Chapter 3
THREE
AUGUST
“Oh, fuck me,” she moans.
Yes, I want to say. Anytime, anywhere.
The gorgeous redhead gazes up at me as if I’m somehow fascinating to her.
Little does she know, I’ve caught myself staring at her multiple times before this. Every other Tuesday. Maybe it’s pathetic that I know her schedule, but she’s the one who keeps showing up at the same time, staring in the tinted front window of my shop with an adorable pout.
The last few times, I’ve been halfway around the counter, ready to open the door and invite her in. But she always disappears before I get the chance.
Not today though.
Today, my mystery girl was dragged into the shop by two other women.
The three of them show off how beauty can come in many shapes.
The curly-haired one has an ’s height, soft curves, and an energy that fills the room.
Her opposite stands a few paces behind, pixie-short hair and small all around with a shy smile.
But it’s only the woman in front of me, average height with a hint of an hourglass figure, who holds my attention.
First, my eyes catch on her complexion. The riot of freckles covering her face is a rare treat. Like I took powdered cocoa and sifted it over pale cream. That, paired with her flaming hair, draws me in, tempting me.
The image could’ve been enough, but her touch has my blood pounding in my ears.
Warm. The heat of her skin still tingles in the tip of my thumb where it brushed hers.
My life is constant cold and ice, but she’s all heat.
And I’m staring.
I clear my throat again, which I seem to have to do a lot around this woman. “So, the special then?”
She blinks up at me and then gives a slow shake of her head.
“You didn’t like it?” From the lusty tone she used, I thought my new creation might be a success.
“I did …” She trails off, flicking her eyes toward the glass container where the rest of my daily flavors are housed.
“I am about to light a literal fire under your ass, Quinn. Stop undressing the man with your eyes and tell him what flavor you want.” This from the taller of the woman’s companions.
Quinn. I like it. Odd, but not completely out of the ordinary.
“Asshole,” Quinn mutters just loud enough for me to hear, and that’s when I realize her pale skin has turned remarkably rosy. But instead of ducking her head and skittering away in embarrassment, she meets my stare with a newly determined air. “I’d like chocolate.”
“Plain?” Disappointment trickles through me. Not that chocolate isn’t delicious, especially my chocolate. It’s just that I’ve spent time crafting creative flavors. I want her to try something I made. I want to hear her mutter more expletives when she samples my hard work.
Again, Quinn shakes her head. “No. I’d like more to it. Just … could chocolate be a component?”
The way she asks, as if I’m the final word on the matter, swells pride in my chest. Not many people appreciate the amount of effort I put into my craft.
This woman allowing me to choose for her is like deferring to a sommelier about a wine selection at a restaurant.
Leave the choice up to the person with the best palate.
“I have a raspberry and dark chocolate.”
“Yes. That. Please.” Quinn leans forward, her hands on the counter, almost as if she expects me to be hiding the treat behind my back.
I can’t help grinning at her eagerness. “In a cone?”
The smile that started to form on her soft mouth dims. “I probably shouldn’t. I’ll just make a mess of it.” Though her words say no, her eyes rest on the stack of waffle cones I have ready, next to less exciting cups.
Again, I take the lead. “So what? With something as good as this, it’s okay to get a little sticky.”
Her face flushes red again, and I can guess the dirty place her mind went. At least, I know where mine is.
Before she talks herself out of it, I grab a cone and fill it with two generous scoops. As I pass the dessert over, I intentionally brush her hot skin, savoring the searing sensation.
If I had my way, I’d just lean on the counter and enjoy the sight of her licking my cone.
I mean, the ice cream cone.
Although, if she offered to lick my cone, I’d usher everyone out of the shop and close down for the day. No doubt in my mind that Quinn’s mouth would be worth it.
Instead, I let the sight of her go, shifting my focus to her companions. Caramel peanut butter swirl for the taller and strawberry cheesecake for the shorter. Both of them are attractive in their own right, but my eyes continue to wander back to Quinn.
And what a sight she makes. She wasn’t exaggerating when she said she was worried about getting messy.
Despite her eager licks, drips of raspberry and chocolate escape the edge of the cone to trail over her hand to her wrist. Catching sight of the sweet streams, she ventures further with her tongue, lapping up the little spills.
I’ve never seen anything more erotic than Quinn licking melted ice cream off her skin. Momentarily, I consider if it would be weird for me to offer to help.
Yeah, that would definitely be weird.
What if I asked her to suck it off me instead?
Nope. Still weird. Don’t do that.
Instead, I act like a rational person and grab a handful of napkins, walking out from behind the counter to offer them to her.
Her plump lips tilt in a self-deprecating smirk. “Told you I’d make a mess.” She accepts one of the napkins, wrapping it around the base of the cone. “But it’s no use. I run hot.”
My brain briefly short-circuits, all thoughts flickering out, except for the single image of her fiery body pressed tight against mine.
“How much do we owe you?” one of the other women asks—I think the tall one, but I’d have to stop staring at Quinn to find out.
And what’s more, to give her an answer, I’d need to attempt some sort of math, which my mind isn’t capable of handling at the moment. So, with what little brainpower I have remaining, I manage to mutter a single phrase. “On the house.”
