Page 31 of Lowering His Guard

“Come on.” I motion him forward. “You have to see it to believe it.”

We pass through the foyer of the resort and continue outside to the outdoor pool. Next to it is an ice cream cart. It’s only here for three months of summer despite my begging Hudson to make it a permanent thing.

“One mermaid meltdown sundae,” I order from Dave. He’s one of the teenagers working at the resort during summer vacation. I know most of them since they all enjoy the free surfing instructions included with their wages.

“What do you want?” I ask Brock. I wrinkle my nose. “Please don’t tell me you’re a scoop of vanilla ice cream kind of guy.”

He leans close to answer. “Don’t worry, pint-sized. I’m not a vanilla kind of guy.”

Every nerve in my body fires. Smoking smugglers surfing in a storm! Is he referring to ice cream or sex? Please let it be sex. It would be a shame for a man with his body to be a vanilla sex kind of guy.

“W-w-w…” I clear my voice and try again. “What do you want instead?”

“Chocolate, two scoops,” he orders.

I open my mouth to remind him of tomorrow’s weigh-in but he’s a grown man. He can eat what he wants and be responsible for his own actions.

“You can put it on my account,” I tell Dave.

“My account,” Brock insists.

“I get a discount.”

“Don’t care.”

I throw up my arms. “Fine! Put it on the big grumpy guy’s account.”

Dave shakes his head as he rings up the purchase. My mouth waters as he prepares my sundae.

“What the hell is that?” Brock asks when Dave adds blue whipped cream.

“Duh. Blue whipped cream.”

“Why is it blue?”

“Dude, it’s a mermaid meltdown.” He just stares at me, so I explain. “Three scoops of ice cream drowning beneath whipped cream, caramel, chocolate, seashells, gummy fish, sea glass candy, sprinkles, and a chocolate mermaid tail.”

“Chocolate mermaid tail?”

“It’s not real. Obviously. Mermaids do not let anyone touch their tails.”

“Mermaids are also not real.”

“Shush.” My gaze darts around the area. “Don’t let a smuggler hear you say mermaids aren’t real.”

Dave hands me my Mermaid Meltdown sundae and I beam at him. “Thanks.”

“These are for the tourists.”

“Not if I eat all the ice cream first.”

His mouth drops open as he hands the chocolate ice cream cone to Brock. “You’re Brock Porter.”

“He is and he’s not available for autographs, pictures, or idol worshipping at the moment. He’s off the clock.”

I hustle Brock away to a table far away from Dave. I plop down on a chair and glare at my sundae. Am I seriously jealous of a football fan? There must be something wrong with me. Lucky for me, ice cream solves all problems.

“Where are you going to put all of that ice cream?”