Boss Girl (Minnesota Ice #2)

by Lily Kate

“Well, of course not.” Jocelyn turns to me in mock horror. “Beauty and the Beast is the best pick out there.”

  “It’s your favorite, too?” Charli asks this like it’s an interview question.

  “Most definitely.”

  “Then you must stay,” I tell her. “I insist.”

  “It’s already late—”

  “So a little later won’t hurt.”

  She gives me a complicated expression, almost exasperated at my persistence. It’s not like I can justify it. I just don’t particularly want her to leave yet.

  “Twist my arm,” she says finally. “Do we get an extra slice of cake?”

  I instruct the girls to get cozy on the couch. This movie is our birthday tradition, and it’s the first thing Charli sets out in the morning.

  I pop it into the DVD player and grab the fluffy blanket Marie keeps tucked in the closet. When I return, Charli has picked a seat on the couch next to Jocelyn. There’s no space for me in my usual seat.

  “Where am I supposed to sit?” I tease, tossing the blanket over the pair of girls. “You took my spot, Charli.”

  “Should I move?” Joss’s neck jerks up. “Did I steal your spot? I can move.”

  “No.” Charli rests a hand on her knee. “Stay.”

  Joss raises her eyebrows at me, her lips quirked into a smile. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Since the ladies don’t seem to miss me, I beg off to put together a plate of food. Both women had a list of snack requests longer than my CVS receipt. And CVS receipts are the longest receipts I’ve ever seen. Like, three feet long.

  I pause for a moment, watching the back of their heads in the doorway as popcorn pops in the background. I hit the lights as the movie comes on, but it doesn’t pause Charli’s jabbering for even a second.

  It does, however, catch Jocelyn’s attention, and she glances over my daughter’s head to find me staring back at her. This time, she doesn’t blush. She hardly looks uncomfortable. If anything, she belongs here.

  “Cute,” a voice says from behind, startling me. “They seem to get along well.”

  “What the hell, Steve? Stop creeping around.”

  “I’m your guest. Aren’t I allowed to pop into the kitchen for a bite to eat?”

  Because he’s my brother, and he’s the only option I have for company at the moment, I pull open the fridge and grab two beers.

  Steve gives an approving nod, retrieving the bottle opener from the drawer nearest him and sending it sailing across the table. “You going to tell her tonight?”

  “What?”

  “How you feel?”

  I sip my beer. I don’t respond; I don’t know what to say.

  “Grow a pair,” Steve says. “One week, hermano.”

  “I have a pair,” I retort. “It’s more complicated than that.”

  He takes a step back and raises his hands. I’ve always been bigger than Steve, and he’s always been smarter than me. Normally, we didn’t capitalize on the other’s weakness, but sometimes it just happened. Apparently, when I’m angry, I’m intimidating.

  “Relax,” he tells me. “I’m trying to help.”

  “Shut up.”

  “You want to talk, obviously.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t want your opinions.”

  “I’m shutting up.” Steve takes another step back. “How is this situation so complicated?”

  “I’m a package deal. Me and Charli, we come together. When a woman dates me, she dates my daughter, too. If things get serious, it changes for our family. I have more to consider than myself.”

  “Would you have already slept with her if it weren’t for Charli?”

  “This isn’t about sleeping together.”

  “You care about her?”

  “I can’t stop thinking about her,” I snarl. “If I could, would I be sitting here talking to you about it?”

  Steve shrugs. “I’m just here for the beer. And the cake.”

  “Next time, bring a real present.”

  “She played with the bubble wrap longer than anything else, didn’t she?”

  “That’s not the point.” I take another swig and slam the bottle onto the island. I’m looking for reasons to be pissed now; I know that. It feels good. But it doesn’t accomplish anything, and that ticks me off more. “What would you do?”

  “Me? I’d ask her out,” Steve says. “She’d turn me down, but I don’t mind trying.”

  The note of ambivalence in Steve’s voice is enough to calm me down. I know he’d like to find a woman to balance him out, a family, a soul mate, but he’s had horrible luck with women. Where they tend to flock around me at times—thanks to my name and my career—they tend to overlook my brother. Which sucks because he’s a great guy.

