Epilogue Pickle Ice Cream
Epilogue
Pickle Ice Cream
Poppy
Three Years Later
“I thought chefs always tasted their food.”
I’m teasing, but I know how seriously Jack takes that edict, so I’m not surprised when he rolls his eyes. He leans against
the counter of our finally, completely, no-changes-now renovated kitchen, giving the ice cream maker a disgusted scowl. I
laugh and look at Gator, who is perched on the counter, sniffing the air with gusto.
My hand cradles the gentle swell of my belly. Five months in, and what started as a rough pregnancy has blossomed into something
I feel confident about handling. It has helped immensely to have Julia’s advice, as well as Kiara’s; she’s a little further
along than I am. Chester just about bursts with pride whenever we see them.
“Even I have limits,” Jack says. “And pickle ice cream is a hard limit.”
Still, he holds out a spoon for me to taste.
Over the course of my pregnancy, I’ve wanted some truly unholy combinations of food.
Nutella on steak. Peanut butter with fish sticks.
Gallons of tomato sauce—just tomato sauce—but only from one specific canned brand, to Jack’s chagrin.
He’s handled it as well as a newly minted Michelin-starred executive chef can be expected to, whipping up dishes in the middle of the night, or else hustling to the nearby 24/7 gas station for packaged food that’s probably lowering my IQ and the baby’s with each bite.
He’s been wonderful every step of the way, and I wouldn’t expect anything less from my husband. After three years of running
Fable, two years of marriage, and a green light on the baby conversation leading to me conceiving faster than either of us
expected—Jack, with his shameless breeding kink, was smug about that—I know that he’s always going to be by my side.
I lick the ice cream off the spoon with exaggerated concentration. Despite the grossed out look on Jack’s face, he can’t quite
hide his interest as he watches me. If I thought he wanted me before I got pregnant, I was just scratching the surface. It’s
a good thing we finally finished the renovations to the house we bought last winter, because if contractors were still tromping
throughout it at will, we’d have scarred someone by now. I can’t walk into the laundry room without blushing. Or our hall closet. Or the nursery-in-progress.
That last one is going to be a bit of a problem.
“It’s delicious. This needs to go on the menu for Fable 2.0.”
“Absolutely not.”
I hum as I lick the rest of the ice cream. “It’s salty. It’s sweet. It’s tangy. Seriously, it’s not gross at all. Of course
you can make even the weirdest ice cream flavor ever work.”
“I have zero faith in your palate right now.”
“Try it. Just one lick.”
I should know what’s coming for me, judging by the gleam in his eyes, but I still squeal when he pulls me against him, hands
cupping my ass, and licks right into my mouth. I playfully shove at him, gasping with laughter as his hands skim up my sides,
underneath my shirt. “Jack! My dad is going to be here any second.”
“We’ll just have to hurry.”
“I’m not having this baby for another four months. The Delray location is opening in two weeks.”
We were going to wait until after we got settled with the baby to open Fable’s sister site, but the perfect property became available right after we learned I was pregnant, and we couldn’t say no.
It’s been a whirlwind, but a fun one. Especially with my father’s excited (and quite generous) investment.
Whenever I stop and think about the way my life was before, and how it’s going now, an irrepressible wave of emotion breaks over me.
@itspoppywinfield has been retired. I’m so lucky to have found a career I love, not to mention one I can do with my husband.
Our passions feed each other. Our lives are entwined in every way, and neither of us would want it to be different.
Jack showers my neck with kisses. His teeth find my earlobe, sucking lightly. “It’s going to be perfect.”
“I know, darling.” I sink my hand into his hair, shivering with delight at the friction of his beard. “But you’re talking
to the project manager.”
“The project manager,” he says, kissing me with hands on either side of my face, “but also”—another kiss—“my perfect”—kiss—“little
wife.”
The doorbell rings. Jack groans out an especially dirty curse. I smother my laughter as I scoot away from the counter to answer
the door. Before I can get very far, Jack catches me, gently cradling me against his chest. He holds up the weight of my belly
with a firm hand. My toes practically curl with delight. I crane my neck around to look at him. As always, I feel a little
stab of pride at the reminder that he’s mine. I wear his ring; he wears mine. It’s his baby I’m carrying. Our child that we’ll
raise, surrounded by love and family and travel—not to mention lots of good food.
“Don’t forget that we’re going to dinner with Chester and Ki later,” I murmur. Another feature of our lives that I wouldn’t
trade for anything: We’re down the street from our best friends. We can’t wait to tell our babies that they practically met
in the womb.
“I know.” Jack brushes my hair behind my ear, kissing my pulse. He bites it gently. “You know I love you, right?”
I ignore the second ring of the doorbell to turn in his arms. His eyes are glass green today, threaded with gold. They’re
as intense as ever, but softer now. Trusting. I haven’t said this aloud to anyone, but I hope the baby has his eyes.
“Always, Chef.”