“I don’t read romance books, Idevourthem.”
I’d like to devour something… and it isn’t romance books.
She shoots me a smile that reaches her eyes.
She’s no longer burdened by what happened earlier in her apartment.
That smile shouldn’t have this effect on me.
I shift in my seat.
“There’s a question burning my tongue,” she says.
“Shoot.”
“Why craft beer?”
“The first time I had craft beer was in Belgium and I was sold after the first sip.”
“I’m not much of a beer lover.”
“Have you ever had craft beer?”
“No.”
“Then, you haven’t had beer. The taste of craft beer is so layered, it leaves mass produced beer in the dust.”
“Someone is passionate.”
“You bet. I’m as passionate about craft beer as I am about open flame cooking—hence the two Craft Burgers and Brew locations and Number 22—the high-end restaurant I own.”
“I’m guessing you love ice cream too, if you co-own a shop with your best friend.”
“Erik could live off ice cream alone. We traveled to Italy years ago, and he ate gelato two to three times a day during the ten-day trip—hehadto try every freaking shop in Rome. Irazzed him about it, telling him since he had the right side of his jaw dislocated because of a blow from a hockey stick, resulting in him getting his jaw wired shut. The only dessert he could consume with ease was ice cream.”
“Gosh that’s horrible.”
“Comes with the territory.” I graze a finger over the scar between my eyebrows.
“That’s from a fight?”
“The other guy had it coming.” I got a penalty for decking the asshole, but I shut him up for bringing up my father and his then wife. “I’ve had my fair share of cuts, but this one never fully healed.”
“Hockey is a violent sport,” she says.
“You mean, an adrenaline pumping sport.”
“Okay, we’ll go with that.”
She wasn’t lying when she said she’d never watched or attended a hockey game in her life when I first met her in the Hamptons. We have to change that.
I veer back to her question. “The reason I decided to co-own the ice cream shop with Erik is because at Number 22 we’re renowned for our most sought-after dessert—the lava cake?—”
“I love molten cake,” she says. “Sorry I interrupted you.”
I brush it off with a hand gesture. “We have one new lava cake flavor every month, which we serve with vanilla ice cream. We make the ice cream in-house—I’m particular about quality. Over time, more and more patrons were asking to buy pints of the ice cream to take home, so I decided to expand. Erik came along for the ride to score free ice cream.”
She laughs, and the sound is so light-hearted—and such a contrast to the state I found her in earlier—that I want to bottle it up.
