Page 4 of Ice Darling
My nostrils flare.
I can’t ride with Mom. No way.
Determined, I head to my bike.
“Delia, be careful on that thing and meet us at the… Max, where do you recommend we go for dinner?”
“The Tipsy Tuna is a town favorite, ma’am.”
“What a delightful name. Cordelia, meet us at The Tipsy Tuna!”
“Yeah!” I yell back. Stuffing my helmet over my head, I swing onto my bike while tapping the back of my heel against the kickstand. The engine rumbles, and the sound is so low and guttural that it chases back the tears that are springing, unwelcome, to my eyes.
Just keep it in, Delia. You’re stronger than this. Don’t fall apart now.
I lean forward, gripping the throttle and speeding off with a roar. The wind batters my jacket, and I’m glad, for the millionth time, that I cut my hair so I don’t have long, black strands flying into my visor.
As I ride, I briefly consider ditching dinner, but I’m aware that not showing up tonight is basically offering Mom a VIP invite to my apartment. She’ll faint when she sees that I don’t have a fully functioning kitchen or air conditioning, and she’ll probably drag me back home.
Or worse…ask me why I left home in the first place.
Pulling back on the throttle, I veer my bike left and ride to the restaurant. The parking lot ispackedwith cars, and I swing off the bike, tuck my helmet in the storage case beneath my seat, and take the stairs.
The roar of music and laughter punches me in the face as I open the door. The powerful aroma of burgers and fries teases my nose.
My stomach revolts.
I really don’t want to be here.
Should I just grab my things from the apartment and make a run for it? Leave April and Rebel a sticky note thanking them for everything? Find another small town with another garage I can work in?
Before I can move on the thought, Mom’s voice cuts through the din. “Cordelia! Over here!”
Ugh. Too late.
I’ve been spotted.
I take a step toward the crowded table, and a familiar pair of eyes slams into mine.
My heart ricochets against my ribs, kicking up a storm of emotions. One emotion, in particular, is stronger than the rest.
I’ve only felt this icky once in my life after a confession gone wrong, and I swore I’d never put myself in a position to feel this way again.
Yet, here I am.
And here he is.
Viking Renthrow.
Not at home with his daughter as he said he’d be after rejecting me.
But here.
Beside my mother.
Fingers curling into fists, I yank my leather gloves off with one hand and pointedly look away from him as I approach the table.
Whatever. It’s not like Iwantedto be with him for real. I’m not interested in a man as rough and tumble as Viking Renthrow. And as cute as Gordie is—I’m not interested in being a stepmom either.