  And now, I feel even worse for complaining to him. “Steve, you’re going to find a great girl—”

  “I’m not looking for sympathy,” Steve says. “But you’ve gotta admit there’s a logic to my reasoning. The worst she’ll say is no, right?”

  I make a show of gathering a variety of snacks onto the tray and dumping the popcorn into a bowl. Before we part ways, I grab a second beer and hand it to my brother.

  “Thanks for coming,” I say. “Feel like watching a movie?”

  “Not really. But I’ll be here if you decide to drive your friend home and need some time alone, away from the house.”

  I meet his gaze for a long second. “Thanks. For the record, I meant it, too. You’ll find someone.”

  “You’re getting sappy in your old age.”

  “You’re just getting old.”

  “Night, asshole.”

  “Sweet dreams, buttercup,” I call, a smirk on my face as we part ways and I head toward the living room. I begin an announcement to the crowd of ladies there. “Food’s ready...”

  I trail off at the sight of two heads tilted against one another, two sets of light snores reaching my ears. I take a step backward, slowly retreating from the room until I can set the tray back onto the kitchen counter. Then, I take tiny steps into the living room and situate myself in the big fat armchair.

  It’s there that I alternate between watching the end of Beauty and the Beast and the two women on the couch. There are similarities between the two ladies, the hinted smile on their lips, even in sleep. The blonde hair—one set of locks curled into spirals, the second straight as my hockey stick. Long, gorgeous lashes resting against perfectly rosy cheeks. If I didn’t know better, I’d think they might be related.

  When I start to feel awkward watching Jocelyn take shallow breaths, I turn my attention back to the television and watch the beast transform into a prince. I sympathize with the guy, today of all days. Sometimes it’s easier to be the beast than a prince.

  I let the credits roll for some time before I stand and rest my fingers on Jocelyn’s shoulder. She squirms closer to me, nuzzling against the heat of my skin as I lean in to whisper against her ear. “Let me drive you home.”

  “Mmm,” she murmurs against the couch pillow.

  “You’re welcome to sleep here,” I say, my heart racing. “Let me get you a blanket.”

  “Blanket...” She snuggles closer into the couch, and Charli sighs and eases closer to her, too.

  I pull the blankets up higher onto their chests, wrangling limbs into position to prevent stiffness in the morning. I try to lift Charli into my arms, but she’s having none of it. She moans, groans, and swipes at me in her half sleepy state as I try to pull her off the couch until finally, I give up.

  Instead, I plant a kiss on each of their foreheads, grab a second blanket for myself, and stretch out on the La-Z-Boy.

  Tonight has turned into one huge sleepover, and I have Beauty and the Beast to thank.

  Chapter 28

  Jocelyn

  The morning arrives like a fog, slow and steady, enveloping me whole. One minute I’m dreaming of Boxer’s lips pressed to my forehead, and the next I find myself shaking off stiffness and finding a little girl drooling on m
y arm.

  Confusion strikes first. It takes me a long moment to remember how I got here—and where here actually is. That’s when I hear the low tones of someone humming, a distinctly male voice coming from the kitchen, and everything crashes into clarity.

  I slept over at Landon Boxer’s house. A potential client. An almost lover. A man that has my stomach twisted in knots every time he enters the room.

  Worse, I hadn’t even asked permission. I’d just zoned out and started drooling on the couch. Had I drooled? God, I hope not. I quickly check the couch, but it is free of wet spots, thank goodness.

  I close my eyes, wanting to slap a hand over my face as panic sets in after confusion, but I don’t want to risk waking Charli. A sleepover. At a potential client’s house! What was I thinking?

  My knee cracks as I attempt to straighten my leg, and the slight sound is enough to stop the humming radiating from the kitchen. I pause, debating whether I should pretend to sleep or face my fears, when a figure pops into the doorway, and all thought pauses entirely.

  It’s Landon Boxer. And he’s wearing an apron.

