Chapter 14

CHAPTER

FOURTEEN

DANI

We drive to this out-of-the-way, not fancy, nondescript place with a sign from decades gone by. He opens my door and walks me to the ice cream shop, another action from the gentleman’s handbook. When we enter, Alexander is welcomed by name. He says hi to everyone, talking to some about baseball or asking about school or some other personal stuff. A red-haired boy that looks like Ron Weasley scoops his usual rocky road without even asking, then asks me what I want.

“There are too many flavors to pick. I don’t know.” Deciding on a flavor may take me a minute because they all look so good. Brady, the teenaged boy straight from Hogwarts, helps me narrow my selection by asking about my likes and then offering me samples of various flavors. This homemade ice cream is delicious, and I’m afraid if I pick one, I’ll have FOMO for the other flavors. I settle on cherry vanilla with the perfect ratio of ice cream to cherries and chocolate chunks. Great choice.

When Alexander pulls out a frequent-buyer punch card, I can’t cont ain my surprise. The guy who drives the most incredible Mercedes I’ve ever seen has a punch card to an ice cream parlor. None of it adds up in my head. He’s a conundrum, that’s for sure.

“A punch card? Really?”

“Yeah, I’m here a lot.” He says it like it makes sense. And for a broke teacher, it does. For him?

“Obviously,” I say with some sarcasm.

“Are you judging me for having a punch card or being an ice cream addict?”

“Neither?” He doesn’t believe me, and his glare is downright reproachful.

“Would it change your mind if I told you my mom used to bring us here as kids all the time? Best ice cream in the city, hands down.” I bring my hand to my chest, attempting to hold my heart because he brought me somewhere meaningful to him.

He’s not what I expected. “And the punch card?”

He shrugs as he tucks it back in his wallet. “I leave the filled punch cards at random places around town or give them to a person on a nearby bench. Everyone should enjoy this ice cream, don’t you think?” Is this guy for real? He gives me a wink, and my stomach flips.

We sit at an outside table under the shade of a large oak tree. It’s another hot day, so my ice cream melts quickly, dripping down the cone, causing me to lick it before it hits my fingers. I glance at him. and his eyes are burning, his resting scowl face filled with something new. Not quite anger, but he’s upset about something.

“What?” I’m not sure what I did, but I feel the need to tread lightly.

“Why won’t you tell me about yourself?” Is this an example of him being direct?

“What do you mean? I’ve told you tons.” I feel like we’ve talked a lot. I don’t always answer his questions directly. That’s his style, not mine. I’ll tell him anything he wants to know about me, but in a more you have to listen to what I say than here are the answers to a test. I’m not being coy, but I think getting to know someone is more than a quick interview.

“No, you really haven’t. What’s your favorite flower?”

“Why?” Now I’m just being stubborn, and he’s going to have to work for it. I bet he’s up to the challenge. And if he’s not, well, then he’s not the man I think he is. I’d bet most women fall at his feet, and I understand that. But that’s not who I am. I suspect that’s not what he wants, either. He thrives on the game, the chase, the competition. Will he still be interested once he catches me? That’s the question, isn’t it?

“Because I might want to send you flowers. What’s your favorite? Something yellow? Sunflowers?”

While I like sunflowers, they aren’t my favorite. “I don’t want you to send me flowers, and for that reason alone, I refuse to answer.” My smug smile resurfaces, and I focus my attention on my ice cream cone.

“Okay, I’ll ask another question. Why did you say no when I asked you out?”

I nervously fidget. What do I say? I’m not entirely sure why I said no. Other than the obvious disparity in incomes and lifestyles, I’m attracted to him. No doubt. I haven’t had a physical reaction to a man like this in years. Seven years, to be exact. Why did I say no? To protect Tyler? Myself? But protect us from what?

He wants to know about me, then I’ll answer a question he didn’t ask. It’s more valuable information than my favorite flower. “I don’t want you to feel sorry for me.” I can’t believe I said that, even if it’s true.

“Why would I feel sorry for you?” He cocks his head to the side, like he’s trying to solve a problem.

“I’m not a victim,” I mumble, taking another lick of my ice cream cone.

“Never thought you were,” he states matter-of-factly. “Now, can I have your number? ”

“Why?” I wonder why he’s asking. Surely, he can get it from Ashleigh. Is he being polite? Is he asking permission? I’m not sure his why, but the thought of him using it to reach out to me makes my heart flutter.

“I might want to keep up with Joe and Mickey.” He pokes his bottom lip out and pretends to pout.

How do I say no to that? I don’t.