Delivery Girl (Minnesota Ice #1)

by Lily Kate

  “Apparently your friend is generous. He left a two-hundred-dollar tip, but I’m keeping half as a penalty because you forgot to collect payment.” My dad crosses his arms. He’d look sort of cute, his face a little wrinkled, round glasses that Santa might wear perched on his nose, but right now he’s wearing a frown and looks grumpy. “And because you ditched work twenty minutes early for your show.”

  “Thanks, Dad!” I don’t care about him keeping half the tip. This hundred bucks is more than I’m used to walking away with on any given night, let alone a single delivery. I’m still staring at it as I head toward the doors. I can buy coffee for weeks and weeks with this.

  “Andi,” he calls after me. “What’d you do for him? Did you get naked? I told you not to do that.”

  “Dad, I have never gotten naked in front of a customer.”

  I don’t add that this statement would have changed in the instance of Ryan Pierce inviting me inside—the fantasy in Lisa’s brain wasn’t an unpleasant one. I also didn’t add that Ryan had been naked underneath that towel, which was the reason for my lapse in judgment in the first place.

  My father leans in, his eyes suspicious. “I’ve never seen a two-hundred-dollar tip for a single pizza, and I’ve been in the business for a long time.”

  “The smiley face must have impressed his girlfriend.”

  My dad doesn’t look convinced, but he sits back down and resumes counting bills. He’s a bottom-line sorta guy, so as long as I’m not breaking the law or taking my clothes off, he doesn’t ask many questions.

  CHAPTER 6

  Andi

  “How?” Angela’s hair is done up in two Mickey Mouse-style buns, and I think she’s sprayed glitter on her head because I inhale a whiff of dust when I lean close. “Another smiley face pizza? This is the second one in two weeks.”

  A week has passed since my run-in with Ryan Pierce, and the memory is still hot in my mind, along with my embarrassment. “We’ve got to take that off the menu.”

  “Agreed. Too much rainbow-farting-unicorn bullshit,” Angela mutters. Then she comprehends my words. “You think it’s Ryan Pierce…again? Your dad took the call and didn’t get a name.”

  I shrug, remembering the sounds of passion I’d nearly interrupted last week. “Maybe he goes through a girl every few days, and this is his routine.”

  “I hope so,” my dad calls from across the room. “He’s good for business. Throw in a free side of breadsticks and a soda, understood? Whatever this man wants, he gets.”

  “Loud and clear,” Angela mumbles.

  “Apparently my dad can be bought for a two-hundred-dollar tip,” I say, shooting her an apologetic look. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry, I’m just disappointed you get all the action.”

  “There was no action—not for me, I mean.”

  “All I’m saying is that if Ryan Pierce wanted me, I’d lay myself out for him,” Angela says. “Dinner on the house.”

  The phone rings, and I grab it. “Hello?”

  “Hey, is this Andi?” The smooth, masculine voice says my name like a song, and my ovaries explode instantly. “This is Ryan calling about the pizza. I forgot to ask—”

  “Hi, Ryan,” I interrupt, loud enough for everyone to hear. “We’re just popping your pizza in the oven. We’ll send free breadsticks and drinks, whatever you’d like. Sorry for the delay.”

  “No, don’t worry—”

  I can’t stop interrupting him. My mouth continues to speak. “How about some extra cheese?” I volunteer. “I love double cheese.”

  I don’t know why I tell him this, but it seems to work because after a moment of silence, he makes a noise of agreement. “Extra cheese?”

  “I’ll give you a hundred Parmesan packets.”

  “Three would be fine.”

  “Three it is.” I hang up, and then I pound my head into the table. I don’t even know why he actually called. “I choked,” I whine to Angela. “I don’t know what’s happening to me.”

  I continue to moan to Angela as she makes the pizza, begging her to take the delivery.

  “Do it yourself, Andi,” my dad says. “For some reason, he seems to like you. No man leaves a two-hundred-dollar tip because they had a bad experience.”

  Maybe Ryan is buying my silence, I think to myself. He is famous, after all. His face is plastered on television, in the papers…maybe he doesn’t want word getting out about him banging in front of the delivery girl. Then again, I’m not sure that’s anything to be ashamed of, especially the way his partner was moaning.

