CHAPTER thirty-five #13
He pauses, eyes glinting with mischief. "Actually, that brings me to my next point of business—you should come. Meet the rest of the guys. They've been dying to meet you."
"Me?" I arch a brow.
"Yeah." His grin widens, unrepentant. "They wanna meet the girl who's got me acting all soft and stupid lately. Or as they've been calling me—'Captain Simp.'"
I snort, trying to fight the laugh bubbling up. "Simp, huh?"
"I prefer devoted, personally." He shrugs, still grinning. "So... you're gonna come, right?"
There it is. The look. Those damn puppy-dog eyes that have always been my undoing.
I cross my arms, pretending to think, even though I already know what my answer will be. Still, I let him stew for now—no way am I giving him the satisfaction this easily. I remind myself to play it cool, not look too eager.
"I'm not sure," I say, keeping my tone light. "You know me—parties were never really my thing. I'll think about it," I add quickly.
He exhales, the faintest flicker of disappointment tugging at his mouth before he covers it up with a crooked grin. "Fair enough."
My eyes drift to the paper bag sitting beside him, "What's that?" I ask, nodding toward it.
Zach glances down, blinking as if he's only just remembered it's there. "Oh—right!"
He scratches his jaw. "That was actually my main reason for coming over."
I arch a brow. "Meaning?"
"Well..." His grin starts creeping back, slow and boyish. "It's been three years since the last time we celebrated one of my wins together. Figured tonight's the perfect time to, you know—bring back tradition."
He reaches for the paper bag sitting beside him and pulls something out with exaggerated flair. A familiar white-and-red plastic bag dangles from his fingers, the Giuseppe's Italian Ice logo bright and unmistakable.
My breath catches.
For a second, it's like time folds in on itself. I'm back in high school, sitting across from him in one of Giuseppe's sticky red booths, our knees bumping under the table.
He's got cherry ice staining his tongue bright red, I've got pistachio melting faster than I can eat it, and we're laughing about nothing—about everything—like the world outside those walls didn't even exist.
That stupid, wonderful ache blooms in my chest—the kind nostalgia always brings, warm and bittersweet all at once.
Zach grins wider, clearly pleased by my reaction.
"Got your favorite flavor, too," he says, holding up the medium size cup of pistachio flavored Italian ice. "Had to bribe the guy to keep the place open past eleven."
He holds the cup out to me, that familiar pistachio-green ice crystals calling my name. For a moment, I just stare at it. It looks so good—creamy, soft, nostalgia in a cup. God, I want to grab it, to taste it again after all these years. But I can't.
My fingers twitch, but they don't move.
"What's wrong?"
I wet my lips, forcing a smile that feels a little too tight. "I can't," I whisper.
"Why not?"
"You know why, Zach..." I sigh, staring down at the cup. "Do you have any idea how many calories I'd have to burn off if I ate even a small amount of that? It's dreadful."
I peek at him from under my lashes, and sure enough, that half-smile tugs at his lips—understanding, not mocking.
Zach pushes himself up from the couch and crouches in front of me, elbows resting loosely on his knees.
"Hey," he says softly.
"You're not going to lose everything you've worked for over one cup of this. You've come so far, and it shows. I mean it, babe—I'm proud of you. You've got discipline most people only wish they had... and I'm honestly in awe of you."
His gaze lingers on me—steady, unflinching. There's a warmth in it that steals the air from my lungs, the kind that doesn't need words to say I see you.
The faintest smile tugs at his mouth, not playful this time, but full of quiet pride—like he's looking at something precious he's afraid to break.
"But you're still allowed to live. You shouldn't have to punish yourself for wanting something you used to love. One small treat won't erase your progress—it just reminds you that you're human. You deserve a little sweetness now and then."
His words land gently, like a hand on my shoulder. And God, part of me wants to believe him.
"I know," I whisper. "I know I shouldn't.
But lately, every time I even think about eating something like this, my brain goes into overdrive.
It's like solving a math problem I never asked for—how many spoonfuls I can have, how many calories that is, how many hours I'll need to spend running to make up for it.
And by the time I finish overthinking, I just.. . don't eat at all."
I let out a shaky breath. "I miss it. I miss being able to enjoy things without guilt—Giuseppe's, whipped cream straight from the can, all of it. It feels like torture to want something so simple and then talk myself out of it."
"Then don't talk yourself out of it this time."
My gaze flicks to him.
