Chapter Two
GEMMA
You can't become a teacher if you're in jail.
Damn him. My father knows exactly which buttons to push to force me to do what he wants. Tonight is dinner with some important investor and then another fundraising gala for his campaign election.
Me: Dad, please. I don’t want to go
Dad: Your mother is sick. You know she can’t be there. I need you to stand beside me to show them I care about family
I stare down at the message on my phone, watching those three little dots that say he is typing, stomach rolling before I even read the next message.
Dad: I don’t want to ruin your life, Gemma. Don’t force my hand
I want to refuse. I want to drop my phone in the vat of chocolate sauce I just removed from the industrial refrigerator and pretend I didn’t see the text, but that would be a waste of perfectly good chocolate, which might be more of a crime than what he’s set me up for.
It doesn’t matter that I didn’t know what I was signing, or what he would do with it. Arthur Townsend gets what he wants. He has since he married my mom and adopted me when I was four.
That doesn’t erase the man who built me a treehouse or showed up for my first school play when my mom didn’t.
It just means the man who loves me and the dirty politician aren’t the same person.
I’ll go tonight, and I’ll wear the dress. The last time I rebelled, he made it clear that if it happened again, I would not enjoy the consequences. I've seen him make good on too many threats not to believe him.
My hands tremble as I type out a quick reply.
Me: I'll be there.
Dad: I knew I could count on you, sweetheart. See you at 6:30 for dinner.
Dad: Wear the green dress, and don't be late.
I tuck the phone back into the pocket of my dress and smooth my ponytail.
Standing in the kitchen at Sweet Scoops, I let the familiar, happy scent of ice cream and confections soothe my frayed emotions.
I’m glad that I’m the only one closing tonight.
It will take me a few extra minutes, but at least I won’t have to explain why my eyes are red when I clean the tables.
My shoulders are hiked around my ears from that stupid text exchange. I take a deep breath and go through the swinging doors into the front of the shop. It's one minute to five, and the last customer left right before my dad...
There’s a man standing at the front door about to leave. He must have thought we'd closed already.
"Oh. Hi! Welcome to Sweet Scoops." It’s late, but I can stay a few extra minutes if it means making someone smile. That’s one of the reasons I took this job. If I have to work to put myself through school, I may as well make people happy while I do it. “What can I get you?”
The man turns at the sound of my voice, and the breath whooshes from my body. He's not just hot—he's melt the ice cream hot.
His hair is almost as black as his suit, and a trim beard sculpts his jaw, drawing attention to his firm mouth. I drag my gaze off his lips and find myself staring at shoulders so wide they strain the fabric of his jacket.
It makes him look powerful. Barely leashed. Like even the suit can’t contain him.
Maybe it’s the skull-shaped tie tack against a black shirt and black tie, but he looks like he could even intimidate my dad.
He’s older, maybe in his early thirties, but that just adds to the attraction.
He approaches the counter slowly, scanning the containers of ice cream as if he’s not sure what they are, and then me.
I've never seen anyone look lost in an ice cream shop before. He's so still and silent. It makes me want to ruffle him up a little. Tease him until he relaxes instead of giving the fudge ripple murder glares.
Maybe he’s with the Men in Black and this is a top-secret ice cream run. I lean closer and stage-whisper, “I promise not to tell anyone you were here.”
A look of panic flickers in his eyes, there and gone so fast that I’m not sure I saw it.
He looks at the menu and finally says, “A single scoop.”
I reach for a small bowl, look at his size, and go for a medium instead. He’s so big, he could finish the small off in one bite. Picturing him licking sweet cream from his lips makes my belly quiver, and I have to clench my thighs a flood of heat.
I’ve never felt so aware of anyone. From his big, broody body to his intense presence.
My mouth is almost too dry to ask him what flavor.
“Vanilla,” he murmurs.
Vanilla? Um, no.
He’s not a vanilla man. There’s nothing mundane about him. He’s dark and mysterious. Sexy without even trying. Like a mafia don in one of my romance books.
“You're a decadent chocolate caramel truffle, I think.” My weakness. I’ve put on five pounds since I started solely from that flavor.
I add a small scoop of vanilla to humor him, then top it with a generous scoop of my favorite chocolate.
I can’t help but smile. He’s going to love it.
The man reaches for the bowl, obviously not understanding how this works.
“You can’t have naked ice cream,” I inform him. Not on my watch.
Heat flares in his eyes, and a low tug in my belly answers. I want to drizzle the caramel on him instead of this scoop.
I’ve never done anything like that, and my brain stalls on the image, wondering if it would taste good to lick caramel off the skin of a man like him.