  “Fine, Dad, but I get to keep the full tip this time.”

  “Mr. Peretti to you,” he replies. “You’re at work, Andi. Act professional.”

  “Fine, Mr. Peretti.”

  “Is that sarcasm?”

  I grab the pizza from Angela and stomp out the front door. “Bye, Dad,” I say. “I’m never sarcastic.”

  “Andi!” My dad’s warning hits the door as I rush to the car. “That sounds a helluva lot like sarcasm to me!”

  Despite my complaints about delivering the pizza, somewhere in my stomach, tiny little butterflies begin to stretch their wings. I hate to admit it, but I’m excited to see Ryan again, which is ridiculous since he was bumping lovelies with another woman last time.

  My phone rings before I’m even out of the driveway. “Hurry back, Andi. You’re the only delivery girl scheduled for tonight. No dangling around.”

  “Dawdling.”

  “Are you being sarcastic with me?”

  “No,” I say. “It’s dawdling, not dangling.”

  “Whatever it is, don’t do it.”

  No problem. I don’t have a show tonight, and I could use a cash infusion. Scratch that—I might have a show tonight, but only if Ryan is putting on act II of his performance.

  I drive across the city, and traffic is lighter than normal—either that, or the thoughts of Ryan opening the door in nothing but that towel distract me for the entire journey. I arrive in no time at all, and by the time I park, my girl parts are tingling like a pack of Pop Rocks.

  I flip the mirror down as I turn onto Ryan’s street and check out my appearance. The sight of my face shocks me straight back to reality. In my fantasies, I’m not wearing my red Peretti’s Pizza polo shirt. Nobody looks irresistible in a Peretti’s Pizza shirt, not even Angela, and she has a rack a Playboy Bunny would envy.

  Maybe I have an extra tank top in my back seat. I often keep a black one there because it’s simple to throw on with jeans and I can wear it from work to a show. Practical Andi. I fumble around in the back seat one-handed after easing my car to a stop, all the while dreaming of Ryan pulling one strap down, and then the next, until—shit!

  My car lurches forward, and not on purpose.

  Crap, crap, crap. I’m so flustered from my daydreams that I forgot to put the vehicle into park. I climb out to assess the damage; luckily, it appears I’ve only run into the curb, and not the beautiful black Ferrari three feet ahead of me. My front bumper has fallen off, but this is okay. The car is old and ready to disintegrate.

  I slide back into my front seat and quickly squish into the tank top. I’m no Angela Jolie in Tomb Raider, but anything is better than the collar. Better, I think, glancing in the mirror.

  Though not quite good enough.

  As my spirits sink, I briefly debate driving away to Mexico, just so I don’t have to face Ryan. My life suddenly feels a little bit sad. I’m bringing smiley face pizzas to the most famous hockey player in the league, and here I am scrubbing sauce off my black tank top.

  The more I think about it, the more this idea makes sense. I have a car without a front bumper, a piping hot pizza, and four dollars and sixty-eight cents in my cup holder. I hear Mexico is less expensive than Los Angeles, so all systems are a go.

  I get out of the car, carrying the pizza, and then the worst happens.

  My car scoots forward again. It’s in park, but apparently the brakes are tired. The whole thin
g just sort of rolls a few inches down the hill and bumps into the back of the Ferrari.

  Mexico it is.

  Then my damn conscience kicks in, and I sigh. I will offer to pay for any damage, and I will be indebted to Ryan Pierce forever—I suppose there are worse things in life. Making my way toward the house, I find myself desperately hoping Ryan is not having wild sex with his girlfriend. I can handle him having sex and I can handle apologizing for the dent, but I can’t do both at once.

  CHAPTER 7

  Andi

  There are no screams, yelps, meows, or any noises of that nature coming out of Ryan’s house. I hold my hand poised above the door to knock and blink, hardly able to believe my luck.

  I use this moment of peaceful quiet to run through my speech.

  Hi Ryan, I’m sorry, but I was fantasizing about you while driving here. It’s a compliment, really. In fact, I was so distracted, I forgot to brake and bumped into your car. Anyway, here’s your pizza! Don’t worry, I threw in some extra breadsticks.

