Chapter 6 Penny #2
I should tell him never mind, that I don’t care where he was or what he was doing anyway. He can fuck off, and I’ll continue on my merry way, happily talking to myself like I was before he so rudely interrupted me. But I don’t. His initial reluctance to tell me makes me really want to know.
Which is why I let him lead me down the sidewalk and around the corner, eying every storefront sign, apartment window, and person we pass like the answer might be right in front of me.
When Griffin stops, I still look around, not sure why he’s no longer moving unless it’s to let my short-legged steps catch up with his long-legged strides.
He squints down at me, his expression something along the lines of let me have it.
Confused, I look around again, finding that we’re in front of an ice cream shop called Kitty’s Creamery.
Even though it’s mostly adult clientele, it looks like something out of a little girl’s imagination, with pink-on-pink-striped awnings, a cartoon cat logo on the door, and through the window, I can see delicate-looking turquoise iron tables and chairs, bubble-style light fixtures, and a pink display case with handwritten labels for the flavors.
“This is where you go sometimes?” I ask, repeating his earlier words.
Am I judging him? Hell yeah, I am. There’s got to be fifteen different ice cream shops closer to his house, and at least thirty kinds he could buy at the grocery store, but he comes here?
To the pink princess palace of ice creameries?
That’s fucking hilarious. I can imagine him sitting on the teeny-tiny chairs, which probably only fit one of his ass cheeks, licking at a cone the size of one of his fingers and trying not to get it everywhere.
Like Alice after she eats the cake in Wonderland and grows into a giant.
Not to mention it’s kinda chilly out. I mean, I eat ice cream in the dead of winter, but I do it at home, wrapped in a blanket, with sweats and socks on to stay warm, like a normal person.
“They have my favorite flavor,” he declares.
I raise my brows questioningly, needing to hear this. If it’s something like Yumilicious Boo-Berries and Dreamy-Creamy, I will lose my shit and he will never hear the end of this.
“Death by Chocolate,” he grumbles.
I smirk, sensing the lie. “Death by Chocolate, you say? Sounds good.” I move toward the door, grabbing the handle—the one shaped like a kitten’s paw with pink-painted claw nails—and pull.
Suddenly, the door slams shut in front of me, and I look up to see Griffin’s big paw—with naked, trimmed nails and thick fingers—holding it closed.
“Fine, that’s not what it’s called.”
Now totally committed, I pull on the door handle harder, and he relents, even grabbing the door and holding it open for me so I can go inside. Behind me, I hear his mutters of displeasure and sighs of irritation, but since I always seem to have that effect on him, I ignore them.
“Hi!” the lady behind the counter greets me. Then she says to Griffin, “Back for more already?”
I cut glee-filled eyes to him. At least I know he’s telling the truth now. There’d been a part of me that thought he might be fucking with me, because who would think a guy like him—all grumpy asshole—would hang out at a place like this?
“No. She just wants to try it,” he grunts, making me sound like the annoyance I probably am to him.
“Sure thing. Any friend of Griffin’s is a friend of ours. Did you want to try anything else or just dive into the Chocolate Orgasm?”
I look to where she’s pointing, seeing the stainless-steel tub filled with deep, luscious dark-chocolate ice cream, then look at Griffin, who seems to be in actual pain now.
I decide to poke that hurt, and purr, “Oooh, let’s go straight for the orgasm.
I can’t wait. Been on edge since Griffin told me about it.
He screams about how good it is, says it’s the best he’s ever had, and you know I need that kind of thick, rich cream in my mouth. ”
The lady is fighting a losing battle with her laughter and gives in. “Oh, I like you. Come back with or without this guy anytime.” She scoops up a ball of ice cream and plops it into a plastic cup—pink, of course—and then adds a spoon, also pink.
I grin, not promising until I’ve actually tasted the ice cream. No matter how tasty it is, I’m not sure it’ll be as good as the look of mortified horror on Griffin’s face.
As the lady rings me up, I reach into my purse, but Griffin taps his phone to the reader, paying for me before I get the chance.