Bad Gemma! Don’t lick the customers.
My cheeks feel so hot they must be bright red when I hold out the cup.
His fingers brush mine as he slowly reaches for it.
The little zing makes my breath catch.
Our gazes lock.
His slowly takes the bowl and sets it aside. He reaches for his wallet. "How much?"
"You have to try it first. To see if I'm right."
He sets his wallet aside and digs the spoon into the ice cream. He lifts it slowly—chocolate and vanilla in equal measure—and slides it between his lips.
Dear god this man even makes eating sexy.
He slowly draws the spoon out, and because I'm staring like a creeper, I see the swipe of his tongue before he says in that deliciously deep voice, "The combination of vanilla and chocolate is... unexpected. The vanilla is too sweet to mix with the darkness of the chocolate."
"I think they would complement each other." I swear the air between us grows heated. It feels like we aren't talking about ice cream anymore.
I don't even know his name, but I want to lick the sweetness off his lips.
He eats a few more bites of ice cream until only the chocolate remains and sets the bowl down. Then he digs a $50 bill out of his wallet and drops it on the counter. "Thank you."
"I'll get your change."
"No need. It's yours."
Is he serious? That's almost a $45 tip. "But..."
He tucks his wallet away, gives me another lingering look, then heads for the door.
"Wait!" I hustle around the counter after him.
He turns back, one dark eyebrow raised.
"I'm Gemma."
His eyes skate to the windows and back to me. For a moment, I think he might walk out without another word.
Then he replies, "I’m Dallas."
Dallas. A city of contained energy. Like him. He doesn't move free and easy like most people. He moves like a panther. Prowling instead of walking.
"Thanks for coming by Sweet Scoops. I hope you'll come back." For me. "We have the best ice cream in the city."
Lame Gemma. So lame. But I couldn't think of anything else to say. I just… don’t want him to leave yet.
A flicker of regret crosses his face. He heads for the door.
I trail behind him. Disappointment sinks like a rock in my gut. I’ve never felt this breathless or flushed, and he’s about to walk out of my life as fast as he came in.
"Nice to meet you, Dallas," I say softly.
He stops, and his shoulders bunch under his jacket.
When he turns, there's a wildness to his eyes, so at odds with his controlled demeanor. Like something in him unclenched an iron fist.
He reaches for me, cupping my neck in one strong palm, and pulls me closer.
My hands land on his chest. The hard thump of his heart vibrates against my palm. And beneath the black dress shirt, his muscles feel like steel. Thick and powerful.
Dallas’s thumb brushes my jaw and tilts my head up. He searches my face.
I don’t know what he’ll see there, because there are so many emotions spinning inside me. Hope, attraction, nervousness.
Fear that this moment will end.
He slowly lowers his head, and his lips brush mine, so light I barely feel it. His warm breath fans my lips, and the strength of his body surrounds me.
I lean closer. Needing more.
Dallas presses his lips to mine.
His other hand finds my hip, holding me steady as I go up on my toes because he’s so much taller.
He licks my lower lip, then presses another kiss to my mouth. This one harder, more demanding. The wildness I saw slipping free of its restraint.
My lips open automatically, and he sweeps his tongue against mine. Dallas claims my mouth with his kiss. Exploring. Commanding. Showing me a glimpse of the passion we could have.
He smells warm and a little spicy, like sandalwood and cinnamon, and his short beard rasps against my lips and chin, feeling deliciously soft.
Warmth spreads through me, making me aware of everywhere we touch. It’s hard to breathe.
A low moan escapes him. Then suddenly, his hand on my neck loosens, and he breaks the kiss.
But I don't want this to end. Not yet.
I grab fistfuls of his lapels and pull him closer, kissing him again.
What would it take to make him really lose that tight grip on his feelings? What would it take to make him stay?
I don't get the chance to find out.
Dallas lifts his head and his thumb brushes my lower lip. Then he sets me back and puts space between us.
Air-conditioned air rushes in to cool my heated skin, making me shiver.
"Lock the door behind me," he orders.
I nod, barely able to form real words. "I will."
Dallas cups my cheek, staring into my eyes for a moment, then opens the door and steps through. He stops on the other side, waiting for me to lock up.
I fumble for the latch and turn it. Maybe it's dumb, but I give him a little wave.
He'll probably forget all about me and this brief ice cream encounter, but deep in my heart, I know I'll never forget it—or him.
Dallas.
The man who made me forget about my dad, and galas, and blackmail for a little while.
The man who kissed me like I was someone special.