even as we move along the edge of the pool. I walk along the ledge while she holds the wall for balance. “Do anything fun?”

  “Not too much. School, exams, all of that crap.”

  “What are you studying?”

  “I’m an econ major. Pre-law.”

  “You’re going to be a lawyer?”

  “Why do you sound so surprised?”

  I extend the noodle to her as we reach the halfway point in the pool. A few more steps, and she won’t be able to touch. “I’m not surprised. If anything, your argumentative nature makes a lot more sense, now.”

  For a brief flash, she looks offended. Then she laughs, snatches the noodle, and takes a few more steps until she’s floating. “My mom said I was born to be a lawyer.”

  “Your mom must be a smart woman.”

  “Yeah, she’s great. Except for this whole forcing me into swim lessons, thing,” she says, then jerks to a stop. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean... it’s not so bad.”

  “I’m sorry, did you just say it’s not so bad?”

  She grins broadly. “Mediocre bad.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  Another laugh from her as she agrees. “You should. I don’t use my insults lightly.”

  “So do you—”

  “Cohen!”

  “What?” I glance down, heart pounding at the panic in her screech, but nothing seems amiss. “What’s wrong?”

  “I can’t touch.” Sure enough, her toes have just passed the point where the water is taller than her, and she’s floating using the noodle. She offers a half sheepish, half terrified grin. “I take it back. I don’t think I can do this. I’m going to die.”

  “Hold on, don’t move. You’re not going to die.”

  “I can’t move. If I could swim, I wouldn’t be here.”

  By the time she’s done arguing, I’ve slid fully into the water and have a hand on her wrist. I offer what I hope is a comforting smile. “Come on, we’ll go down together.”

  “But... you got into the water just for that? All wet? Freezing cold? Voluntarily?”

  “It’s my job.”

  “It’s not your job! You stand on your ledge. This is—”

  “This isn’t law school. Stop arguing. Do you trust me?”

  She hesitates for a second. “Well, I—”

  “I’m not going anywhere, Annie. I’m right here. Trust me. Just this once.”

  Reaching out her other hand, she takes mine in hers. Gently, I guide her to the deep end, the noodle still under her arms as I kick my legs to keep my head above water.

  “How’s that?” I ask. “Feeling okay?”

  “Terrified.”

  “Other than terrified, how are you?”

  “I’m...” she hesitates, glances at our clasped hands, and then below her to where the bottom of the pool shines beneath the bright blue water. “I’m okay.”

  “Of course you are! I promised you would be okay, didn’t I?”

  She nods. “What next?”

  “Do you trust me?”

  The hesitation is shorter this time as she bobs her head yes.

  “Good. I’m going to remove the noodle slowly, but I will not let go of you.”

  “But—”

  “We’ll go slow.”

  “Okay.” She breathes out, her eyes panicking with every inch of the noodle disappearing from under her arms. “I’m scared.”

  “Don’t be. I’m right here.”

  Before she can resist, the floatation device is on the side of the pool, and the only thing Annie is touching is me. In some odd, primal sort of way, I like this—I like her hands on me, the way she looks into my eyes as if I’m the only thing keeping her alive. It’s everything I can do not to brush the damp strands of hair away from her face.

  “I’m doing it,” she says, a whisper of excitement in her voice as her feet flutter below the surface. “We’re alive.”

  I can’t help but laugh. Her voice is full of nothing but excitement. “You’re doing it. Look! I’m barely holding onto you.”

  As I begin to remove my fingers from her grip, she holds on tighter. “No. Don’t you dare let go, Cohen.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.” I reaffirm my grip on her hands as her legs flail wild underneath us. “You’re doing this all by yourself.”

  “I’m holding onto you.”

  “Just barely. You’re keeping yourself afloat.”

  “Omigosh. I’m doing it.”

  We stay here for several extended seconds, and I dread the moment the other students in class will arrive. They’ll shatter this moment, this first truce we’ve had together, and I’m not ready for that to happen.

  I need more of this, of her, of this wonderfully vulnerable side to Annie Plymouth. I’ve backed down from the chase somewhat, but I haven’t abandoned my plan. If anything, with each passing minute I spend next to Annie I’m more determined than ever to get to know her. The more I see of her, the more I’m convinced she’ll be worth it.

  “Cohen!” She shrieks my name as she dips slightly below the surface of the pool, her mouth garbling with water as she yells for me again.

  I’m there in a second, my arms wrapped around her torso and my legs moving double speed to keep us both afloat. She’s warm, soft in my arms as I bring us together to the side of the pool and rest her arms against the ledge.

  “You okay?” Without thinking, I reach out and brush those wet strands of hair off her cheek as her eyes widen and fix on my face. “Sorry,” I mutter. “I just—”

  “Did I see you treading water without a noodle?” Leigh breaks any private moment as she reaches the side of the pool, sits down, and swings her legs into the water. “You looked awesome out there.”

