She lifts another cone and thanks the vendor before handing it to me. “Strawberry for me and Pistachio for you.”
“You didn’t have to get me one.” I take the cone from her as green gelato drips onto my hand. “You picked for me?”
“It’s the least I can do after you saved my bag. And you just look like a pistachio guy.” She licks a drip from the side of her pink scoop as we both absentmindedly walk along the path that leads to the rose garden.
“Oh, really?” I chuckle as I lick the rich nutty flavour which is actually one of my favourites. I’m impressed. “What is a pistachio guy?”
She tilts her head sideways, studying me with a smile. “Mysterious. Complicated?—”
I quirk a grin. “Nutty.”
She giggles. “I was going to say kind.”
I go still, her words lodging in my chest.
She shouldn’t be so open. So trusting. So easy to like.
So fucking easy to hurt.
Her cheeks turn a beautiful shade of pink, matching the roses behind her.
“And what does strawberry say about you?” I already know the answer. She’s sweet like sugar and all things nice.
She bites the top of her cone and smiles through it. “I’m a hopeless romantic.”
“Is that what you’re reading?” I nod to the book in her hand. “Romance?”
She holds the tattered book down so I can read the title.Romeo and Juliet.
The irony.
I raise a brow. “Bit dramatic, no?”
She shrugs, not looking up. “So is life.”
I lick my ice cream and lean in to whisper, “Spoiler alert. They both die.”
“I know how it ends.” She jabs me in the ribs with her elbow. “Still worth reading.”
“You think falling for someone you’re supposed to hate is romantic?”
She looks up with sparkling eyes. “Don’t you?”
My smile falters. I hold her gaze for a beat too long. Falling for someone you’re supposed to hate is reckless, but as I gaze into her blue irises, I can see myself falling hard, diving headfirst into the deep pools of her eyes and never wanting to come up for air.
“Maybe that’s the only love that means anything. When you choose it anyway.” Her words settle between us, heavy and soft all at once. She looks down at the book and continues to lick at her gelato as if she didn’t just knock the wind out of me.
I just watch her, mesmerised by this strawberry-eating, Shakespeare-reading girl who’s dangerously close to getting under my skin.
We sit on the low wall facing the lake, knees brushing now and then. She’s already halfway through her strawberry cone, licking delicately around the edge like it’s some kind of art form. I’m holding my pistachio.
“Not a fan?” she asks, nodding at my gelato.
I shrug, smirking. “I like to take my time.”
“You’ve barely touched it.”
“I’m pacing myself.”
