Page 147 of With a Cherry On Top

I watch her move from one pot to the other. It’s good to have her back, even only for the day.

“Hey, where did you end up last Friday?”

Shit, the bachelor-slash-bachelorette party. I figured she’d assumed like everyone else that I left with Charlotte. I drop onto a stool next to the island. “Oh...just, with that woman. Took her home.”

A loud snort. “No you didn’t.”

What . . .“Yeah, I did.” Hell, for once I’m not lying.

“I’m sure she sucker-punched you too, huh?” she says, pointing at my eye.

“I was a little too drunk and walked into a door.”

Lies, lies, lies. I fucking hate this.

“Uh-huh.”

Eager to change the topic, I ask, “You’re leaving tomorrow?”

“So early it’s basically tonight.” She stirs one of the pots, releasing a cloud of steam that smells like ripe strawberries and vanilla. “I’m shooting again tomorrow, but I’ll be back this weekend for the wedding.”

“All right,” I say, pushing to my feet and making my way to her side. If this is the only moment we get just the two of us, we’ll make the best out of it. “What are we making?”

She smirks at me, eyes alight. “Only the most universally beloved dessert in history.”

I scan the counter—heavy cream, vanilla, milk, sugar. A few scattered eggs, a bowl of melted chocolate, a bottle of something dark and syrupy.

“Ice cream?” I guess.

“Ice cream,” she confirms with a victorious nod.

“You’re not usually a dessert person.”

She tosses a spoon into the sink. “True. And I know what you’re thinking. Ice cream is hard to get just right. If you nail it, people will say ‘Big deal, you know how to make ice cream,’ but if you screw it up...” She gives me a look of mock pity. “‘You can’t even makeice cream?’”

“Oh, yeah. That’s exactly what I was thinking.”

She wags a spatula at me. “But wait till you try this. I swear you’ve never had ice cream this good before. And no machine needed, though...” She glances toward the corner of the kitchen, where her sleek, high-end ice cream maker sits, gleaming under the light. “It’s better if youdohave one.”

She turns back to the stove, stirring another pot. The scent of dark chocolate blooms through the air, rich and bittersweet.

“Where did you learn it?”

“One of the contestants. And he’s a kid, Aaron. Twenty-one. Can you believe? An incredible chef—I one hundred percent want to hire him after the show ends.”

A grin tugs at my lips. “So I take it you’re glad you said yes to this gig then?”

She dips a spoon into the pot and lifts it to her lips. “Very much. I’m learning a lot about my dad too.” Her face is shadowed with nostalgia. “One of his old chef friends told me he once went to Italy, tried this pineapple cake—Torta Mimosa—and completely fell in love with it. He insisted on having it for his wedding cake, careless of the fact that my mom was allergic to pineapple.” She shakes her head, amused. “Apparently, someone reminded him a week before the wedding, and he recreated the entire recipe using kiwi instead. Spent every waking second perfecting it.”

I let out a low whistle. “Sounds likefoodwas the love of his life.”

“It really was.” Her eyes settle on the saucepans. “Tell me about you. What’s new?”

“Actually, Josie’s back.”

Her eyes go comically wide. “She is? Since when?”

“A couple of days.”

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