  It’s not a tough, manly sort of I’m Grilling apron. No, it’s got a line of purple ruffles around the bottom and puffy painted words across the front that say World’s Greatest Dad. I have one guess as to who put them there.

  I’m torn between laughing and melting into the couch at its adorableness, so I choose the safer option and giggle.

  He looks down, grins, and then meets my gaze again, not the slightest bit embarrassed. “Last year’s Father’s Day gift,” he says in explanation. “By the way, good morning.”

  “Good morning,” I mouth back. “I’m a little trapped here.”

  “Sorry about that. She’s an aggressive sleeper.”

  Landon approaches the couch, a hint of a smile on his face. He reaches down to scoop Charli up, but I press a hand to his wrist.

  “Don’t wake her,” I say. “I can sit here; I don’t mind. It’s cozy.”

  He gives a soft laugh. “Watch this—it’s a magic trick.”

  Swooping her into his arms, Charli’s head falls onto his shoulder with an unceremonious droop. Her legs dangle, arms flopping all over, and save for a cute miniature snore, she doesn’t show any signs of waking.

  “She can sleep through anything,” he says, repositioning her on the other end of the couch. “Come on, let me get you a cup of coffee.”

  Coffee sounds incredible, so I follow him into the kitchen, the scent of freshly ground beans enough to make me weak at the knees. Either that, or it’s the incredible sight before me—a man confident enough to wear a frilly apron while cooking what looks like sprinkle-encrusted pancakes in a skillet.

  Then again, he has every reason to be confident. He lifts the coffee pot and pours it into a gigantic sky-blue mug while I stand gazing at his arms tense with lean muscle, every vein defined. He’s back in athletic shorts and an old t-shirt, the fabric so worn I can see hints of skin through it.

  I don’t know what’s wrong with me, peeping at his body when I should be explaining myself. Maybe it’s the lack of coffee putting me into a deep, lusty stupor because I can’t hardly remember how to say thank you as he passes me the mug. I splutter something that I hope sounds like gratitude, and take a slurp of the piping hot liquid.

  “How is it?” He looks genuinely concerned.

  “It’s delicious.”

  “Steve got me hooked on his fancy hipster coffee.” He gestures to a machine that looks more like a beaker than a coffee pot. “I hate that I love it.”

  “I don’t blame you for it.” I smile, watching as he deposits the grinds into the trashcan. “I think it helps that you wear the apron when you make it.”

  His eyes flick once more to the fabric covering his waist, and he shrugs. “Charli made me wear it so often when she first gave it to me that I just got in the habit of putting it on when I make breakfast. It’s really the only meal I cook. Marie cooks almost all of our meals during the week, but Charli and I like to do our own breakfasts.”

  “She does, huh?” I raise my eyebrows at the sleeping body curled on the couch. “Great teamwork.”

  “She’s six going on sixteen, I swear,” he says with a shake of his head. Then, almost to himself, he murmurs, “It goes too fast.”

  “It does,” I agree. Then I realize I don’t have children, so it sounds a little fake that I’m responding. “Time, in general, I mean.”

  “Do you have siblings?”

  “Me? No,” I say. “Not really.”

  “Not really?”

  I force a smile. “Is Steve your only brother?”

  “He’s more than enough.”

  “He seems nice!”

  “There’s more to him than meets the eye.” Boxer leans forward, holding the spatula before him like a weapon. There’s a teasing glint to his eye. “Don’t fall for his innocent act.”

  I raise my hands. “Never.”

  “Did you sleep well?”

  “I did. I managed to snooze and shower all in one go.” When Boxer looks confused, I laugh, holding a hand up to show the light outline of drool on my wrist. “Charli is an active sleeper.”

  “Here, I’m so sorry about that.” Boxer runs a cloth under warm sink water, squeezes it out, and then approaches me slowly. “May I?”

  I can only nod, moving to sit on one of the kitchen stools for balance.

  One of his hands has encircled mine, the other gently sponging away the mark on my arm. It’s everything I can do not to shiver under his touch. The way he moves is soft, gentle, and I force my mind to stop thinking of other ways he might touch me.