Most of the population would be overjoyed or at least mildly excited to find out they’re getting something without having to pay.
Quinn, apparently, exists in the minority.
She glares up at me, all traces of embarrassment gone. “That’s ridiculous. If you want to run a successful business, you can’t just give your product away for free.”
I stifle a smile, instead peering down at her like I’m mildly curious. “Isn’t that what everyone does?”
Quinn rolls her hazel eyes, and I catch a glint of golden flecks in her irises. “Don’t be an ass …” She peers at my chest, as if searching for something. “What’s your name?”
Ah, name tag. Guess I forgot to pin mine on in my hurry to serve them. Normally, I’m not the one working the front counter, but since it got slow, I gave Marisol a break.
“August.”
“August.” She doesn’t say anything else for a minute but then shakes her head.
“Don’t be an ass, August. If you give ice cream away all willy-nilly, you’ll eventually go out of business.
And where would that leave us?” Quinn throws out a hand to encompass her companions, who are standing back a few steps, watching the two of us with interested expressions. “Ice cream–less! Sans ice cream!”
I choose not to point out that Phoenix has plenty of other ice cream shops. I don’t want Quinn to cover herself in melted ice cream anywhere else.
Still, I continue playing devil’s advocate. “It’s a marketing technique. Giving people a free cone every so often establishes a rapport. Makes them want to come back again.”
I want her to come back again.
Quinn glares at me as she drags her tongue over the back of her hand, where another stray drip of raspberry escaped.
Suddenly, my pants feel tight, and I consider ducking back behind the counter to obscure anything happening from my waist down.
“If it’s marketing, then where is your advertising? And what exactly is the deal? How does it work out that me and my sisters get free ice cream?”
Her sisters—that makes sense.
“Redhead Day.” I’m pulling this out of my ass, but each time I don’t agree with her, a flare of heat stains the tops of her cheeks. I can’t seem to stop myself.
“Redhead Day,” she growls.
I nod and double down. “Redhead Day. Redheads get free ice cream.”
The shorter of her sisters giggles behind her hand, eyes dancing as she watches us. The older one smirks and throws me a wink that seems more conspiratorial than suggestive.
“That’s ridiculous. I refuse. Harley, pay the man.” Quinn looks to the taller of the two.
Harley shakes her head and gives a dramatic lick of her cone. “It’s Redhead Day.”
An adorable scowl wrinkles the freckled space in between Quinn’s brows. “Bullshit! I call bullshit!” She stalks away from me and up to the counter, rummaging around in the back pocket of her shorts.
The jean material hugs a tight, round ass, and I’m sure each cheek would be a lovely handful.
As I openly stare, she slides her fingers back out, clutching a twenty.
Before I can stop her, Quinn leans far over the counter, reaching out to place the bill on top of the cash register, all the while balancing her still-dripping cone in the other hand.
I press a fist into my mouth, barely stifling a groan.
The sight of her like that—bent over the counter, ass in the air, toned legs spread wide enough to maintain her balance—is practically pornographic.
My mind memorizes the image, storing it away for later—probably for tonight, when I’m alone in my bed.
“There. Service provided, and payment given. Fair exchange.”
Harley snorts, and the small sister grimaces my way. “Sorry, she can’t help it. Quinn’s an accountant.”
An accountant? The word brings to mind a guy with sensible glasses, a starched white button-up, and a calculator. Not a gorgeously freckled, flaming-haired beauty, dressed in denim cutoffs and a thin white T-shirt that does little to hide the lacy bra she’s wearing underneath.
Quinn stands up from the counter, returning to licking her treat as she takes a step toward the door.
I scratch the stubble on my chin as I search for some way to keep her from walking out of my shop and never coming back.
“If you’re so concerned with my profits, maybe you could take a look at my books.”
My tossed-out comment gets her attention.
“Some of us don’t work for free.” Quinn trails her eyes over my body, her gaze as heavy as a physical caress.
Delicious chills skitter over my skin, like the hint of snow beginning to fall.
“I wouldn’t expect you to. I’m talking about hiring you.”
An eyebrow curves high on her forehead. “You don’t know me.”
Stepping in close, I cross my arms over my chest to keep from reaching for her. “We can change that.”
Quinn considers me, licking her cone all the while.
Why am I asking to hire her when what I really want is to fuck her?
A visible shiver quivers through her, and I remember why.
Women like Quinn aren’t for me. I can look, but I can’t touch.
Again, she reaches her clean hand into her pocket, this time one of the front ones. But instead of pulling out money, she comes up with a black business card.
“All right then, Mr. August. When you’re ready to start taking your finances seriously, call me.”
I pluck the card from her grasp, denying myself another brush of her skin.
Quinn saunters out of the shop, her sisters on her heels. The smaller one offers a friendly wave over her shoulder, and Harley gives me a thumbs-up—both gestures happening behind their sister’s back.
Seems I have a couple of allies.
Once all three are gone, I study the card.
Quinn Byrne
Freelance Accountant
Then her contact information. I should rip the card up and toss it in the trash. Keep the memory of this exchange, but not hope for anything more.
Problem is, the card burns hot in my hand, and for someone who lives a life as cold as mine, I can’t find it in me to give up even a hint of heat.