29. Soft Serve Conversations
Soft Serve Conversations
Y ou,” Amelie says the second she opens the door to her apartment, “are going to love this.”
“I am?” I ask, shutting the door behind me and toeing off my shoes.
She’s already strutting toward the kitchen. “Ooh, yes. Yes, you absolutely will.”
The kitchen lights glow warm, reflecting off the polished countertops. Several pots simmer on the stove, the air thick with sugar and something fruity.
“Don’t worry, I didn’t start without you—just prepping.”
I watch her move from one pot to the other. It’s good to have her back, even only for the day.
“Hey, where did you end up last Friday?”
Shit, the bachelor-slash-bachelorette party. I figured she’d assumed like everyone else that I left with Charlotte. I drop onto a stool next to the island. “Oh...just, with that woman. Took her home.”
A loud snort. “No you didn’t.”
What . . . “Yeah, I did.” Hell, for once I’m not lying.
“I’m sure she sucker-punched you too, huh?” she says, pointing at my eye.
“I was a little too drunk and walked into a door.”
Lies, lies, lies. I fucking hate this.
“Uh-huh.”
Eager to change the topic, I ask, “You’re leaving tomorrow?”
“So early it’s basically tonight.” She stirs one of the pots, releasing a cloud of steam that smells like ripe strawberries and vanilla. “I’m shooting again tomorrow, but I’ll be back this weekend for the wedding.”
“All right,” I say, pushing to my feet and making my way to her side. If this is the only moment we get just the two of us, we’ll make the best out of it. “What are we making?”
She smirks at me, eyes alight. “Only the most universally beloved dessert in history.”
I scan the counter—heavy cream, vanilla, milk, sugar. A few scattered eggs, a bowl of melted chocolate, a bottle of something dark and syrupy.
“Ice cream?” I guess.
“Ice cream,” she confirms with a victorious nod.
“You’re not usually a dessert person.”
She tosses a spoon into the sink. “True. And I know what you’re thinking. Ice cream is hard to get just right. If you nail it, people will say ‘Big deal, you know how to make ice cream,’ but if you screw it up...” She gives me a look of mock pity. “‘You can’t even make ice cream ?’”
“Oh, yeah. That’s exactly what I was thinking.”
She wags a spatula at me. “But wait till you try this. I swear you’ve never had ice cream this good before. And no machine needed, though...” She glances toward the corner of the kitchen, where her sleek, high-end ice cream maker sits, gleaming under the light. “It’s better if you do have one.”
She turns back to the stove, stirring another pot. The scent of dark chocolate blooms through the air, rich and bittersweet.
“Where did you learn it?”
“One of the contestants. And he’s a kid, Aaron. Twenty-one. Can you believe? An incredible chef—I one hundred percent want to hire him after the show ends.”
A grin tugs at my lips. “So I take it you’re glad you said yes to this gig then?”
She dips a spoon into the pot and lifts it to her lips.
“Very much. I’m learning a lot about my dad too.
” Her face is shadowed with nostalgia. “One of his old chef friends told me he once went to Italy, tried this pineapple cake— Torta Mimosa —and completely fell in love with it. He insisted on having it for his wedding cake, careless of the fact that my mom was allergic to pineapple.” She shakes her head, amused.
“Apparently, someone reminded him a week before the wedding, and he recreated the entire recipe using kiwi instead. Spent every waking second perfecting it.”
I let out a low whistle. “Sounds like food was the love of his life.”
“It really was.” Her eyes settle on the saucepans. “Tell me about you. What’s new?”
“Actually, Josie’s back.”
Her eyes go comically wide. “She is? Since when?”
“A couple of days.”
“Aaron, that’s . . . that’s amazing!”
“I hope so,” I say. I’m feeling positive, but I’m not naive. “She’s staying at the house right now, so we’ll have to talk. Find a solution.” I shrug. “But Sadie’s mom is back. That’s all that matters for now.”
Amelie walks closer and squeezes my hand over the island before rushing back to the stove. “And how’s your first gig going?”
The scent of the fourth pot curls into the air.
Cherries.
Deep, syrupy cherries.
Delicious, addictive cherries.
A roar of heat works through my chest. “It’s... It’s going well.”
Amelie freezes mid-stir. “Uh-oh. Is it?”
Shit. Poker goddamn face , Aaron. “Yes. The client is... something . But being paid to cook is a great feeling.”
“Not regretting your career path yet, then?”
“Hell nah. I’m at home.”
We exchange a smile, one charged with silent understanding. Cooking is home. The smells, the sounds, the way ingredients transform under careful hands—it’s the only thing that always feels certain.
“Well,” she says, snapping her fingers, “let’s get to work. We have ice cream to make.”
