Chapter 6
SIX
AUGUST
Quinn’s manicured nails slip over her buttons, undoing them. She then clutches the lapels and slides the crimson jacket off her shoulders. The white collared shirt underneath is sleeveless, and I spy the outline of the top of her bra through the silky fabric.
A chill trickles from deep in my gut, spreading over my skin, threatening to spill into the air around me. Around her.
“Wha-what are you doing?” The question stutters out of me as I put the majority of my effort into suppressing my elemental reaction to her newly exposed freckled skin.
“As you’ve found out, I can’t eat ice cream without getting messy. This is my favorite suit.” She folds the jacket and glances around, searching for a spot to place it.
“Here.” I hold out my hand, and she doesn’t hesitate to pass off the garment.
When the material touches my skin, I almost drop it. Then I fight the urge to press the jacket against my cheek.
The fabric is warm.
Life as an Ice Elemental means days of perpetual cold. Some people might consider that a sort of torture, but I’m not uncomfortable in my frigid state. I like the cold.
However, once I was old enough to learn about the concept of warmth, the idea has always fascinated me.
My mother—a baker—attempted to explain the sensation to me, describing how the ovens she pulled her cookies and cakes from gave off an immense amount of heat.
She regretted using that example the day she found me sticking my head into one of the appliances, the temperature set at the highest level I could manage.
I came out unscathed and still curious.
My father—the parent who’d provided me with my icy heritage—claimed he’d first experienced warmth when he met my mother. But he always said it with a teasing smile, so I never knew if he was serious, and I was always too nervous to ask.
What if he was just joking?
I shied away from the idea of going my entire life without getting the chance to know the sensation of heat. That would be like me approaching someone without taste buds and describing the delicious flavors of my ice cream. They’d always have the theory, but never the experience.
But heat isn’t a mystery to me anymore. The glorious discovery radiates off the woman in front of me.
I push aside my rush of excitement at Quinn’s warmth, shoving it into a box in the back corner of the attic of my brain, along with my curiosity about kissing warm skin and sliding inside a hot-to-the-touch woman.
Back to the issue at hand. “Would an apron help?”
Quinn trails fingers down the front of her snowy-white blouse, and I try not to imagine mine taking the same path. “Do you have an extra?”
“You can use mine.”
I tug at the ties before slipping it off.
Even though I want to place it over her head myself, I restrain the inappropriate urge and simply hand the garment off to her instead.
The apron hits me mid-thigh, but it falls below her knees.
Still, with her heels, Quinn easily meets my eyes, hers blinking wide behind a sultry set of glasses.
“What Frankenstein ice cream monster have you been creating tonight?” Her excited grin is almost too much. Every bit of her pulses with energy, like a steaming cup of coffee promising to taste delicious and bring on a new life to my tired brain.
I push the comparison aside and lead the accountant over to one of the waist-high coolers, where I pull out a metal container full of a ruby-colored ice cream. My experiments start out in small batches, meant to be tested and approved before I commit to a larger production.
A cone in hand, I scoop out a generous amount of my new creation. As I pass the treat over, I hope it’s not glaringly obvious what the inspiration was for the concoction.
“And this is …” Quinn doesn’t wait for my answer as she sticks out her pink tongue to taste.
“Red velvet cake.” Swirls of red mixed with pale white. The coloring is all her.
I’m just not committed to the taste. No doubt it’s delicious. But does the dessert taste like her?
Having only ever interacted with Quinn in my shop, I’m not sure what she smells like. There are too many sweet scents in the air for me to distinguish hers. All I have to go off is her striking coloring and the hot feel of her.
New flavor combinations tumble through my mind. This time with spice.
“Oh goddess, that is decadent.” Quinn moans out the compliment, her entire focus on the cone in her hand. As she steadily devours it, the cool cream begins to melt.
With my focus fixated on the slide of her tongue and pursing of her mouth, my mind lags behind on her exclamation. Did she say goddess? No. I must have misheard. All my forceful wanting has me hearing her speak like an Elemental.
“What’s the verdict on my finances?” I ask to distract myself from hopeful thoughts and the lustful sight.
In between hearty licks, Quinn gives me a rundown of her findings. She talks animatedly about the graphs she created of my revenue streams and payroll, which outline the ratios and how they’ll change over time.
All her conclusions match with my financial plan.
Even though I wasn’t concerned about my money, I don’t regret hiring her. It never hurts to have a second set of eyes check everything out. Plus, now, I get to watch her eat more of my ice cream.
Stop drooling over a human, I scold myself.
One long trail of red velvet cake has escaped her notice and traces the length of her forearm, steadily making a path to her elbow. Without thinking—because, at some point, my brain started to short-circuit at the sight—I reach out to swipe my finger across her skin, gathering the melted mixture.
Only when I stick my finger into my mouth do I realize exactly what I’ve done. Glancing up, I expect to catch her horrified stare.
Instead, Quinn’s eyes flash hot, her attention adhered to my lips.
But then she blinks, shaking her head and stepping away from me.
“So, Mr. Nord, your finances are fine. As long as you continue to keep your costs low, Land of Ice Cream and Snow will have no trouble returning a steady profit. I will email the documents I created and send you a bill. Feel free to give me a call at the beginning of next year if you’d like help preparing your tax documents. ”
As Quinn reaches for the apron ties, a protest shouts in my mind.
Next year? I can’t wait that long to see you again!
“A date!” I blurt out, my tongue moving before I’ve thought the idea through.
Fucking hell, what is wrong with me?
Her hand pauses, and one perfect red brow curves up. “Excuse me?”
I clear my throat and stand straighter, committing to the impulsive offer.
Damien and Sammy have both been with plenty of humans. My dad married one.
Why should I let Quinn pass out of my life? All I need is a little self-control around her, and my powers shouldn’t have any effect on our relationship.
“I want to take you out on a date.”
Quinn simply stares at me. Her stillness is extra torturous because, while she contemplates what I said, more ice cream coats her hand.
Maybe, one day, she’ll let me lick it off her.
“Okay,” she murmurs and then holds my gaze as she takes a large bite out of her cone.