“You’re not the only one who’s changed,” I say. I hop onto the counter and scoot to the ledge, crossing one knee over the other, once again wondering why my dress is so short. It feels like the hemline shrinks another inch every time West’s eyes slide to my thighs. Now, though, his attention is squarely on my face as he leans against the counter across from me and crosses his ankles. His corded forearms are too visible in the dim light. I feel vaguely like I’ve been abducted from my own life and dropped into an alternate reality.
I clear my throat. West’s face is impassive. I don’t want to be the one to break the silence, but neither does he. I tilt my head, and he matches the gesture, his lifted brow the only testament to his burning curiosity. I can’t help but wonder how long he can last. My twisted mind picks up the innuendo in that thought, and I flush molten hot.
“Fine, you win.” I lift my hands in surrender.
“Were we playing agame, Darling?” His tone betrays the smirk lying beneath neutral features.
I hum noncommittally.
His hands grip the countertop, fingers twitching with the restrained urge to drum them against steel. My eyes travel up his arms to his face, where he’s staring at me hard.
He’s dying to say something. I can read his restraint in every muscle.
“Just spit it out, West.”
He presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek—his thinking face—and I wonder if he’s sorting through his options, deciding between the hundreds of things he wants to say.
Or maybe that’s just me.
“You were blushing a minute ago. Why?”
I swallow heavily. “It’s hot in here.”
He huffs a laugh that sounds like frustration. “You’ve always been a bad liar.”
“I wish I could say the same about you,” I say, my tongue lazy in my mouth.
His smirk slips sideways, his mouth flattening into a hard line. “Why did you read that passage from my book?”
My shoulders relax. An easy one. “To piss you off.”
“Because you still hate me.”
“Yes,” I say, a bit too late to be convincing.
“Even after reading it.”
I roll my eyes. I’m not nineteen anymore. I’m not going to fall in love with him because of a few pretty words on a page. “You haven’t given me a reason not to.”
He searches my expression for the lie and doesn’t find it. He nods slowly, pain flashing in his eyes.
The timer dings. West shakes himself out of his trance and rifles through shelves until he reappears with two spoons and a giant bowl. He pulls the lever on the soft-serve machine and fills the bowl with chocolate-and-vanilla swirl. It’s lopsided and near collapse, like a mountain in a Dr.Seuss book. He presents it to me with a self-directed grimace. Off-kilter due to his proximity and resigned by way of sugar, I exhale the verylast of my fight. It’s a losing battle, anyway, when he’s determined to be kind.
“Losing your touch,” I say as I lean in for the first bite of his messy creation.
He swats my spoon away with his. “Patience, Darling,” he admonishes. Reaching under the counter, he produces a ten-pound bag of chocolate sprinkles.
“I forgot about these!”
West looks smug as he shakes them over the top before looking to me for approval.
“More.”
He doubles the number of sprinkles and wordlessly pushes the bowl toward me.
“I still don’t see why we couldn’t have purchased soft serve like the non-felons we are.” I dip the spoon into the bowl and bring it to my mouth, flipping it so the cold ice cream lands on my tongue. I groan in surprise. “Never mind. You’re right. This is what soft serve should be.”
The ice cream slips down my throat, and I feel a sick swoop of nostalgia that makes my eyes burn. I can’t count the number of swirl cones I ate in my four years here. Breakfast, lunch, dinner, the memories all mixed up with my memories of West. Objectively, I’ve had better desserts. But this one is my favorite.