“Thank you,” I say, puzzled at the niceness.
I would’ve thought he’d order himself another serving, maybe even double- or triple-size it, and then leave me to pay as punishment for prying this gem out of him.
“Bye, Felicity,” he tells the lady as he opens the door for me to step back outside.
Once we’re out of the way of the door, I take a delicate bite. As soon as the flavor hits my tongue, I close my eyes and moan. “Uhmagawd, Griffin. Thissus soo guud.”
It is. The perfect balance of sweetness, and is that . . . “Izz salt-y?” I say around another mouthful.
“Felicity sprinkles a little sea salt on the top,” he informs me, pointing at my cup.
I look at the ice cream in my hand, seeing the tiny sparkles of the crystalline salt on top, and glance up at him with a happy grin.
His eyes look weird—his pupils are dilated, and there’s a softness there I never see.
But he blinks and it’s gone. Probably just my imagination anyway.
Or maybe he wants another Orgasm for himself, but I’m not sharing. This is mine, all mine.
“Good, huh? It’s your turn now: What’s in the bag?” He points at the bag I’m clutching in addition to my ice cream.
“Jewelry,” I tease, taking another bite. He glares at me and I chuckle, giving him more information, but only a tiny bit. “It’s a ring with the most gorgeous diamond I’ve ever seen. I can’t wait to redesign it.”
“I’m sure you’ll turn it into something magnificent.”
The compliment—and its pure sincerity, with no sarcastic bent—has me swallowing hard in surprise.
Usually, our conversations are filled with insults, eye rolls, and snappish comments Dom ends up having to referee.
This one has been different. Easier, more comfortable, more .
. . real, maybe? Or at least it feels less like he hates me.
“Thank you. You want to see it?”
It’s stupid. I know it is. But I’m so excited, and I want to share that buzzy feeling with someone else, even if it’s Griffin.
I shuffle the bag and my ice cream around in my hands, trying to undo the carefully tied bow Carolynn made around the handles without spilling Chocolate Orgasm everywhere. Squirting, if you will. With a scowl, Griffin tries to help, reaching for the bag.
I jerk it back, not ready to let it go. It’s my future, and I don’t trust him like that.
Not after one polite conversation amid years of near-bullying ones.
He holds his hands up in surrender. “Sorry, just trying to help. Watch it—” He points at my ice cream, where a drip is running down the cup and over my hand.
I give him a narrow-eyed warning. “Don’t take it out, just peek inside the bag and open the ring box, okay?” He nods, and slowly, hesitatingly, I let him take the bag before I lick the back of my hand.
Rather than dive straight in to see the promised amazingness, he watches my mouth, and I wonder if there’s ice cream surrounding my lips too.
I try to Scooby-Doo lick them as delicately as I can, but there’s not really a nonobscene way to do that.
Griffin swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, before dragging his attention to the bag.
He unties the bow easily with two hands, even though they’re large enough you wouldn’t expect him to be graceful. Some people have hands meant to play the piano; Griffin has hands meant to ball into fists and hit shit, which is exactly what he’s known for.
Holding one handle, he moves the tissue paper out of the way and reaches in, opening the box. He peers inside the bag for a split second, and then his eyes jerk up to mine. “Holy shit!”
“I know, right? It’s stunning,” I exclaim, the giddiness of earlier returning in a flash.
He looks in the bag again and lets out a low, almost sensual whistle. I know he’s admiring the diamond and not me, but it still feels like a compliment somehow, and I can’t help but dance and wiggle a bit.
One second, we’re standing there, the two of us on the sidewalk, Griffin smiling at my latest purchase, and me filled with excitement. The next, something happens . . .
A rush of red bumps my right shoulder, sending ice cream spilling everywhere—down my sweater, on the window beside me, to the ground at my feet, and splattering on my shoes. The movement creates wind that grabs my attention, and I jerk my head, trying to see what it is. What it was.
“Hey!” Griffin yells.
When I look back at him, he’s staring open-mouthed behind him. And his hands . . . they’re empty. The bag is gone.