“I’m not exactly dressed—”
I roll my eyes. “Shut up. You look hot, and you know it.”
He smirks. “Do I?”
“Yeah,” I say with an anguished groan. “You and those damn sweatpants.”
He stands slowly. “Is there something wrong with them?” he asks in a sultry voice, inching toward me.
My eyes sink down to his body, landing on the hem of his boxers peeking out. Further down, the visible outline of his dick presses against the gray fabric.
“Yeah. They’re hideous,” I deadpan. “So hideous I can’t wait to rip them off later.”
The boldness in my voice surprises myself. I was never this straight-forward with Travis.
His eyes darken. “Oh, really?”
“Really.”
My fingers tease his waistband, making his breath tremble ever so slightly. He bites his lip as his hands settle on my hips, pullingme against him. He leans in to kiss me, but I turn my head slightly, dodging him.
“But first, ice cream!” I say, grabbing his hand.
“You’re evil,” he growls as he follows me outside.
The overcast has parted slightly, giving way to slivers of sunshine. We climb into my car and drive to the local ice cream parlor on Main Street. It’s a tiny shop with a cartoonish mural painting of a cow on the brick exterior.
Inside, it smells like hot fudge and waffle cones. The glass case displays rows of pastel-colored ice cream tubs. Behind the counter stands a pimpled teenage boy with a wispy mustache, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.
“I haven’t been here in ages,” Mason hums, examining the flavors and tapping his chin thoughtfully.
“That’s tragic,” I say, stepping up to the counter. “Pick whatever you want. My treat.”
He narrows his eyes. “You’re bribing me with ice cream now?”
“Not bribing. Healing.”
He snickers at me before turning to the employee with an effortlessly charming smile. “I’ll have a double scoop of superman ice cream in a waffle cone, please.”
“Uh-huh,” the employee says flatly before turning to me.
“And I’d like a single scoop of cherry chocolate chip in a cup, please.”
He punches our order into the cash register, and I swipe my credit card. A few minutes later we’re outside with our ice creams in hand, the air smelling faintly of sunbaked asphalt. Mason’s already lapping the base of his cone to stop it from dripping. We claim a weathered picnic table under the red striped awning, the wood warm against my legs.
Mason licks his ice cream—a marbled mixture of blue, yellow, and pink.
“Did you know superman ice cream was invented during the Prohibition era in Michigan?” I blurt.
He pauses mid-lick, staring at me.
“Sorry,” I mutter, poking at a chunk of cherry with my spoon. “I’m full of useless trivia facts.”
A small smile tugs at his mouth. “I don’t think they’re useless.”
I glance up. “No?”
“I think it’s sexy.”