  I’m not stupid, and I don’t miss the raised eyebrow or the cheeky grin Leigh gives her friend as she waits for a response. I mutter something about toweling off and pull myself out of the pool after depositing Annie with her noodle safely at the edge. At the same time, Jason steps onto the deck.

  The girls whisper behind me, and I do my best to ignore their murmurs, pretending instead to fill out the attendance sheet on my clipboard. Really, I’m watching Annie out of the corner of my eye as she recounts her latest near-brush with death, and how fabulous it felt to be swimming almost on her own.

  It’s then that I decide tonight is the night. With swimming lessons today and hockey practice this afternoon, I won’t have time to corral Annie before this evening to get another conversation going. The last thing I want to do is scare her off or push her away, just as she’s opening up.

  But even worse would be letting her slip through my grasp without knowing how I feel. I don’t know that Annie wants anything to do with me, and I don’t know that we have anything between us except physical chemistry. All I know is that I need to find out.

  Chapter 18

  ANNIE

  I’m in my room when the noise begins
.

  It’s a howl, sort of, or a screech. Like a cow in labor or a pigeon on its deathbed. I plug my headphones tighter to my ears, crank up the movie soundtracks, and return to studying.

  I’m at my grandmother’s house tonight—on a Saturday night—studying because of this stupid exam. Sarah wanted to have friends over to our apartment, and I didn’t want to spoil her weekend just because I’m feeling anti-social and grouchy. So, I vacated the premises while her friends piled into our apartment.

  This anti-social and grouchy mood has nothing to do with the fact that I spent all day thinking about why in the world I didn’t stick around after class and ask Cohen James out for a cup of coffee. I could’ve had plans tonight if I’d wanted to, but I hadn’t gotten up the guts. Hence the reason I’m studying at my grandmother’s house on Saturday evening.

  My mother also took advantage of the situation by requesting I join her for a day of shopping tomorrow. She wants to find me the perfect dress to wear as her maid of honor.

  I’m not thrilled about the dress, but she sweetened the pot and offered to buy brunch and lattes from the fancy place on Grand. What can I say? Unlike Cohen James, I’m easy to bribe.

  I’m trying to read through my notes again, pushing away all thoughts of Cohen James, but that noise outside just won’t quit. I’m not sure what’s worse—the dying pigeon, or the incessant thoughts about Cohen’s naked torso. They’re both equally annoying and equally persistent.

  Finally, I throw off my headphones and make my way over toward the window. It’s my childhood bedroom, and most of the decorations—the boy band posters, the collage of high school photos, the earring display and nail polish jars—remain largely intact.

  Cranking the window open, my heart begins to race as I realize that the sound is neither a pigeon dying nor a cow giving birth—it’s distinctly human. I can’t make out the exact words, but it’s definitely a voice.

  My palms get slick with sweat as my brain starts to ponder the worst case scenarios. Is someone getting mugged? Do I call the police? Run outside with my dinky pink can of pepper spray? I could yell downstairs to Gran, but I don’t expect she’d be able to do much to help.

  Leaning out the window, I begin to breathe easier. I catch sight of a man’s figure standing on the street below, and it looks like he’s talking on one of those Bluetooth earpieces. It’s still odd that he’s standing outside in this weather, but at least nobody is in mortal danger.

  I’m about to turn back to studying and crank up the volume when my back shoots ramrod straight, and a flash of recognition streaks through my mind. The robe. I recognize the robe.

  “Oh, no,” I breathe, flinging the window open even wider. I lean close to the screen and, sure enough, as the blast of icy cold air steals my breath, another jolt of recognition hits me hard.

  Cohen James. I don’t know what the hell he thinks he’s doing standing outside in a robe, but suddenly, I’m wondering if he’s trying to sing. He might have the body of a Greek god, but he’s got the voice of a rooster with laryngitis.

  Tapping my toe against the floor, I wearily scan the neighborhood and impatiently wait for him to wrap up the verse. He does so with an extra flourish of his hands, and a bow halfway to the ground.

  “Cohen James!” I shout through the arctic blast. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “I’m serenading you.”

  “I thought someone was getting mugged!”

  “You don’t like it?”

  “There’s nothing to like; it’s not music.”

  He fingers the edges of the robe, pulling it tighter around his body. “I thought you might appreciate seeing your gift in use.”

  “It’s freezing. Go home, Cohen.”

  “All of this for nothing?”

  “What did you expect?” I ask, lowering my voice as our neighbor’s light clicks on. We live in a fairly normal, pint-sized community just outside of the Twin Cities that likes to gab. I don’t want to bring attention to myself or my family. “You can’t just show up here in the middle of the night.”

  “It’s nine p.m. on a Saturday.”

  I hesitate, glance at the clock on the wall. It’s technically eight thirty, but I’ve been studying since the sun went down and it feels like three in the morning to me.

  “I’ll leave if you reconsider my offer of a date,” he says into the silence. “It’s just dinner, Annie.”

  I pause, which is unexpected, even to myself. By the time I snap back to attention, someone else has joined the conversation, and it’s too late to keep this private.

