Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
RACHEL
Paige wasn’t lying. Scooping ice cream turns out to be really freaking hard, and I hate it.
Despise it, even. But there’s nothing I can do except grin and bear it, listening to the customers complain that I’m too slow or I’m not giving them enough ice cream per scoop.
Or the girls who work with me—who are all sixteen, I swear—they roll their eyes at me when I finally get a scoop to sit on top of the cone, only for it to crumple in my hands, letting the ball of ice cream plop on the floor.
A kid started crying when he witnessed my failing moment just yesterday, and I felt terrible. Like I’d broken his heart.
I’ve made some progress this week, which makes me feel like a bona fide adult.
We turned in the rental car at a local drop-off center after Paige got off work a few days ago.
Then we went over to Mitchell’s Landing and circled the parking lot five times before we finally found an open spot.
The place is super busy, like all the time, and realizing that scared me to death, but I didn’t let her know that.
Paige clocked in and then took me to meet the owner, Misti.
She is as skinny as a rail, with bright-blonde hair and big brown eyes.
She looks about my mom’s age but was wearing the tiniest denim cutoff shorts I’d ever seen, with a white tank top that said Mitchell’s in red across the front of it, and red Converse on her feet.
My mother wouldn’t be caught dead in an outfit like that.
Paige didn’t lie about Misti hiring me either. The woman took one look at me and asked a single question.
“Do you have a criminal record?”
When I responded with a resounding, “Of course not,” she hired me on the spot.
That was all it took. I was shown a box of T-shirts that said Mitchell’s Landing on the back, in a variety of sizes and colors, and told I could pick two.
I threw on a black one—big mistake, it shows every drip and stain from the ice cream—and became an official employee, shadowing Paige for the rest of her shift, amazed at all the things she could do.
Tonight, Paige is working the order window while I’m attempting to scoop ice cream on my own—well, with the other girls scheduled with me.
Turns out, since Paige has worked at Mitchell’s for so many years, a lot of the employees look to her for direction when she’s on shift.
And after it takes me far too long to make a hot fudge sundae for a retired couple who want to share it, one of the girls—Kelcey—starts whining.
Loudly.
“Paige, oh my God, my granny can scoop ice cream faster than this girl, and that’s saying a lot. Can’t we find someone else to do it?”
My face goes hot at her basically insulting me in front of everyone, and I glare at her. Not that she’s looking in my direction.
“The best way to learn is to do it,” Paige singsongs as she goes breezing past us. “You’ve got this, Rachel!”
She even flashes me two thumbs up.
The other girls groan, leaning against each other and giggling, and I had no idea teenage girls could still bully me to this day. Not that they’re actually bullying me, but they know just how to make me feel insignificant.
You’re not cut out for this. You can’t even scoop ice cream.
I ignore the nagging, rude voice in my head and concentrate. My arm aches, as well as my hand and fingers, and when I lose yet another scoop of ice cream to the floor, Kelcey’s had enough of my antics.
“The line is getting really long. Let me take over.” She nudges me out of the way with her hip, and I have no choice but to scoot aside, embarrassed at my epic failure.
Kelcey scoops up ice cream like she was born to do it.
Like it is her God-given talent above all other things she’s capable of, and all I can do is stand here and watch her with equal parts fascination and admiration, distributing napkins and spoons to the customers as they’re getting rung up by the other girl who’s working the counter, Tara.
“Wow, I’m impressed,” I tell Kelcey when she hands a two-scoop cone to a preteen boy who came in with his parents. I swear he’s got actual heart eyes for her, but she’s not paying him any mind. “And you only just started working here this summer?”
“Actually, this is my second summer.” She studies me and, I guess, decides to take pity on my feeble attempts. “Let me show you a few tips, okay?”
She dunks the scooper in hot water so it slides through the frozen ice cream more easily. She shows me how to hold the scooper a certain way so it doesn’t put so much strain on my hand and fingers, and I’m so grateful when I figure it out, I could almost hug her.
“I’m sure your arm has ached like a bitch since you started,” Kelcey observes, Tara nodding in agreement.
“It aches right now.” I try to shake it out, but that seems to make it feel worse, so I hold my right arm with my left hand cupped around my elbow, wondering how people do this sort of thing day in and day out.