  The door opens mid-conversation with myself. I realize I haven’t knocked, and this is embarrassing. Instead of my well-rehearsed speech, I’m now speechless. Somehow, my mouth decides to squeak. I can’t explain it.

  “Ryan?” I extend the box. “Pizza.”

  “Andi?” He raises one of those dark eyebrows up to where his curling locks flop over his forehead. Instead of a bare torso and a towel, this time he wears a gray sweater. It looks so soft that I almost reach out and touch it. The wool top flows into a flannel pair of pants, and…oh, boy. There it is: the very subtle outline of his manhood. I want it. All of it.

  “It’s Andi, right?” he asks again. He peeks in the little brown baggie on top. “Thanks for the Parmesan.”

  By the time I look up, my face has turned Peretti Pizza shirt red. I nod and go mute. It’s taking all my willpower not to look at his personal hockey stick.

  “Here you go.” He hands over a wad of bills. “Hope this covers it.”

  The money doesn’t register, which is saying a lot. I like money, I really do, and I’m sure he left another big tip, but you know what’s even bigger? The thing in his pants. Wowzers.

  “I hope you enjoy your pizza,” I say, realizing far too late that I’m speaking to his crotch. I force my eyes up to his face and cough. “Thanks for ordering with Peretti’s. We’ll see you next time.”

  Ryan’s face now brightens with a devilish grin as I peek upward, his lips looking so soft and primed for kissing. “I sure hope so. The pizza last week was fantastic.”

  I should leave now. He’s waiting for me to leave but, for some reason, I stay. Even worse? My eyelid goes ahead and winks all on its own.

  “It’s good to see you again,” I say, praying my eye lays off on the winking thing. My brain has nothing to do with it, but for some reason, my face—more specifically my eye—feels like flirting with Ryan Pierce. The Ryan Pierce. “I thought you’d ordered just to see me again.”

  He tips that beautiful face of his back and laughs, a real laugh that has me grinning along with him. Then he leans against the door, and one scan of his torso tells me there are rock solid abs underneath that sweater. “I was hoping you’d show up, and in case you were wondering, I got your name from the receipt last time.”

  “Oh, I thought you’d stalked me.”

  “Unfortunately, that’s not my area of expertise.”

  The reminder of him paying last week registers, and I recall his generous tip. “You tipped far too much last week,” I say. “It was my mistake forgetting to collect payment. Here, this one’s on me.” I thrust the cash back into his hands, as if this makes everything better. “Please.”

  He reaches out, his large hands closing around mine. A zing of electricity shoots through me, even more exciting than the pile of bills in my hands. “You’re worth every penny.”

  “Oh.”

  Then his face goes slack. “Christ, that sounds—I’m sorry, Andi. I didn’t mean it like that.”

  I wave a hand. “So why the smiley face on the pizza? Seems…unusual.”

  “To annoy my brother,” he says. “My mom started the tradition when we were kids. This is my brother’s house,” he adds. “Although the woman taking orders at your restaurant didn’t seem very excited about it, so I promise to go for the regular sausage next time.”

  “That’s just Angela. She thinks smiley face pizzas are too much rainbow-farting-unicorns bullshit.”

  Now Ryan really laughs. He sets the pizza on a table just inside the door, his eyes dancing when he faces me again. “And what do you think?”

  “I thought you were using it to get laid.” I shrug. “Guess I was wrong.”

  “Why would you think that?”

  I raise an eyebrow. “No comment. In fact, I should be leaving now.”

  I make it halfway down the stairs before he calls after me.

  “So, Andi,” he says, and I look over my shoulder at him. “Would you like to come inside and have a bite of pizza with me?”

  I turn around, halfway down the front lawn. “Me?”

  “No, the other Andi.”

  I frown at him. “You tipped me in cash. If I come inside, that’s basically prostitution.”

  “I wasn’t trying to hook up with you. I just think you’re funny, and otherwise, I’ll be eating alone.”

  “Oh.” I stand still, trying to figure out if this is a good development, or a very, very, bad thing. I mean, I want to be a comic, so funny is good, right? But at the same time, it feels a little bit like I’ve been insta-friend-zoned.

