“If you’ll let me,” I tease.
She considers this, then nods. “Fine. But only because I’m a sucker for ice cream.”
Sutton likes ice cream.
Noted.
We walk side by side toward the edge of the park. The night air has cooled even further, and Sutton pulls her denim jackettighter around herself. Without thinking, I start to shrug off my sweatshirt to give to her, but she stops me.
“Don’t you dare,” she warns, pointing a finger at me. “If you try to give me your sweatshirt right now, I will literally walk away.”
I freeze like a deer in headlights. “What? Why?”
“Because it’s the most cliché move in the history of man-tries-to-impress-a-woman,” she says, amusement dancing in her eyes. “And I’m not cold enough to need it anyway.”
I drop my hands to my sides. “Fair enough. I’ll save my chivalry for when you’re actually freezing.”
“Good plan.”
We walk in comfortable silence for a few more minutes, close enough that her hand occasionally brushes against mine. Each accidental touch sends a current through me that I’m trying very hard to ignore, and it’s killing me to not reach out and take her hand.
What would she say if I tried?
As we approach the ice cream shop, she clears her throat and asks, “What’s your go-to flavor?”
“Salted caramel,” I answer without hesitation. “You?”
“Boring,” she teases. “I’m a mint chocolate chip girl myself.”
“But that’s just toothpaste with chocolate in it.”
She gasps dramatically. “Take that back immediately.”
“Never. I stand by my controversial ice cream opinions.”
The shop is nearly empty when we walk in, just a couple of teenagers in the corner and a tired-looking employee behind the counter. Sutton studies the flavors with intense concentration, like she’s making a life-altering decision.
“Can I get a scoop of mint chocolate chip and a scoop of chocolate, please?” she asks the server, then looks at me with a challenging expression. “What?”
“Nothing,” I say, raising my hands in mock surrender. “Ifyou want to ruin perfectly good chocolate with toothpaste flavor, that’s your business.”
“Says the man who puts salt in his dessert.”
“It’s about balance,” I argue, stepping up to order. “Two scoops of salted caramel, please.”
When I pull out my wallet, thankfully, Sutton doesn’t protest.
It’s a small victory.
The server hands us our cones, and we step back outside. It may be getting colder outside, but the ice cream is worth it. We walk slowly down the sidewalk with no particular destination in mind.
“So,” she says between licks, “do you actually live in Portland? Or just during the season?”
“I live here year-round,” I tell her. “On the outskirts of town. Not too far from the stadium, but far enough that I don’t feel like I’m always at work.”
She nods. “Must be nice having space.”
“It is,” I admit. “I like my quiet space after a busy day of being…me”
