Worth Melting For (Sleighbell Springs #8)

1. Cameron

CAMERON

I’ve spent the last ten years reclaiming August fourteenth.

It was the worst day of my life. But when I discovered that my least favorite day of the year was also National Creamsicle Day, I began a self-made PR campaign to turn August fourteenth around.

Now I’m too busy to remember why I hated it in the first place.

“He’s not coming,” I said to my brother over the phone as I glared at the blank wall of my shop, like it had personally wronged me. “I’ve tried texting, calling, emailing… and nothing.”

“You could dispute the charge on your credit card,” Mark offered.

“Maybe…” I could have if I’d paid with a card in the first place, but I’d used Cash App at the artist’s insistence. I wasn’t going to tell Mark that, though. “Creamsicle Day is in two weeks. I’m not sure where I’ll find another artist in time.”

For months, I’d been telling everyone in town that I’d be unveiling a mural on Creamsicle Day.

I was trying so hard to prove that Frosty’s Creamery could be a new town institution—most small businesses failed before the five-year mark, but I was still here.

However, the muralist I’d hired was nowhere to be found.

The pit in my stomach told me he’d run off with my money instead.

“We’ll figure something out, Cameron.” Mark was always so sure about everything.

“Yeah,” I said, flipping my baseball cap backward. “I’ve got lots to do here, so I’ll let you go.”

The wall situation would have to wait; I had more immediate problems to solve. Opening a storefront for my family’s dairy farm was a dream come true, but the to-do list never ended.

I pulled the first set of molds out of the freezer, which was filled with vanilla ice cream bars.

These bars served as the base for my famous creamsicles, and I had to make hundreds of them in the next two weeks.

The creamsicles were one of my best-selling products during the summer months at Frosty’s, alongside Santa’s sundaes—cookies and milk, of course—and eggnog soft serve.

But I only made the whole rainbow of creamsicle flavors twice a year: for the annual Pride Parade and Creamsicle Day.

If the Pride versions looked a little extra phallic, well, that was just a coincidence.

The first sherbet base, strawberry, was chilling in a large stainless steel bowl. It was a delicate balance, ensuring the perfect layer of sherbet encased the vanilla ice cream. I had my work cut out for me, which is why I came to the shop early every morning to work without interruptions.

At eleven sharp, I left the tiny back kitchen and walked through the cozy storefront.

The booths were lined with icy-blue vinyl, and the walls above them had framed photos of my favorite dairy cows, Dasher and Vixen.

The other wall was still bare, but I had big dreams. I unlocked the front door and flipped our open sign to face outward.

I was thankful we didn’t get as many tourists during the summer months, because I could not handle it today.

I knew better than to trust some artist from Philly with a large social media presence.

Yet, I’d handed him three thousand dollars and let him run off with it, like they always did.

It was why I stopped giving things I cared about to out-of-towners a long time ago.

An August fourteenth many years ago, actually.

But we weren’t thinking about that.

Instead, we were pasting on a half-smile and stepping behind the counter as the first customers of the day came in for their weekly milk run.

Two fridge cases filled with milk, cream, and eggnog were tucked into the corner, awaiting them.

Soon, kids hyped up on soft-serve sugar were weaving and giggling between the tables as their parents sipped eggnog milkshakes from a corner booth.

These were the people that mattered, my neighbors, the ones who stayed when the Christmas lights went out, and the snow melted.

I wanted them to know me for my incredible ice cream, not my failures.

The next time the bell jingled, it was my summer employee, Gwen Cane.

She was a seventeen-year-old spitfire—a lifesaver and a pain in my ass.

I couldn’t afford a full-time employee, but hiring a teenager to work a few evening hours was enough for now.

Gwen worked five nights a week in the summer and weekends during the Christmas rush.

“Yo, bossman,” Gwen called as she rounded the corner. “Just gonna drop my backpack in a locker.”

I rolled my eyes. “How many times do I have to tell you to call me Cameron?”

“At least one more time.” She was still cackling when she emerged from the back room, backpack-free and tying on a pink apron. She had a ball cap with our logo on it, just like me, and a long blonde ponytail. “Hey, wasn’t that mural guy supposed to start today?”

I rubbed my hands over my face. Gwen’s eyes lit up, as if she was sensing a story, but I wasn’t about to get into the details with my teenage employee.

“Gossip’s not on the menu today…”

“…would you like to sample the soft serve instead?” Gwen rolled her eyes and parroted the saying I found myself repeating far too often around here. “You seem like you need a break, bossman. You’re grumpier than usual.”

“I’m going to strangle you.”

“Will I get workman’s comp?” Gwen smiled and shoved me away from the register.

“Fine, fine.” I lifted my hands in surrender. “Be back in fifteen.”

Truth was, I needed Gwen’s peppy energy at the register because I was scaring the children with my unintentional Grinch impression.

I stepped into the back alley and leaned against the brick wall.

There were puffy cartoon clouds in the sky.

A wrapping paper tumbleweed rolled down the alley on a gust of wind, but I stopped it with my boot and tossed it into the dumpster.

Was it strange to see Merry Christmas wrapping paper in August? Not in Sleighbell Springs.

My phone buzzed with a text from my mom: a photo of her and my stepdad in front of the sign for Great Smoky Mountains National Park. They were living up their retirement in an old RV, moving around the country with the sun and leaving the farm in my brother’s capable hands.

Mom

Camping here for a week, then we’ll be homeward bound! Can’t wait to see my babies!

Cameron

You have a baby stashed somewhere I don’t know about?

Ha ha ha. You will always be my baby.

But no, I meant the cows.

I chuckled as I slipped my phone into my pocket and popped back into the kitchen.

It had been a big scandal when my mom and stepdad got together, since my birth father owned a rival dairy farm.

Everyone judged my mom until it came out that my birth father was an alcoholic with a penchant for throwing furniture around.

I was only five when it happened, but I remembered the looks and the whispered conversations that hovered around us everywhere we went.

I loved my stepdad—so much that Mark and I had taken his last name—but I never wanted to be at the center of that again.

While Gwen was at the register, I planned to spend some extra time in the back with the creamsicles. I was happy to lose myself in a task that would take my whole focus until closing time. When I left, I’d go out the back door and make Gwen lock up, so I didn’t have to look at that damn blank wall.