Total pages in book: 180
Estimated words: 176012 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 880(@200wpm)___ 704(@250wpm)___ 587(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 176012 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 880(@200wpm)___ 704(@250wpm)___ 587(@300wpm)
She goes on. “I can do more seasonal confections—apple cider donuts, pumpkin hand pies, peppermint fudge for Christmas. Soon, I’ll be adding some light lunch fare…”
“Pizza?”
She smiles. “Yes.”
But the way she says it, almost an intimate whisper but filled with joy, like a…like a kiss.
I don’t know what happens, but it hurts to breathe, and I’d love to hear her say it again like that.
I blink, swallowing and turning, looking for anything to distract myself. I gesture to the sidewalk out the window. “Picnic tables in the summer?”
She nods, and I can see the delight in her eyes. She loves what she does.
“Would love to rent the place out for kids’ baking birthday parties,” she explains. “Book club meetings…”
“You’ll need a liquor license for that one.”
She laughs, and I look anywhere but at her. The floor-length mirror on the wall catches my attention, my reflection staring back at me. It’s the size of a door, the ornate gilded frame chipped and worn. But stunning.
And confusing. This building is wider from the outside. I’d love to see the blueprints. This room seems like it should be bigger.
“How’s Dubai?” I hear her ask.
I blink. “Humid.” I sigh. “But…it’s good. People are a little nicer there.”
“Yeah?”
“Well, the penalty for being rude is heavier,” I point out, remembering that even vulgar language and finger gestures can lead to fines or jail time in Dubai. “So is the penalty for crime.” I wander a little, taking in the wrought-iron light fixtures and beautiful butcher block counters. “With the way your brothers still act around you, I’m guessing the penalty for crime is steep here too.”
Laughing, she slides her hands into the pocket of her apron. “Oh, you caught that last night, huh? When I hung out with you, they’d loosen the leash,” she jokes. “But after you left… Suffice it to say, I didn’t have many dates in high school.”
She stands to my left, that side of my body warming to the point of burning. Good. I mean, not good. She should’ve had a normal high school experience, but how many dates does she need? Maybe prom? That’s about it.
What about college? She had to have boyfriends in college.
I clear my throat. It’s none of my business.
The silence stretches, and I still haven’t looked at her.
“So, you like it?” she finally asks. “The shop?”
I nod. It feels like her. But most importantly, she gets to run the show. The Quinn I used to know would’ve loved the independence this place would’ve given her. Does she still feel that way?
“Let me show you my favorite part,” she says, excited. “It’s still a secret.”
She leads the way back into the kitchen, and I follow her around a large steel rack, down a short dark pathway with boxes stacked on both sides.
I stand behind her as she flips a latch, and all of a sudden, two dark green shutters swing open. The early morning air hits me, and I move around her, my hand grazing her waist. A jolt spreads up my arm, damn near stopping my heart.
I yank my fingers away, trying to steady my breathing.
Looking out onto the sidewalk of the side street, I notice plenty of room for curb parking. First Avenue was never very busy. Foot traffic would be easy too.
Backing up, I spot the cooler behind her and empty shelves behind me. There’s a wide counter at the window for customers to order.
“Ice cream stand?” I guess.
A gleam hits her eyes as she leans out the little doors. “Tables all the way down on this side.” She waves her hand to the right, then to the left. “But not on this one because there will be a line.”
She nods so assuredly and completely confident that I can’t resist teasing. “For sure,” I tell her.
“An awning here for the rain,” she says, looking overhead before spinning around, too excited to stop. “Sprinkles and sauces, and other than cones and cups, I’ll have two signature sundaes which I’m still working on ideas for.”
I don’t know if it’s the way she talks with her hands, showing me where everything will go, or if I’m just remembering how much of a planner she always was. I have this memory of her sitting by herself on the floor her dad, Madoc, and I had just built that would become her treehouse. She sat up there for hours with her notebook, drawing up a floor plan, and making a list of items to move in. I had to go retrieve her when it was time for dinner.
“I love how my shop smells.” Her voice is nearly a whisper. “Every scent is good. But nothing smells like ice cream.”
“What does it smell like?”
She draws in a breath, leaning on the little counter as I gaze down at her.
A ghost of a smile plays on her lips. “Like no school and no homework and no…” She exhales. “…no one telling you what to do. Like summer and a hot day of getting lost on your bicycle.” She meets my eyes. “No matter the flavor, it always smells like freedom. But especially butter pecan.”