I’ll go tonight, and I’ll wear the dress. The last time I rebelled, he made it clear that if it happened again, I would not enjoy the consequences. I've seen him make good on too many threats not to believe him.
My hands tremble as I type out a quick reply.
Me: I'll be there.
Dad: I knew I could count on you, sweetheart. See you at 6:30 for dinner.
Dad: Wear the green dress, and don't be late.
I tuck the phone back into the pocket of my dress and smooth my ponytail. Standing in the kitchen at Sweet Scoops, I let the familiar, happy scent of ice cream and confections soothe my frayed emotions. I’m glad that I’m the only one closing tonight. It will take me a few extra minutes, but at least I won’t have to explain why my eyes are red when I clean the tables.
My shoulders are hiked around my ears from that stupid text exchange. I take a deep breath and go through the swingingdoors into the front of the shop. It's one minute to five, and the last customer left right before my dad...
There’s a man standing at the front door about to leave. He must have thought we'd closed already.
"Oh. Hi! Welcome to Sweet Scoops." It’s late, but I can stay a few extra minutes if it means making someone smile. That’s one of the reasons I took this job. If I have to work to put myself through school, I may as well make people happy while I do it. “What can I get you?”
The man turns at the sound of my voice, and the breath whooshes from my body. He's not just hot—he'smelt the ice creamhot.
His hair is almost as black as his suit, and a trim beard sculpts his jaw, drawing attention to his firm mouth. I drag my gaze off his lips and find myself staring at shoulders so wide they strain the fabric of his jacket.
It makes him look powerful. Barely leashed. Like even the suit can’t contain him.
Maybe it’s the skull-shaped tie tack against a black shirt and black tie, but he looks like he could even intimidate my dad.
He’s older, maybe in his early thirties, but that just adds to the attraction.
He approaches the counter slowly, scanning the containers of ice cream as if he’s not sure what they are, and then me.
I've never seen anyone look lost in an ice cream shop before. He's so still and silent. It makes me want to ruffle him up a little. Tease him until he relaxes instead of giving the fudge ripple murder glares.
Maybe he’s with the Men in Black and this is a top-secret ice cream run. I lean closer and stage-whisper, “I promise not to tell anyone you were here.”
A look of panic flickers in his eyes, there and gone so fast that I’m not sure I saw it.
He looks at the menu and finally says, “A single scoop.”
I reach for a small bowl, look at his size, and go for a medium instead. He’s so big, he could finish the small off in one bite. Picturing him licking sweet cream from his lips makes my belly quiver, and I have to clench my thighs a flood of heat.
I’ve never felt soawareof anyone. From his big, broody body to his intensepresence.
My mouth is almost too dry to ask him what flavor.
“Vanilla,” he murmurs.
Vanilla? Um, no.
He’s not a vanilla man. There’s nothing mundane about him. He’s dark and mysterious. Sexy without even trying. Like a mafia don in one of my romance books.
“You're a decadent chocolate caramel truffle, I think.” My weakness. I’ve put on five pounds since I started solely from that flavor.
I add a small scoop of vanilla to humor him, then top it with a generous scoop of my favorite chocolate.
I can’t help but smile. He’s going to love it.
The man reaches for the bowl, obviously not understanding how this works.
“You can’t have naked ice cream,” I inform him. Not on my watch.
