Claimed by Mr. Ice Read Online Flora Ferrari

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Insta-Love Tags Authors:

Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 55599 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 278(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)

He’s a hockey star so hot it’s a shock he doesn’t melt the ice, and my dad’s best friend, and… I’m pregnant with his baby.

I’ve always wanted a family, but I never expected it to happen like this!
It’s supposed to be a fun trip. Dad has been reconnecting with his childhood friend, Logan Ice. The man is tall, so steamy, and muscular. It’s a wonder he can move so well on his skates.
I’m nineteen, a virgin, and on the curvy side. Not that I’m ashamed of that, but I never thought he’d want me.
It’s pure steam, pure heat, but then Logan leaves. He ghosts me. He ghosts Dad.
But when I call to tell him I’m pregnant, everything changes. “I’m catching the next flight tonight. I’m not abandoning you. I’m not abandoning that baby.”
What happens when Dad finds out? Why does Logan get a dark, mysterious look in his intense blue eyes when we talk about parenthood? Is he here just for the baby, or is there more?

* Claimed by Mr. Ice is an insta-everything standalone romance with a HEA, no cheating, and no cliffhanger.

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************



Montreal is so beautiful in the fall, the leaves turning such vibrant shades of red, yellow, and orange. I look out of the cab, not even a little peeved at the driver talking on his cell phone. It’s pleasant to listen to the French in the unique Quebec accent. Dad sits across from me, looking out the window. His features are a little tight as he looks out upon the leaves.

I wonder if he’s thinking of his sister, who died in the fall. This was before I was born, but it left a significant imprint on Dad. He’s a shortish man with the kindest face, his brown hair fading like the leaves. He wears a puffy jacket that is two sizes too big for him and almost has me laughing every time I see him stuffed into it. That’s what happens when you live in California.

He spots me watching and smiles. That’s always his first reflex. “Are you excited about the game?”

“Are you excited to see your friend play?”

I’m not into hockey, really. I’m not big on any sports, though lately, I’ve thought I might try a little skating. Dad’s been talking about his youth with Logan Ice, a man whose surname almost made him destined to become a hockey player. Then, Dad moved to the US, which was easier since my grandmother, his mother, was from California. Dad and Logan drifted apart, but they’ve been talking on video chat lately.

Dad chuckles. “You didn’t hear a single technical detail I so expertly described then, did you, Miss Head in the Clouds?”

“As nicknames go, Dad, that’s fairly cumbersome.”

“Cumbersome. I feel blessed to have a daughter who’s so clever that she uses big words like that.”

He’s teasing me, but lovingly, with a light in his eyes. It brings me back to my childhood when he used to do the same. We’d tease each other just for the heck of it, to make each other laugh, never overstepping the mark because I knew—know—he always wants the best for me, and me for him.

“We’ll be seeing Logan soon,” Dad says. “He can tell you all about it. I think you’ll like him.”

I look out the window again. I’ve already seen the unlikely named Logan Ice. Glimpses on the laptop when they’re video chatting with each other. One time, in particular, Logan was standing shirtless in the sun on a balcony with a lake in the background. It was casual. He wasn’t putting on a show.

But for me, it seemed like a show. As the sun rippled down his chest and over his abs, I stood just behind the couch and stared. It seemed like time lasted forever as I took in his spiky black-silver hair, as though he’d recently showered. Each muscle was massive, defined, and tempting to my hand. The glint in his eyes got me the most—the brightest, most captivating blue. I wanted—maybe I still want—to grab onto his enormous arms and stare into those dreamy eyes.

“Is that okay?” Dad asks, his voice low.

I laugh awkwardly, still looking out the window at the leaves. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Maybe you wanted to have a rest after the flight.”

“I’m fine. It was only five hours. I slept for most of it, anyway. I’d like a shower, though.”

He nods, drumming his fingers against his knee, looking out the window. He even starts humming a moment later. I try to keep his smile at the forefront of my mind. How hopeful he seems, like a little kid getting ready to see his buddy. Dad works hard, owning a large contracting company. He and Mom have worked hard to raise me and my brother Eric. He deserves to enjoy this.

That means I have to swallow whatever this feeling is. If I was writing one of my stories, I might think of it like a tiny flickering candle flame growing larger the closer we get to seeing Logan. Soon, the hissing heat will expand in my belly, flow like energy through my whole body until there’s nothing else I can even think about. Not even Dad. Not even the right thing to do.

Anyway, it’s not like anything’s going to happen. I’m nineteen. I’m a virgin. So what? I’m not ashamed of it because it’s not like I’ve been trying. Deep down, I think, even if I did try, I’d have some problems. But I never did, content in the library, not caring I was a cliché, the curvy, quiet girl. I was—I am—happy in my role… until Logan came along.

My mind should be a stage for the characters in my stories. Never mind that those characters are always written for children, and when I read the story aloud, I always think of my children. Before Logan, I never knew who the father would be.

And I don’t know now. I can’t afford to know, deep down, as though my bones are pulsating to give me a signal. I can’t afford to sermonize melodramatically about the almighty steamy-as-hell Logan Ice. He’s so hot that it’s a shock he doesn’t melt his own last name.