Chapter 4

"That'll be eight-fifty," the teenager in the ball cap with The Dairy branded T-shirt says.

They recently upgraded their equipment from an ancient cash register to sleek new tablets which means instead of the whirring and clacking of the keys, I hear faint tapping that reminds me of Matteo battling Creepers on his tablet.

I shudder but double-tap the side button on my phone, pulling up my mobile payment card, start to extend it toward the reader he holds out.

But I don't get close enough to tap.

Or the magical distance that makes the payment connect.

Because warm fingers wrap around my wrist, pulling my phone back, a softly accented voice hitting my ears. "Can you add two mint chocolate chip cups to that?"

I blink, mouth falling open at Pascal, who's appeared like he always does—out of nowhere. "Do you even eat ice cream?" I ask, gaze sliding down that hard, muscled body and then back up.

Unfathomable dark brown eyes hold mine for a moment, not long enough for me to read the emotions in them. Not that I would even be able to—what with that wall he's erected between himself and the rest of the world. It's thick and impenetrable.

If I hadn't seen him display a sly sense of humor with Brit and a few of the others, I would have thought this man is a robot.

Of course, he was very un-robot like when Matteo was face-to-face with a gun?—

Enough.

He lifts his hand so quick that I almost flinch back, but it doesn't make contact with my face. He halts it an inch away from my skin, the tip of his fingers so near my cheek that I can feel the heat of him.

I could lean in.

Could feel the brush of them over my flesh.

But even as I think that, he drops his hand back to his side, says, "Of course, I eat ice cream."

My brows lift as my gaze drifts down, taking in all six-foot-plus of his big, muscular frame. He doesn't have an ounce of fat on his body.

Those abs of his...

A fucking miracle for the female populace.

So him eating ice cream?

Doesn't fit.

But here he is...ordering ice cream.

"Um," the teenager with the tablet says, "so two mint chocolate chips, a strawberry shortcake, and a peanut butter swirl. Is there anything else I can get you guys?"

Pascal glances down at me. "For you and Matteo?"

I nibble at my bottom lip, feeling my heart skip a beat when there's a flare of...something behind those dark brown eyes. "Yeah," I whisper after a moment.

"Did Brit order anything?"

My heart skips another beat because Brit had turned toward the line with me, talking about a banana brownie sundae, but then had been waylaid by the kids.

Smiling softly, I nod toward the grass where the kids are holding a makeshift soccer game. "She got conned into joining Matteo and Vivi and the others."

He studies me for another long moment, seeming to stare straight into my mind, to pluck thoughts—inappropriate ones about how my body reacts when he's near—from my mind.

Or maybe, he's just like how everyone says: hyper-observant and vigilant and way too smart for his own good.

Either way, his gaze points back toward the teenager, and he says softly, "And can you please add a banana brownie sundae with extra cherries, nuts, and whipped cream."

A hand reaches into my chest and squeezes tightly around my heart.

He knows Brit's order.

Of course he does.

I inhale, throat tight.

Wanting to know more about this man. Wanting to understand what makes him tick.

Like always.

"Sure thing, man," the teenager says. "That'll be twenty-two dollars."

I start to extend my phone a second time, but warm fingers are wrapping around my wrist again, the slightly roughened fingertips brushing gently over my skin, making me shiver as Pascal passes over some cash. "Keep the change."

Wide teenage eyes—probably because that was far more than twenty-two dollars. "Thanks, man. I'll have those right out for you."

Pascal nods and then he's resting a palm on my back, turning us away from the front of the line, shepherding us toward the waiting area. We've barely slid to a halt before his hand drops and he's shifting, tugging off his jacket, settling it around my shoulders.

"Oh," I say, trying to tug it off, intending to pass it back over. "I'm not?—"

He grasps the lapels, holds them together, and crouches slightly so that our gazes align, holding my stare just long enough for me to read in his that I'm not going to win this battle.

And...part of me doesn't want to.

The coat is warm and smells like spice and male and Pascal and it's been such a long time since I've had a man's scent in my nose that I find myself inhaling, trying to sear the fragrance into my lungs.

Because who knows when I'll have something like this again.

Because Dave is gone.

Because my life is Matteo now—and it will always be.

"Do you—" he begins, but then his eyes slant over my shoulder and I find myself turning, following that look, seeing a beautiful woman with sleek black hair, a confident stride, and a body that can kill—literally, it looks like she could kill a bad guy with her pinky finger—come our way. "Do you know Delaney?" he asks, and I tear my gaze from that gorgeous female and look back up at Pascal.

I shake my head.

"Lauren. Delaney," he says when she's close enough to hear. "Delaney. Lauren."

She smiles at me, and it's as beautiful as she is. "Nice to meet you," she says, sticking out her hand for me to shake.

Which I do.

And then she's releasing my hand, moving to Pascal's side, leaning close, her lips going to his ear.

Something slices through my heart, deep and leaving me with a huge wound that I have no business possessing. Because my brain is putting the rest of the pieces together.

Pascal and Delaney.

Tall and strong and confident.

Gorgeous and beautiful.

"Two mint chocolate chip cups?"

I turn and see the teenager approaching, watch as he passes Pascal the two cups before returning to the kitchen for the rest of our order.

"Here," Pascal says, passing it over to her.

The woman smiles, lashes dancing on the tops of her cheek. "Thanks, honey."

Honey.

It doesn't sit quite right, like the tone is off, or maybe the endearment doesn't make sense sliding off her lips.

But before I can really suss that out, I hear, "Mom!" and turn in time to see Matteo barreling toward me. "I scored a goal!" he all but shouts, drawing a smile from Pascal and Delaney and a high five from me.

"Nice, bud," I say. "And I think that's perfect timing because?—"

"A peanut butter swirl?" the teenager, with full hands, announces.

"Yes!" Matteo says with a fist bump, taking the treat and running off, making me hold my breath and send a prayer up to the universe that he—and the ice cream—don't take a tumble before I turn back and accept the other desserts.

I'm juggling my spoon and Brit's banana brownie sundae as my gaze slides to the side again.

I see Pascal and Delaney standing close.

And I think...they fit.

Of course his girlfriend is a woman like her.