  I’m still puzzling on what he means when a figure appears in the doorway behind Ryan. It’s a woman, and she’s holding a sheaf of papers in one hand and high-end shopping bags in the other. Her hair is a gorgeous chestnut brown, long and wavy and perky. I wonder if it’s the mystery woman from last week, or maybe a new one?

  She looks up and smiles at me. “Hi.”

  I give a dumb-looking finger wave as she turns to Ryan, quickly kisses him on the cheek, and then hurtles her lithe frame down the steps. Her yoga pants show off a nice, toned ass, and I remember that I really need to do more squats, stat.

  “I won’t be home tonight, flying out of town. Back tomorrow evening,” she calls over her shoulder. “Behave!”

  Ryan calls a goodbye after her. He waits for her to flounce out of the gate—yes, she flounces—and then turns to me. “Where did we land on the subject of you coming in for a bite to eat?”

  I shake my head. “Listen, Ryan. You seem fun, and I think I like you as a person, which is why I hope you’ll understand when I tell you that…I accidentally ran my car into yours.”

  “What?”

  “So as for the bite to eat, it’s probably best if we skip it, especially with your girlfriend just leaving.”

  I want to hit myself in the face. I’m using the oldest trick in the playbook in an attempt to find out if Ryan’s single, and in the process, I admitted to crashing his car. Thankfully, he blows by the whole car issue and focuses on the brunette.

  A complicated expression crosses his face. “That’s Lilia.”

  “Lilia,” I mumble. “Of course.”

  “My brother’s fiancée,” he says. “This is his house. I’m just staying here for a couple of weeks.”

  I gulp for oxygen, feeling like Nemo out of water. Then I step backward and realize I am officially the world’s worst delivery girl. I’m prying into his personal relationships, a topic I have absolutely no business prying into.

  “Hey, where are you going?” Before I can fall off the front steps, Ryan reaches out. His fingers loop around my wrist and it feels like I’ve been burned—burned by the most intense, sexy fire imaginable. “You never explained what you meant about the car crash.”

  “Car crash?” I feign ignorance. He leans his cozy, sweatpants-clad figure out the door, and I can see his muscles straining under the material. It’s distracting. “Sorry?”

  “Are you okay?” His eyes darke
n with concern.

  “Here,” I blurt out, throwing a few twenties at his hands as I turn around. “I’ll leave my insurance information on your windshield.”

  Ryan watches me leave. He appears bewildered, and I can’t blame him. I am responsible for bamboozling Ryan Pierce.

  I scribble the name of our insurance company as fast as possible and stick it on the windshield of the slightly dented Ferrari. I climb back into my car and roar away from Ryan’s estate as fast as I can. Mexico, here I come.

  Before I round the corner, I catch a glimpse of Ryan emerging onto the street. In my rearview mirror, I watch him examine the trophy I left behind—my bumper.

  CHAPTER 8

  Ryan

  That woman is a walking disaster.

  If I were smart, I’d call the insurance company and have them sort out the details, figure out what it’ll cost to repair the damages from her shitmobile bowling into my Ferrari, but somehow, I can’t manage to do that. It’s clear she doesn’t have a lot of money, and it’s my fault she was here in the first place.

  Anyway, it’s not a huge dent.

  Plus, it’s a rental. My idiot brother lined it up, thinking I’d want a Ferrari. I didn’t. I don’t. It deserves the fucking dent.

  I haul her bumper off to the side of the road. I debate calling Peretti’s to let them know I have a piece of Andi’s car, but somehow, I expect that might not go over well if it’s a company vehicle. I figure I’ll give the bumper a nice little home on Lawrence’s street until I can order another pizza. I have to give it a few days before I call Peretti’s again, otherwise I’ll be in the stage-five-clinger zone.

  Once I put a tarp over the top to keep the thing all warm and fuzzy, I head inside and retrieve the pizza from the front entryway. I throw it straight into the refrigerator without taking so much as a whiff. It’ll be gone the second Lawrence and Lilia get home, but I don’t care—I wasn’t even hungry to start with.

  I just ate a massive lunch. What I’d really wanted was to see her again.

  Andi.