“In hockey, the details are what win games. Craft is the same way. You can taste the work that went into the brew kettle, and that beats a factory line any day of the week.”
“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. I razzed 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.”
She frowns. “Hockey is a violent sport.”
“You mean, an adrenaline pumping sport.”
She scrunches her nose.
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.
The waitress serving us approaches our table. “Dessert?”
Perfect timing.
I swing my gaze to the bubbly blonde sitting across from me. “Harley?”
“I’ll never say no to dessert. What do you recommend?”
I glance up at the waitress. “Creamy Heaven is working on a few new flavors. Why don’t you bring us samplers of each one. And two scoops of coffee ice cream for the lady. Also, please pack a couple pints in a coolerbag to go.”
“Got it,” the waitress says.
“Ooohhhh. Coffee ice cream?” Harley fans herself. “Be still my beating heart.”
I can do better than that, sweetheart.“Throw in a few glazed donuts so we can make donut ice cream sandwiches.”
The waitress nods. “Glazed donuts, an assortment of samplers from Creamy Heaven, two scoops of Harley’s Java Jolt for immediate enjoyment, and two pints of Harley’s Java Jolt for the road.”
Shit.
Harley tilts her head to the side. “Harley’s Java Jolt?”
“Yes,” the waitress says. “That’s the name of our coffee ice cream. It’s one of our best sellers. We use premium roasted beans and brew the espresso in-house.” She covers her mouth and tilts her head in Harley’s direction. “Creamy Heaven’s customers love knowing that about the Harley Java Jolt.”
She sounds like she’s making a presentation to board members.
