Chapter 5
FIVE
QUINN
I am as cool as a winter breeze. As chilly as a mountain stream. As cold as the bottom of an iceberg.
Try as I might, the visualizing is hard to take seriously as I sit in my hot car under the intense midday sun. If only I could have grabbed the shady spot off in the far corner of the strip mall parking lot. But someone had beaten me to it, and the rest of the blacktop is a preheating oven.
Not that the heat is uncomfortable. Normally, I revel in it, letting the hundred-degree temperature feed the fire that is an innate part of my physical makeup.
But today is different. In a matter of minutes, when I work up the courage, I’m going to come face-to-face with the sexy ice cream god. This time without my big sister backing me up to keep my fire at bay.
It’s all up to me. Hence the cold-focused meditation.
Maybe thinking of cold things isn’t the right tactic.
He’s nowhere near as attractive as you remember.
Way too muscly. Probably spends all his free time at the gym, lifting and then taking pictures of himself in the mirror.
And I bet he doesn’t even like ice cream.
He thinks the fat content is too high and would ruin his meticulously crafted washboard abs.
August is a self-obsessed meathead who hates dessert.
I silently repeat that last sentence like a mantra as I enter Land of Ice Cream and Snow.
Just before noon on a Wednesday, I’m surprised at how crowded the shop is. Every one of the heavy wooden booths is full, and the long table that looks straight out of a Viking’s headquarters has a happy group of children squished onto the benches.
Despite the large amount of people, the place still holds on to a delicious chill. The fact that I can feel that cold is surprising enough to ease a bit of the tension from my shoulders.
My meditation seems to be working.
When August emailed about hiring me, we had a handful of completely professional back-and-forth correspondences.
I felt sure he had taken my offer seriously when he asked for a list of my references.
Proud of all the work I’d done in the past, I had no issue with handing over a list of names and numbers.
Two days later, he responded with an enthusiastic request for my services.
Unfortunately, neither one of us clarified where I should meet him when I arrived, and he’s nowhere in sight.
Instead, a young girl is working behind the counter today.
Playing it safe, I move to stand in line.
After sampling the ice cream offered here, I wouldn’t put it past someone to shank me if they thought I was cutting to the front.
“What can I get for you?” Her name tag reads Marisol, and her smile plumps up a cute set of cheeks.
“I have an appointment with August Nord. Do you know where I might find him?” I learned his last name during our email exchange.
The girl’s smile falters, and she drags her eyes over me.
I wonder what thoughts flit through her suddenly guarded brown eyes.
Today, I dressed for work, choosing my favorite red pantsuit and pairing it with a set of black suede heels. I opted for glasses over contacts, loving my I’m a fucking professional, so deal with it crimson frames.
Sometimes, women with red hair prefer to downplay the shade by wearing more muted colors. I, on the other hand, opt to embrace and amplify it.
Maybe this is why I still have trouble with starting random fires …
“Who are you?” the worker asks.
I can’t tell if her tone is rude or not, but it’s a valid question.
“I’m Quinn Byrne. The accountant he hired.”
Some of the stoniness leaves her eyes, but her friendly smile doesn’t make a reappearance.
“I’ll let him know you’re here.” She whirls around and heads for a doorway that leads to the back of the shop.
A moment later, she returns on the heels of a man who is somehow more attractive than I remembered. Unfortunately, he’s the perfect amount of muscle, and he has on an ice cream–stained apron.
Damn him.
Heat flutters under my skin, and I shove my hands in my pockets, praying to the goddess I don’t melt every frozen treat in the shop.
“Quinn.” He says my name with a smile that increases my heat, but surprisingly, the fire remains manageable.
Maybe I am getting better at this.
“Mr. Nord.” I keep my expression cordial and my tone professional. Just because I’m not burning his shop to the ground doesn’t mean I should tempt the fates.
We are business associates, and that’s it.
August runs his eyes over my form, much like his employee did a minute ago. Only her gaze did not have the same hunger as his.
I shiver.
His mouth flattens as he clears his throat. “I have everything set up in my office, if you’ll follow me.”
I do as he directed, moving with him toward another doorway that opens to a short hallway.
“There’s the restroom, if you need to use it today.” He nods to a half-open door, and we pass by another with a sign reading Supplies.
August turns the knob of the last door, opening it and standing back so that I can enter first.
The space is simple and cozy, much like the front of his shop.
A computer monitor sits on a dark wooden desk, surrounded by neatly stacked papers and folders.
Behind the desk is a large corkboard, notes pinned all over the thing.
Taking a step closer, I realize the wall is covered in handwritten recipes.
I’ve entered August’s creative space.
Mr. Nord, I silently correct myself. Need to stop thinking of him as anything other than a client.
