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“But—”
“No buts. I don’t care if that but is, ‘But she doesn’t love me,’ tough. You invited that the moment you stuck an ice cream parlor sign on the shop next to hers. You saw a way to talk to her—she saw you whipping the rug out from under her feet.”
I sighed and rubbed my hand through my hair.
“I’m saying this as your mother because I love you, and love is tough sometimes.” She put her hands on the island and looked me in the eye. “If you love that girl—and I mean you really love her, Chase, then you’ll do whatever it takes to make her believe you again. And that includes telling her the goddamn truth, whether she loves you back or not. You got that?”
I swallowed because, yes, I got that.
“I said, you got that?”
I nodded. “I got it.”
“Good.” She straightened. “Remember this, son. There’s a fine line between love and hate, and sometimes, it ain’t even hate at all. It’s hurt.”
***
Rae had texted me late last night and told me not to pick her up the next day. Apparently, all she needed to do was sign for a delivery, and Sophie was taking her to the store.
Which was why, after I’d checked in at The Frozen Spoon and placed an order for the things we needed, I left Marnie in charge again with her best friend and went to the café.
Luckily for me, Jenna was heaving this morning. Tourists were starting to dribble into town, and I’d deliberately cut the opening hours of The Frozen Spoon. Instead of ten ‘til seven, we were now open until three. This meant I didn’t have to stand and talk to her and explain why I was ordering two coffees, four donuts, three slices of pie, and two bagels.
Not that I needed to explain. I saw the way her eyebrows had shot up at my order. I had a feeling that saying they were for my teen sister and her friend wouldn’t have been a believable story.
Jenna had packed each pastry into its own individual bag, the donuts into one bag, and each piece of pie into a small triangular box. She’d put them all into one big bag, so all I needed to carry was the coffee tray and rest the bag handles over my arm.
The door to Best Served Cold was shut when I got there. I could hear music inside, and there were lights on, so I knocked before I opened the door.
Rae was up on the counter wearing tiny denim shorts, a tight tank, and a paintbrush in her hand. She turned her head and as soon as she saw me, her eyes widened. “Um.”
“What the hell are you doing up there?”
“Painting?” she offered, holding up the brush. “I put the steps there, look.” She pointed down with the brush, and a glob of paint fell onto the floor. “Whoops. Shit.”
With a sigh, I put down my peace offering and went to grab a cloth to wipe it up. “Again, what the hell are you doing up there?”
“Oh my God, it’s a broken toe. I didn’t dislocate my hip. I have long legs—I can reach the steps if I’m careful.”
I knew she had long legs. They were distracting me right fucking then.
“Three days ago, I watched you trip over your own doorstep. Do you know how to be careful?”
“I practiced five times and only slipped once.” She put the brush in the tray. “This is why I told you I only had a delivery.”
“You lied?”
“No, I had a delivery, and then decided to do another coat of paint.” With not a lot of finesse, she flattened her hands on the counter and without fucking looking, reached her left leg back and down toward the steps.
She missed them by an inch.
I darted forward and grabbed her waist, stopping her from falling flat on her back on the hard floor. “See,” I said into her ear. “This isn’t careful.”
Both feet firmly on the floor, she shivered. She stepped away from me, flattening her hands against her stomach. “Um, thank you.”
“For saving your life? You’re welcome.” I grinned at her. “Aren’t you lucky I stopped by?”
“Define lucky.” She sighed and met my eyes. “Why did you stop by?”
“Because I knew you’d do something stupid like that.” I motioned to the counter where she’d been painting. “Also, I brought food.”
She perked up like a puppy would at the mention of “walkies.” “You brought food?”
I rounded the counter to my bag of goodies. “And coffee.” I pulled her coffee out and slid it over to her. “I figured it was lunchtime, and if you were here, you’d be hungry. And, well, it’s a peace offering.”
Her dark eyebrow quirked up. “Peace offering?”
One by one, I pulled the boxes and bags out. “Bagels. Pie. Donuts.”
