Page 148 of With a Cherry On Top

“Aaron, that’s . . . that’s amazing!”

“I hope so,” I say. I’m feeling positive, but I’m not naive. “She’s staying at the house right now, so we’ll have to talk. Find a solution.” I shrug. “But Sadie’s mom is back. That’s all that matters for now.”

Amelie walks closer and squeezes my hand over the island before rushing back to the stove. “And how’s your first gig going?”

The scent of the fourth pot curls into the air.

Cherries.

Deep, syrupy cherries.

Delicious, addictivecherries.

A roar of heat works through my chest. “It’s... It’s going well.”

Amelie freezes mid-stir. “Uh-oh. Is it?”

Shit.Pokergoddamnface,Aaron.“Yes. The client is...something. But being paid to cook is a great feeling.”

“Not regretting your career path yet, then?”

“Hell nah. I’m at home.”

We exchange a smile, one charged with silent understanding. Cooking is home. The smells, the sounds, the way ingredients transform under careful hands—it’s the only thing that always feels certain.

“Well,” she says, snapping her fingers, “let’s get to work. We have ice cream to make.”

I join her, and we quickly fall into an easy rhythm—whisking, stirring, tasting. Amelie guides me through the steps, explaining how cooking the fruit intensifies the flavor, how a splash of balsamic makes the cherries sing.

The kitchen fills with the scent of sugar and cream, the churn of the ice cream maker humming in the background. When it’s finally ready, she lifts a spoonful to my mouth.

And holy shit, it’s heaven—rich, creamy, bursting with flavor.

I groan, licking my lips.

“Told you,” Amelie leans against the counter, pleased.

“This is insane.” I let my arms hang loosely at my sides, at a loss for words.

“It’s totally going on the menu at Daisy. Maybe with a nice crumble.”

I point my spoon at her. “And a soft brioche.”

“Like my?—”

“—blueberry one!” We say it at the same time, voices overlapping.

She huffs out an exhilarated laugh, eyes bright. “You might be the only person who gets this.”

“Idoget it.” This ice cream isn’t just dessert. It’s something more. A poem of flavors, each bite a little piece of happiness that lingers after it melts.

Amelie grabs two bowls and fills them, sliding one across the island toward me. We sit, comfortable in the silence, letting the sweet coldness dissolve on our tongues.

“So, you want me to tell you how I know you’re lying?”

I tense. “Wh-what?”

“About the bachelor party?” she teases. “You leaving with that woman?”

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