“Will this work for you, Ms. Byrne?”
His switch to using my last name should set me at ease. Instead, annoyance sparks along my nerves.
I like the way he says my first name. I like it too much.
His imposing presence pushes on my senses, and I can’t help turning to face him. The deliciously sexy ice cream shop owner hovers next to a table in the corner of the office. A cushy chair is pulled up to the workspace, and more stacks of papers sit in organized piles on the surface.
“Everything you said you would need.”
Everything and more. In addition to the financial documents I instructed him to have ready, August—I mean, Mr. Nord—has arranged the perfect little area, with extra pencils, Post-it Notes, a calculator, and even a laptop.
I have my own computer and supplies in my bag, but still, the gesture is sweet.
I mean, professional. A very professional gesture.
“This all looks good.”
“Do you want me to stick around to answer any questions you have?”
I glance up, meeting his striking blue eyes. The icy color looks so refreshing, like an arctic ocean I want to dive into.
Dangerous heat pools under my skin.
“No.” The word comes out harsher than I meant. I clear my throat, set down my bag, and glance back at him with what I hope is a pleasant but distant smile. “I’d rather focus on the numbers. Just the numbers. They often paint a clearer picture than people do.”
Plus, numbers don’t turn me on. Math has always come easy to me, and I enjoy it in the same way I enjoy brushing my teeth. No fire in my panties when I work through a particularly difficult equation. Just a sense of a job well done.
August—
Goddess-damn it!
Mr. Nord gives me a tight smile and a nod. Then he leaves me alone to work. And for a little while, I can breathe again.
I fall into a familiar rhythm, creating my own spreadsheets of his profits and spending, making sure all the values add up the same.
The hours pass as I pore over receipts and invoices.
My focus is only broken twice. Once when Aug—Mr. Nord quietly enters the room to set a cup of steaming coffee down next to me, leaving a bowl with creamer and sugar beside it before he exits without saying a word.
The second time, he returns, holding a plastic bag.
“Ham, turkey, or veggie?” he murmurs, as if speaking too loudly will destroy all the work I’ve done.
I push my glasses back up my nose and glance at the clock on the wall. Six hours have passed without me realizing. As if my stomach arrives at the conclusion at the same moment, it lets out an unhappy growl.
“Turkey, please.” For some reason, I speak just as quietly as he did and accept my dinner with a nod of thanks.
August retreats from the office, and I hate to admit how much I wish he’d stayed. But it’s better he didn’t. After pulling my hair up into a messy bun, I eat one-handed, eyes returning to my screen.
When I finally finish, my spine is launching a full-scale protest at its mistreatment. I stand and bend backward, reveling in the satisfying cracks that ring out from my vertebrae.
Despite the aches in my joints, I’m in a good mood.
Land of Ice Cream and Snow is performing surprisingly well for a new business.
Technically, Mr. Nord is still in the red, but that’s to be expected with the store being less than a year old.
The amazing part is that it appears he’s approaching the much preferred black quicker than most small shops would be.
Not long until he’s returning a true profit.
People in Phoenix love their ice cream.
From the meticulous way he’s kept his finances, I doubt my conclusion will come as a big surprise. Still, I’m eager to share the good news. Or reinforce it.
I search for the clock again and stifle a gasp.
Ten p.m.?
I don’t always keep normal business hours, with most of my work involving freelancing, but still. This is late, even for me.
I wander out of the office, up to the front of the store, only to find the shop closed.
Did he forget I was here?
But then I notice light shining from the back room. Following the glow, I discover where the delicious product is made.
The kitchen is pristine, big, shiny silver equipment filling the place. A mixture of decadent smells saturates the air, and my stomach alerts me that dinner was hours ago.
I find Aug—Mr. Nord at the very back, leaning over a tall worktable covered in ingredients, scribbling in a notebook. A black apron hugs his solid form, and I can’t help but focus on the way his teeth bite into his full lower lip.
“I’m done.” My voice rings out louder than I expected in the quiet kitchen, and I cringe when he jerks in surprise. “Sorry. I didn’t realize it had gotten so late. You could’ve kicked me out a while back.”
Mr. Nord turns to me with a grin so sweet that the sight makes my teeth ache. I’m not sure what I want to lick more—another cone of ice cream or the ice cream maker himself.
Bad Quinn! That is not how professionals think.
“I figured I’d give you till midnight before dragging you away. Didn’t want to break your concentration.” He leans back on his table, tapping a finger on a paper full of scribbles. “I know what it’s like to get sucked into your work.”
Moving closer, I try to read out what he’s written.
“New flavor?”
He nods. “Want to be a test subject?”
“Hell yeah,” I reply, reaching for the top button on my jacket.