Page 15 of Dating the DILF
As he comes closer, I return his smile and watch his gaze sweep to the storefront behind me.
“This is what you had to show me?”
I turn and observe the shop in front of me, my mouth already salivating at the thought of what is inside, and shrug. “I’ve been dying to check this place out since it opened, and I figured you’d make an excellent dining companion.”
“Dining companion, huh? I’m not exactly sure ice cream can be classified as a meal, Chicago, but I appreciate your passion.”
My face heats at the use of the name Chicago. Nobody has ever had a pet name for me before, and while Chicago is a long way from baby or any other term of endearment, it somehow feels more personal, which makes it feel more intimate. Or I’m completely reaching, I haven’t decided quite yet.
He takes hold of my hand and pulls me into the small ice creamery, which is full to the brim with people, the line almost stretching out the door. We take our spot at the end and I expect Miles to drop my hand, but he doesn’t. He continues to keep our fingers entwined as though it’s the most natural thing in the world. So, I ignore the insistent thrumming in my chest, follow his lead, and pretend being here with him is nothing out of the ordinary.
“How long has this place been open?” His voice is curious as he looks around and takes it all in.
“Three weeks, I think. I’m surprised you haven’t heard about it, an ice cream connoisseur such as yourself,” I tease.
He ducks his head looking slightly embarrassed. “Yeah, I might have a confession I need to make about that.” His free hand slips into his hair, carelessly mussing it up and he looks at me nervously.
“What? You really prefer frozen yogurt? Because, I’m sorry, that’s a deal breaker right there.”
His eyes widen slightly, and I can’t help but laugh. “I’m kidding, Miles.”
“Thank fuck for that, because I hate ice cream.”
The laughter dies on my lips and I stare at him with what could be something akin to horror. What kind of monster hates ice cream?
“Youhateice cream?”
“I do,” he affirms.
“How… I mean—” I stop, unable to go on, because who is this man in front of me who hates—hates!—ice cream?
“You’re looking at me like I just told you I hate babies.” He laughs.
“Well, I mean, babies I could kind of understand. They’re really too small and they cry a lot and then they can’t talk so they can’t tell youwhythey’re crying, so I can see how that would be frustrating.” I’m rambling now but I’m helpless to stop. “But what did ice cream ever do to you?”
“It’s too cold.” He shrugs as if that’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for his insanity.
“Next, please.”
We’ve somehow moved to the front of the line and I look at the display of ice cream and candy along the counter sadly. “We should go somewhere else,” I reluctantly say.
“You’re crazy if you think I’m letting you leave this shop.” He gently nudges me forward. “You’re staring at that ice cream the same way I look at your ass, and I refuse to be the guy who stands in the way of a love that strong.”
I step forward, enjoying the flush of heat caused by his comment about my ass and order a large mint choc chip with rainbow sprinkles and gummies.
“And you, sir?” the teenage boy asks Miles in a tone that tells us he’d rather be anywhere but here right now.
“I’ll take a large cup with vanilla ice cream, peanut butter cups, Kit Kats, and Swedish Fish. Minus the ice cream, please,” Miles asks as though this is a perfectly normal request.
“No ice cream?” the boy asks bewildered, and Miles nods. “So, you just want a large cup of candy?”
“Yes.”
He looks at Miles as though he’s crazy, but he makes up both our orders without another word.
“Over there.” Miles points to a small table at the back of the shop that has just become vacant and we race to claim it before someone else has a chance to grab it.
“So, you really like ice cream, huh?” He reaches across the table and snatches one of my gummies, tossing it in his mouth.
