“You gave up the chance to sign with one of the best agents in the business…for me.”
“I’m still doing what I love—playing hockey for a career. That’s all I need. The rest is bonus, icing on the cake.” His long lashes brush against his cheeks as he leans close to me. “You’re not the icing, Andi. You’re the cake. Without the cake, there is no icing. I need you.”
A laugh bubbles up in my chest. “I’m the cake? That might be the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Christ, Andi, I’m trying—”
“Stop, Ryan.” I raise a hand and smooth it across his face. He’s looking pained, and I can’t stand the uncertainty in his eyes. “I want to be your cake.”
“Andi Peretti.” Ryan hooks his arms around my back. “Thank God you delivered that pizza.”
“And destroyed your car.”
“And pretended to be my girlfriend.”
“And ran away from you.”
“And most of all…” He pauses, his lips a breath away from mine. “It’s a good thing you said yes just now, because I can’t live without you.”
“Ryan,” I say, my voice a low, husky murmur. “Stop talking.”
He blinks once, and I watch as understanding sinks in. His eyes darken, he runs his tongue over his bottom lip, and then we both move at once. Our lips meet in a rush of need, his arms sliding around my lower back, his hands gripping my backside as he lifts me from the ground. My legs circle his narrow waist, and my arms slide around his neck.
He stumbles forward from momentum, the pair of us off balance, and we fall onto the backstage couch. The athlete in him emerges, swooping me onto his lap with surprising grace given the fervor of our movements. My arms claw at his shirt, and one of his hands slips into my new jeans.
He nearly rips my new, lacy black undies as he pulls me hard onto his lap, and I feel every glorious inch straining beneath his jeans. I’m perched over him, ready; all that separates us are two layers of clothes.
“I’ve missed you,” I tell him, completely oblivious to any of our surroundings. “I’ve missed kissing you.”
“Baby, we’re in public,” he says. “We should wait—”
“Public?” My breath comes out as a gasp as I turn and gesture toward the empty room. “The door has a lock.”
Ryan stands, takes two steps toward the door, and comes face to face with Rick as he bursts into the backstage area.
“Andi,” Rick is saying, “You nailed it out there—shit!”
Ryan’s standing there, a little awkward, his boner staring big, burly Rick in the face. I think the top button of his jeans is undone, and I know for a fact that I’m sprawled on the couch all rosy-cheeked and ready.
“Christ, Andi, not the fucking couch!” Rick storms out and slams the door behind him, still shouting at us. “Get a room—your own room.”
Ryan, to my surprise, leans forward and slides the lock shut. When he turns toward me, the devil is dancing behind those chocolate brown eyes. “What’s this I hear about the couch?”
EPILOGUE
Andi
Eight Years Later
A soft snow falls outside, coating the world in fairytale white. Christmas lights blink around the fireplace of our bedroom, and the light tunes of carols sound in the background. In the living room of our cozy, three-bedroom house just a few blocks away from Ryan’s parents is a Christmas tree laden with gifts.
The only gifts I need, however, I’m watching through the window. Ryan is outside skating with our two rascals. Three boys. Resting a hand on my stomach, I think and soon to be another, or maybe this time it’ll be a girl.
Today is special for a million and one reasons, not least of all because it’s our six-year anniversary. Tucker came exactly nine months after we were married; the kid was hardly a honeymoon baby—he was a night-of-the-wedding baby.
Angelo came about a year and a half after Tucker. My cousin Angela had wanted to hold out for a girl to inherit her name, but when it hadn’t happened on baby number two, she’d insisted we go with Angelo, and because he’s a saint, Ryan agreed.
Since then, we’ve been trying desperately for baby number three. It’s not for lack of trying that we haven’t been successful, that’s for sure. Ryan’s package is as hot and ready as the pizza I delivered on that fateful day years ago, but it just hasn’t been happening for us.
I’m blessed beyond belief with my two little boys and one big one, but I can’t help feeling that we are meant to have one more, to have three little Pierce children running around. Blinking back tears, I look at the pregnancy test and realize our family is about to be complete.
Ryan doesn’t know yet—I found out exactly thirty seconds ago. I’m planning to tell him tonight. It’ll be a little wine for him, and sparkling grape juice for me.
I swallow a lump in my throat—pregnancy hormones starting in again. I was a few weeks late this time, but I waited to take the test before I told him. We’ve had so many false alarms, it’s started to wear on my nerves.
I spread both hands over my stomach, joy filling my heart. This little boy or girl is the lucky one, just like me, because Ryan is the most wonderful partner, the most loving husband, and the best father to our children that I could have ever hoped for.
Mariah Carey croons in the background, and I smile as Ryan moves the puck across the icy pond in our backyard. Tucker and Angelo half-run, half-skate after him. They might be little, but they take after their father on the ice, and that’s saying a lot. This year, Ryan led his team—the Minnesota Stars—to their first ever Stanley Cup win. I was there, both boys in the seats next to me, and it was magic.
I watch as Tucker takes a tumble and lands hard on his bottom. Ryan lets the puck skid away from him and turns to pull our son up from the ice. Angelo, the feisty nugget that he is, goes after the puck without a glance at his brother and slams it into the net. He throws his stick, punches the air, and then finally decides to see if his brother is okay.
My phone rings, and I look away from the hockey game out back to answer it. “Hey Dad,” I say. “How’s it going?”
“I saw the show,” he says. “You did good, kid.”
“Thanks, Dad, it was all Lisa.” I can’t help but grin. “We have a good time.”
My dad still watches every comedy show I perform. Lisa and I have a residency on Comedy Central, and she’s married, too, to another one of the Stars players.
She and I do a joint segment, though we’re on leave now because Lisa is nine months pregnant with her first baby. We’ll resume in the summer. I’ve found the best of both worlds, truly; I have a family and a career that I love.
“I’m flying in tomorrow. Don’t forget to pick me up from the airport,” he says. “And by the way, I watered your plants. Your cactus died. Not my fault.”
“Thanks, Dad,” I say. He takes care of the condo we own above Peretti’s newest location in Malibu when we’re away. “It’ll be a white Christmas here this year. Mom would’ve loved it.”
“She’d be proud of you, kid,” he says in a gruff voice. “Anyway, I’ve got some treats for Tucker and Angelo, and I’m bringing presents from your cousin, too, so have Ryan with you to help me at baggage claim.”
“You spoil them too much.”
“Damn right I do,” he says proudly. “See you tomorrow.”
“Love you, Dad.”
I hang up, startled for a moment as I look out and see the two youngest boys back on the ice hacking at the puck with their sticks. They have yet to learn the art of finesse. Ryan is nowhere to be seen.
“There you are.” His deep, husky voice rolls through the warmth of our butter-yellow bedroom, the fluffy white comforter on the bed crinkling as he pulls a James Bond-style roll across it. “God, you look beautiful with the snow falling behind you like that.”
“You’re just saying that because I’m naked.”
“Not naked enough.” He eyes my figure, my stomach mostly flat, not yet showing the signs of our newest addition. “Maybe I can help with that.”