I join her, and we quickly fall into an easy rhythm—whisking, stirring, tasting. Amelie guides me through the steps, explaining how cooking the fruit intensifies the flavor, how a splash of balsamic makes the cherries sing.
The kitchen fills with the scent of sugar and cream, the churn of the ice cream maker humming in the background. When it’s finally ready, she lifts a spoonful to my mouth.
And holy shit, it’s heaven—rich, creamy, bursting with flavor.
I groan, licking my lips.
“Told you,” Amelie leans against the counter, pleased.
“This is insane.” I let my arms hang loosely at my sides, at a loss for words.
“It’s totally going on the menu at Daisy. Maybe with a nice crumble.”
I point my spoon at her. “And a soft brioche.”
“Like my?—”
“—blueberry one!” We say it at the same time, voices overlapping.
She huffs out an exhilarated laugh, eyes bright. “You might be the only person who gets this.”
“I do get it.” This ice cream isn’t just dessert. It’s something more. A poem of flavors, each bite a little piece of happiness that lingers after it melts.
Amelie grabs two bowls and fills them, sliding one across the island toward me. We sit, comfortable in the silence, letting the sweet coldness dissolve on our tongues.
“So, you want me to tell you how I know you’re lying?”
I tense. “Wh-what?”
“About the bachelor party?” she teases. “You leaving with that woman?”
It feels like I’m on my way to a heart attack, but I nod, casual. “Uh-huh.”
“Because I hear there’s a new woman in your life, and I think you’re pretty monogamous.”
I choke on my spoonful, nearly inhaling the ice cream. Grabbing the closest napkin, I cough into it, eyes watering.
How the hell does she know about Charlotte?
Kyle and Logan are the only people she knows who’ve seen her. Well, besides Sadie, and it’s not like my daughter has been gossiping with Amelie. Logan might have mentioned something, but I seriously doubt he would.
It’s gotta be him.
“Kyle?” I ask, voice still rough.
“The new woman in your life is Kyle?”
I give her a deadpan look. “You know what I mean.”
“No one told me,” she says, smirking. “But thank you for confirming.”
Jesus, seriously? That’s a preschooler trick.
“You’re lucky your naiveness is endearing.” She smacks her lips. “I guess this explains why you didn’t have time to answer your friend’s texts.”
I glance down, embarrassed. “Sorry about that. I?—”
“I’ll forgive you if you tell me about her.”
There’s nothing I’d love more, but I can’t tell her anything before I make sure Charlotte’s on board.
This is as much my secret as it is hers.
And, yes, I’m also scared shitless. I know this only goes one direction: with me out of her life.
Out of a job, and possibly a brother too.
So I bite the inside of my cheek, hating the lie as it comes out.
“We’re still figuring it out. Nothing much to say. ”
“Mmhmm.”
“We’re keeping it under wraps.”
“Because of Sadie?”
“No, actually, Sadie met her.”
Her spoon pauses halfway to her mouth. “She did?”
“Yeah. It wasn’t planned. It just happened.”
Amelie leans in slightly, studying me. “And?”
And of course, she’s amazing with her.
I shrug. “Sadie’s Sadie. She gets along with everyone.”
“So why the secrecy?”
Eyes stuck to the ice cream, I hesitate. “Like I said, it’s casual.”
“Oh. Sure. Okay.”
I narrow my eyes. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“ Amelie. ”
“It’s not my place.” She takes another bite, all innocence.
“Just say it.”
She grins. “Well...people who are having a casual thing certainly find the time to answer their friends’ texts.”
“That’s not—” I huff. “I’ve just been busy.”
She masks a chuckle with her hand. “Busy with a very non-casual woman,” she teases.
“We haven’t even been on a single date,” I insist, trying to convince her.
She gasps. “And you’re already this into her?”
When I glare, she raises her hands.
“Okay, okay. I’m letting it go.”
“Thank you.” I scrape the bottom of my bowl. “So what other flavors did you try?”
Amelie taps her spoon on her bottom lip. “Let me just say one thing.”
Oh boy. Here we go.
“You came into my life at the right moment.” Caught by surprise at the shift in her tone, I listen. “After my dad died, all I wanted to do was throw myself into cooking. Not the restaurant, not Ian’s business—just cooking. Rediscovering it from the basics, like I did with my dad when I was a kid.”
She beams. “And as much as I love my perfect husband, he doesn’t get this the way you do.
” She exhales a chuckle, but there’s nothing dismissive about it.
“He tries, really, but...to him, food is just ingredients mixed together.” Her smile lingers, then fades.
“Anyway, my point is...during the last year, you let me confide in you more than once. You told me about the loss of your father when you were a child. You made me feel better about my grief.”
“It’s the least I could do.”