And by “this sort of thing,” I mean work.
Hard manual labor is no joke, and I have a newfound respect for anyone who completes difficult tasks and somehow makes them look easy.
We go through a run of customers, one right after the other, and I dive in to help, loving how Kelcey cheers me on when I manage to scoop the ice cream onto a cone and it sticks.
It’s the little things.
An hour later, we finally get a lull, which allows us to clean up the ice cream counter and the dining area.
I wipe down the counters and take the empty ice cream cartons out to the dumpster in the back, bagging them and tossing them inside before I drop the lid, checking to ensure it’s firmly closed.
Bears roam the area and love to dumpster dive at night.
Kelcey told me a story about how she came upon a bear a few weeks ago, trying to get into the dumpster when she walked out to toss the trash, and I about dropped to the floor.
No, thank you. That is the last thing I want to happen during this summer job adventure. I’m up for new experiences but not something that scary.
I’m walking back inside, heading for the ice cream counter when the door opens.
Kelcey and Tara stand at attention for whoever just walked inside, the two of them sharing an excited look before they crowd together, and I have no choice but to remain slightly behind them and to the left, noting the matching wide smiles on their shiny, smooth teenage faces.
Ugh, they’ve got great skin for teenagers. Better than I ever had. Of course, I wasn’t shopping at Sephora when I was ten, so they definitely have an advantage.
“Captain McKinney.” Kelcey’s voice drips with a flirtatiousness that impresses me, considering her age, and then I realize she said the word captain.
My heart in absolute free fall, I pop my head around her to see Wyatt McKinney, in the flesh, standing in front of the ice cream counter, a little girl clad in a bright-pink one-piece swimsuit in front of him, with her hands against the glass case as she checks out all the flavors.
Oh my God. The last person I want to see. It’s been a little less than a week since the night he was inside of me in my stupid rental car. The ultimate fuck-it moment of my life has just walked in, and I’m going to have to talk to him. Serve him ice cream while looking like an incapable idiot.
My gaze drops to the little girl, who’s now got her face pressed against the glass too.
That has to be his daughter. And of course, he looks amazing.
Dressed casual in a pair of black swim trunks, a red T-shirt, and a backward black baseball cap.
My heart turns over at seeing him, and I realize I never gave enough credit to that backward-hat deal that I’ve heard some women go on about.
It’s sexy. Like, really sexy. I already know this man is sexy because I know he’s rather skilled with his mouth and tongue and oh. I know his dick size too. My entire face goes hot at the realization, and I want to die.
“Hi, girls.” Wyatt smiles at Kelcey and Tara, his gaze immediately shifting down to his daughter. “Pick out what flavor you want, Dot.”
“That one.” Dottie taps at the glass case with her index finger, pointing at the bright-pink bubblegum-flavored ice cream. A grumbly exhale leaves Wyatt, and she tips her head back, a pleading expression on her face. “Please, Daddy? It’s my favorite.”
“All right. You can get it.” He runs a hand over her wild golden-brown hair, smoothing it away from her cherub face. “But only a mini cup, okay?”
She sticks her lower lip out. “That’s not enough.”
“You can get a full scoop of chocolate chip,” he suggests, and Dottie shakes her head, her expression turning stubborn.
“No. I want bubblegum.”
“We’ll take a scoop of bubblegum in the mini cup,” Wyatt says to Kelcey. She’s about to grab the scooper when I hip check her like she did to me, gently moving her out of the way so I’m the one now standing in front of Wyatt.
May as well face my fears head-on, am I right? I’m trying to become a new woman.
His gaze finds mine, and he blinks, rearing his head back a little. “Rachel.”
Oh shit. He does not sound thrilled to see me.
“Hi, Wyatt.” I dunk the scooper in the cup of hot water I refilled not even a few minutes ago and grab an empty mini cup before I start digging into the neon-pink ice cream. “Is this your daughter?”
I can feel Tara’s and Kelcey’s curious gazes on me, but I ignore them.
“I’m Dottie!” She jabs her thumb at her chest, her face open and friendly. “Who are you?”
“I’m Rachel.” I smile at her, adding a little extra ice cream to the cup, though I know Wyatt isn’t going to appreciate it. Why’s he so against bubblegum ice cream anyway? It’s delicious. “And here you go.”