Once I’d handleda few chores that couldn’t wait—groceries, getting gas for the truck, washing down the Buick to get any sand and road dust off it before it damaged the paintwork—I found Hayden in the kitchen scooping something out of the restored ice cream churn and into ancient Tupperware containers.
Thesomethingwas probably ice cream, now that I thought about it.
“Just in time to taste this before it goes in the freezer,” Hayden said, dipping a wooden spoon in the half-frozen mixture and passing it to me.
“Tell me this isn’t blue cheese flavored,” I said, wary. I figured he wouldn’t do that again, but I couldn’t help checking. I’d been scarred for life by that incredibly weird ice cream.
“It’s not,” he promised. “You’ll like it.”
I licked the back of the spoon cautiously, just letting the tip of my tongue touch it at first.
I shouldn’t have worried. Delicate, sweet vanilla rolled over my tongue, rich and deep and not sugary at all, but so damnedgood.
The whole spoonful went directly in my mouth, so I hoped Hayden hadn’t been planning on using it again.
“Holy shit,” I said, licking the remnants off the spoon eagerly. “I secretly always knew you were actually good at this.”
Hayden snorted. “Uh huh. Worth getting chased by a duck for?” he asked.
I blinked at him.
“This is why I wanted the duck eggs,” Hayden said.
I blinked again.
“There are eggs in ice cream?” I asked.
“Not in cheap ice cream,” Hayden explained. “Butrealice cream is made from a rich custard base. Duck eggs are fattier than chicken eggs, so they carry flavor better. Like duck fat on roast potatoes.”
“Never had it,” I admitted.
Now it was Hayden’s turn to blink at me.
“I’m coming back for Thanksgiving and making you duck fat roast potatoes,” he said.
“Is that a promise?” I asked, passing the spoon back.
“That’s a promise,” Hayden said. “You’ll get your potatoes.”
We both knew I cared a lot more about seeing him than the potatoes—although the fact that Hayden was a great cookandliked doing it was a definite bonus.
But I would’ve given just about anything right now to make him breakfast tomorrow.
And the next day.
And the next day.
Hayden cleared his throat to break the silence that’d fallen over us, reminders that he was about to go home getting more and more difficult as the day went on.
Not thinking about it was definitely the best option.
“So, there are two pints of this for you,” he said. “And in the freezer there are two pints of lavender-vanilla latte flavor, for Seth, like he said I should make, and two pints of bourbon-caramel with orange marmalade swirl, for Andre, as an homage to his cocktail.”
I grinned, imagining the look on both their faces when they found out Hayden had made them personal ice cream.
They loved him, too. Obviously, he loved them right back.
“There’s also more chocolate-peanut butter in there for Dad,” Hayden continued. “Don’t let him eat it all at once, I want him to still be alive at Thanksgiving.”