  “Well, lookie here!” Gran opens the front door downstairs. I can picture her easily, standing there in her own fluffy robe and bubblegum pink bunny slippers. “That’s a nice robe you’ve got there. Wait a second... don’t I know you?”

  Cohen rubs a hand over his forehead looking shockingly unembarrassed. “You do. We met earlier at the YMCA. I was trying to win over your granddaughter, but I think I’ve struck out.”

  “That’s a bummer. She’s a tough cookie to please.”

  “So I’m beginning to see.”

  “Anyway, don’t freeze your buns off! Come on inside. I’ll fix you a warm drink.”

  “Gran, no!” I call down. “Cohen was just heading home.”

  “Where are your manners?” Gran yells up the stairs. “He seems like a perfectly nice man, and he’s practically freezing his buns off out there. Come on in here, Cohen. It’s nice to see you again.”

  Before I can resist further, Gran has shepherded Cohen into the house and, judging by the clatters coming from below, she’s begun a quest to warm him up.

  Sighing, I look in the mirror. It’s not pretty. I’ve got my hair whipped into a studying ponytail, and I have absolutely no makeup on my face. I’ve borrowed clothes from my high school self, and let’s face it—Annie Plymouth wasn’t any sort of fashionista, even in her prime. It’s snowmen flannel pants and a tank top for me.

  Long story short, I’m in no state to be going downstairs to greet company.

  If I stay here, however, Gran will have a tongue lashing for me. She might be kooky, but she insists on good manners. Why? I have no idea.

  Since there are no great options, I decide to suck it up and face the music—or rather, the horrible screeching. Cohen’s already seen me in a fugly swimsuit and no makeup, so there’s no need to get fancy. I shrug into a big sweatshirt that won’t show a single curve and make my way downstairs.

  I’m still not convinced that I should get tangled up with Cohen James in any way, shape, or form. There might be enough chemistry between us to light this place on fire, but sooner or later, the flames will be doused and I’ll be the one left hurting. Best if I stay sensible—it’s worked for me so far, and there’s no reason I should stop now.

  Gran’s got two cups of hot chocolate sitting on the kitchen table by the time I arrive. Being in my gran’s kitchen has a calming effect on me; I’ve always liked the way it’s set up.

  There’s a small, cozy table centered in the breakfast nook. Old, yet well-kept, wallpaper lines the walls, yellow and bright, and it brings me right back to the mornings I spent here as a kid.

  “Enjoy,” Gran says, pushing a bag of marshmallows toward me. “I’ve gotta get some cucumbers on my eyes and a head start on my beauty sleep, so I’ll just be upstairs trying my darndest to turn back time. And wrinkles.”

  “But—” I start to argue, but find myself speaking to Gran’s retreating figure before I can form a sentence. I turn my glare on Cohen, who is watching me with a grin on his face. “What are you looking at?”

  He lifts the hot chocolate to his lips, takes a sip, and closes his eyes. “This is delicious.”

  “Gran has a special recipe,” I say, swirling the spoon in mine. “She’s never told me what it is exactly, but I swear it’s magic.”

  “I’d agree.”

  “I used to come inside after sledding with my friends when I was little, and we’d leave our boots in the
entryway,” I begin, unable to stop the story from tumbling out once I’ve started. “My mom would get so upset by the puddles we’d leave there, but Gran never cared. She even threw a snowball in the house once.”

  “How am I not surprised?”

  I laugh. “I know, right? Anyway, she always had these hot chocolates waiting for us, so every time I have one, I remember...” I trail off, realizing I’m babbling. “Sorry, boring.”

  “You grew up in this house?” Instead of looking bored, Cohen glances around the room, his eyes landing on a few of the old trinkets that line the walls. A picture of my Gran and Gramps on their wedding day sits in the place of honor behind the table. A few photos of me, sometimes surrounded by friends, sometimes with Gran, sometimes alone, are scattered around, too.

  “Yeah,” I say, following his line of sight to the photos. “I’ve always loved this room.”

  “I can see why.” He points to a few photos with me in them. “Your parents aren’t in any of these photos?”

  “My mom was usually the one taking the picture.”

  “And your dad?”

  “They’re divorced.”

  Cohen nods, and thankfully, he doesn’t press any further. I’m not in the mood to discuss any of that with him. In turn, he doesn’t offer any pity, no sympathy, just an understanding expression, and it’s nice. Almost as if he understands.

  “He worked a lot when I was young,” I say, taking another sip of hot chocolate. Something about the silence made me feel the need to speak. “I think that’s probably one of the reasons why my parents didn’t work out. My mom and I moved in with Gran and Gramps after they split up.”

  “This wedding in July—is it your mom who’s getting remarried?”

  “Yeah, to a guy named Claude. He seems to make her happy.”

  Cohen gives a tight smile. “That’s what counts.”

  As it turns out, Cohen’s a good listener. I realize I’ve been talking this whole time, and I’ve hardly asked a word about himself. “You just moved here from California, didn’t you?”

  “Well, moved back. I’m from here, originally. Took a few years to play for the Lightning, but something called me home.”