He smiles—small, warm, and so damn patient. "Just one bite," he says, holding the cup out again. "That's all I'm asking. One bite to remind yourself that you're allowed to have things that make you happy. You can share it with me if that helps."
I stare at the cup. My mouth's already watering, traitorous. The scent of pistachio, the faint chill of it against the air—it's like the universe is testing me.
When I don't move, Zach shrugs and scoops a spoonful for himself. He closes his eyes and makes an exaggerated groan.
"Oh, my God. So good."
My eyes narrow. "Don't think for a second I don't know what you're doing right now, Westbrook."
He blinks, feigning innocence. "What? It really is so good."
"You're overselling it."
"Maybe," he says around another spoonful, "or maybe I just forgot how amazing this is." His eyes flutter dramatically. "Mmm. Perfection."
I roll my eyes, but it's useless. The more I watch him, the stronger the craving gets.
"Okay, fine!" I snatch the cup out of his hand. "I'll have some. But you'd better be ready to wake up early tomorrow—you're helping me burn every single calorie I'm about to eat."
His grin is instant, wicked. "If that's what it takes, I'm in. Though, for the record, you don't need to burn anything off." He leans in a little, voice dipping low. "Still, if it'll make you feel better—consider me your workout buddy from now on."
"You're enjoying this way too much."
"Probably," he says, flashing a mischievous smile. "But can you blame me?"
I stab the plastic spoon into the soft green ice. The texture yields instantly—smooth, creamy, melting almost as soon as it hits my tongue. The cold spreads through my mouth, sharp and sweet, the flavor pure nostalgia.
My eyes flutter shut, a sigh slipping out before I can stop it. "God... I forgot how good this is."
When I open them, Zach's watching me with quiet awe—like he knows how big this moment is. Pride glints in his eyes, not smugness but something warmer, gentler.
"From now on, I'm going to remind you what that feels like, okay? To eat without guilt, without the overthinking, without the math. I want to help you find the joy in it again—the way it's supposed to be."
That look hits me right in the chest, melting the last of my hesitation.
So I take another spoonful. And this time, I don't think. I just enjoy it.
The pistachio's almost gone before I even realize how close we've gotten—our knees brushing, his shoulder pressed against mine. It's easy, the kind of closeness that sneaks up without either of us noticing until it's already there.
We trade the spoon back and forth like kids, laughing between bites. Somehow, the topic drifts to his serenade, and that's when the real chaos starts.
"I still can't believe you did that," I say, shaking my head. "The confidence it takes to be that tone-deaf and still grin through it—honestly, I'm impressed."
Zach groans, pressing a hand to his heart. "Tone-deaf? Excuse you, that was raw emotion."
"Raw something," I shoot back, laughing. "Your neck veins nearly popped trying to hit those high notes."
He laughs so hard he nearly spills the cup, and I have to swat his arm to keep him from toppling backward. It's ridiculous. Silly.
And yet—God, it feels good.
The awkwardness that had hovered between us earlier is gone, replaced by the kind of easy comfort I didn't realize I'd been missing.
When the last of the Italian ice disappears, I glance at the empty cup and sigh. "You know what would've made this moment perfect?"
Zach turns, brows raised. "What?"
"Whipped cream." I grin, shaking my head at myself. "I mean, I've already broken my no-sugar streak tonight. Might as well go all in."
He blinks at me for half a second—then his face lights up with that mischievous, too-proud grin that always means trouble.
"Well," he says, dragging out the word, "good thing I came prepared, then."
Before I can ask what he means, he reaches for the paper bag sitting on the floor and pulls out a can of whipped cream with a triumphant flourish.
My jaw drops. "You're kidding."
"Nope." He shakes the can for emphasis, grinning like a man who's just delivered the Holy Grail. "Here you go."
I can't help it—I clap, genuinely delighted. "Oh my God, I missed this so much."
Zach chuckles, handing it over. "Figures. You always were the only person I knew who could stress-eat whipped cream straight from the can and make it look adorable."
I laugh, the kind that bubbles out before I can stop it.
I take the can, shake it once for good measure, and aim it straight into my mouth. The familiar hiss fills the room, followed by the sweet, airy taste of whipped cream melting on my tongue. It's ridiculous how good it feels—like being a kid again, laughing until my stomach hurt.
Zach bursts out laughing. "Still got it, huh?"
I grin at him, wiping a little cream off my lip with the back of my hand. "Some habits never die."
"Yeah? Lemme see that."