One who wore faded band shirts and denim shorts, even in March.
Intricate black-and-gray tattoos snaked up both arms, disappearing beneath her hacked-off sleeves. Her icy blonde hair matched her sister’s, only longer, but where Parker was all vintage charm and playful prints, Cat radiated something harder, more guarded.
She looked up from scooping ice cream for a customer, her expression neutral until she saw Parker. Then it softened . . . a fraction.
“Well, if it isn’t my dearest sister,” she said, voice low and dry. She wiped her hands on the towel tucked into her waistband. “And you must be the honey girl.”
Parker laughed. “Arabella, the almighty honeybee queen, meet Catarina, ice cream overlord and tyrannical sister.”
Cat snorted, unimpressed. “Please, she’s just upset I don’t let her get away with any bullshit.”
“That’s exactly what a warden would say,” Parker shot back, grinning as she turned to me. “Don’t let the tattoos and sarcasm fool you, though. She’s a total softie.”
Cat’s mouth twitched despite herself as her sharp gaze slid my way. “It’s Cat,” she said, holding her hand out to me.
That was when I noticed the tattoo on the back of it.
A small, precise outline of a cow with delicate shading that made the spots look almost three-dimensional. Below it, in tiny script, were the words “Got Milk?” in a retro font. It was unexpected for someone who looked like she could bench-press me if she wanted to.
“Bella,” I said, nodding toward her hair as we shook. “I like your cow.”
Cat glanced down at it like she’d forgotten it was there. “There’s plenty more where that came from.”
“Wait until you see the tractor on her ass.” Parker hopped up to sit on the edge of the counter, swinging her legs like a kid who owned the place. To be fair, she kind of did. “Very on brand.”
Cat rolled her eyes and gestured toward the display case. “You want anything? First scoop is on the house.”
I scanned the flavors. “What’s in The Morning After?”
“Maple ice cream, fluffy pancake chunks, salty bacon bits covered in chocolate, and a maple syrup swirl.”
“Sold.”
She handed me a small cup piled high, the maple swirl glistening under the shop lights. I took a bite and nearly moaned aloud. Where had this ice cream been all my life? And how the hell was it so creamy?
“It’s incredible, right?” Parker asked, wagging her brows.
“Sooo freaking good.”
Cat’s expression softened another fraction. “We use the dairy’s cream straight from the tank, nothing processed. It makes a difference.”
We ended up leaning against the counter, the conversation slipping easily into shop talk. Cat explained how supply chains in a town this small were less about contracts and more about relationships, and I told her about Comb Sweet Comb. More specifically, our ideas for the Bee Intimate line of products.
By the time another customer wandered in, the three of us had already half-mapped out an idea for a shared stamp card. Not just for one business, but all three.
“Buy a pint here, get a stamp. Get a facial next door, get a stamp.” Cat’s eyes lit up. “Then, when they fill the card, they get either a free scoop, discounted treatment, or product credit for Comb Sweet Comb.”
“Or some kind of exclusive collab drop?” I offered. “Like a honey-infused ice cream or mini honey lip balm.”
My brain buzzed, ideas stacking on top of each other. “Or it could be an experience. We could raffle off a quarterly event to anybody who gets their cards stamped.”
Parker wrapped an arm around my shoulders, tugging me into her side. I felt downright dainty sandwiched between the Duffy sisters. “Didn’t I tell you she was brilliant?”
I felt my cheeks warm.
“I bet we could even get a few of the baseball boys to come out for the spa’s grand opening,” Parker hedged. “You know, seeing as you have anin.”
Cat arched a brow. “What’s that mean?”
