Page 173 of With a Cherry On Top

“We’re making ice cream.”

Charlotte blinks. “From scratch?”

“Well, yes. You thought I was going to pull a pint out of the freezer and call it cooking?” She rolls her eyes as I push a bowl toward her. “First step—egg yolks and sugar. Whisk them together until they’re pale and thick.”

She picks up the whisk, glancing at me warily. The moment she starts whisking, I watch the tension in her shoulders ease just a little, her focus narrowing to the simple motion of her wrist. I step behind her, reaching around to cover her hand with mine.

“Like this,” I murmur, guiding her movements. “You want it smooth, not grainy.”

Charlotte melts into my chest and follows my lead.

“Perfect,” I press my lips to the side of her neck. “Keep going.”

I move to the stove, heating the cream and vanilla in a saucepan. “Once this is warm, we temper the eggs—gently, so they don’t scramble.”

She watches me intently, arm brushing mine as she whisks. “You’re good at this.”

“Cooking?”

She traces the veins on my hand with her finger. “Taking care of people.”

“It’s easy when it’s you,” I say, enveloping her hand with mine.

Her cheeks turn pink as she stares down at the bowl. There’s something different about her now—something softer. The weight of the night isn’t gone, but at least it’s not crushing her anymore.

I reach for the saucepan, pouring a thin stream of warm cream into the yolks as she stirs. “Careful,” I say, watching her movements. “Slow and steady.”

“Not my specialty.”

“No kidding.”

She glares at me, but there’s no bite behind it.

Once the mixture is combined, I guide her back to the stove. “Now, we cook it until it thickens.”

She watches the custard begin to swirl in the pot. “How long?”

“A few minutes.”

She leans against the counter, tapping the whisk against the rim of the pot. Though she’s not saying it, she’s miserable. Hopeless. I can see it in her eyes.

“Are you in your fictional small town?”

Meeting my gaze, she smirks. “You bet.”

Though I was the one who asked, knowing that she’s picturing a reality where I’m not part of her life hurts. Even though none of this is about me.

“What would you be doing there at...” I check the time. “8 p.m., on a Saturday night?”

Without a second thought, says, “I’d be waiting for the custard to thicken so I can make ice cream with my boyfriend. Then saving some to eat with his daughter tomorrow.”

I swear my heart stops beating. Just for a second.

She doesn’t seem to realize what she’s said. She just keeps stirring, watching the custard as if it holds all the answers.

Boyfriend.

It was probably an accident. A slip of the tongue, something she didn’t mean to say out loud. But she doesn’t take it back. Doesn’t even hesitate.

---