  “Is that better?” Boxer pulls the washcloth from my arm.

  I nod.

  Instead of letting go, he squeezes my hand tighter, takes a step closer, and lets his fingers trail up my arm. His eyes come up to meet mine. “Sorry about that, Joss.”

  “I’m not sorry at all.” I blink, shocking myself. “I mean, about...this.”

  “Me neither,” he says, his hand sliding the rest of the way up my arm until it’s at my shoulder, then my back.

  His touch trickles across my neck sending fireworks throughout my body. I’m nearly quivering under his touch—pathetic, really, but I can’t help it. He has everything I never knew I wanted. A heart big enough for two. Goals. Desires. Generosity and kindness born naturally to him.

  This life—his life—it’s not mine, but suddenly, I want it all.

  That’s why I lean into him, brushing against his chest as he lowers to meet me. The air sizzles between us, crackling with long anticipated tension. We were cut off the other night at the peak of our desires, and I’m relieved to know it’s not just me who’s still frustrated.

  “I’m glad you stayed,” he murmurs against my cheek. “Thank you for being here.”

  It’s me who should be thanking him, not the other way around. I let my fingers press into his shoulders and pull him to me. He moves both arms behind my back so he’s holding me entirely.

  Lifting me off the stool, he makes it seem like I weigh no more than the spatula he wielded seconds ago. In my place, he sits down and balances me on his lap, wrapping his arms around my waist until his fingers situate on my hips.

  I can feel him beneath me, and it’s enough to make my breathing turn ragged. The moment our kiss begins is peppered by sunlight. Bits of it streak through the room, dancing across his face as we linger just centimeters from one another. My lower body may be trembling with desire, but up here, between us, there’s only caution.

  Until he inhales a deep breath and the caution flies into the wind. His hands slide down until they’re cupping my backside, holding me against him as his tongue slips between my lips. He tastes of fresh coffee and sugar, and it’s invigorating.

  My hands find his face, my palms pressing against his cheeks as I forfeit any sense of self control. I forget that he’s wearing an apron. I forget his child is sleeping in the next room over, just out of sight behin
d the wall. I forget that his brother is upstairs. I’m lost in every one of his low groans of need, his roving fingers pleading for more as he holds me against his lap.

  He’s taut with desire, and I’m burning up inside. It’s not enough anymore, this game we’re playing. Two steps forward, one step back. Business or pleasure? Passionate lust or responsible adults?

  “Why can’t it be both?” I murmur in a moment fogged with desire. “Business and pleasure?”

  “Whatever you want,” he says back. “So long as I’m next to you.”

  These words, this hint that we could be something more than two adults wanting each other from afar, never quite giving in, is enough to push me past all logical reason.

  “Do you still want me?” I manage, though it’s a gasp.

  “More than anything.” It’s low, husky. “God, I’ve wanted you for weeks.”

  “We’re both adults, what if we...” I remember what the ladies at the bar said the other night, about being adults, the value of taking Boxer home, if even for a night. “What if we get this out of our system?”

  “Out of our system?” His eyes darken, and I can see conflict written there. “What do you mean out of our system?”

  I could argue with him, but we’re in no position to at the moment, so instead, I show him. I grind my hips against his lap, the friction causing his eyes to close and a low curse to sigh from his lips.

  “I want you, too,” I whisper. “Maybe if we just let ourselves have a night together, we can move on and focus on business.”

  “What if I don’t want to move on afterward? What if I want you for more than one night?”

  I rest a finger against his lips. It’ll never work between us, I know that. I’m not the type of woman he deserves. He deserves someone motherly, someone peppy and perky who’ll join PTA meetings and stay at home and raise a happy houseful of kids. I know I’m not that person, and he’ll figure it out soon enough.

  “Let’s start with one night,” I say. “No strings attached. We can go from there.”

  “Be open to it.”

  “What?”

  His eyes are begging me as he leans in, pausing to kiss my cheek, behind my ear, across my collarbone. “Don’t push me away after a night,” he murmurs as he dusts his lips against the top of my chest. “I’ll give you one night, if you give me the potential for more.”