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“Don’t you know that’s not how you order ice cream on a date?”
His eyebrows disappear under the gigantic hat. “There’s a right and a wrong way to order ice cream?”
“There’s a right and a wrong way to do everything, dude. But yes, there is definitely a right way to order ice cream when you’re trying to impress a woman.”
“And that is?”
We’ve finally reached the front of the line, so instead of explaining, I ask, “Can I show you how it’s done?”
“By all means.” He waves his hand in obvious invitation.
I check out the board and the myriad flavor options and combinations offered there. Then I turn back to study Kian. Finally, I say, “I think he would like a double scoop of turtle cheesecake and chocolate cherry chip in a chocolate dipped waffle cone.” I glance back at Kian, who is staring at me a little wide eyed at this point. “And he wants that topped with hot fudge, whipped cream and two cherries.”
“Two cherries?” the girl behind the counter repeats.
“Actually, make it half a dozen. He likes to have lots of choices..”
Beside me Kian chokes a little on thin air, but he doesn’t say another word until she hands him his cone and spoon.
“Thanks so much,” he says, shooting the girl the grin that’s dropped at least a million panties. “My girlfriend would like a triple scoop—”
I laugh. “A triple?”
“What can I say? You’re a greedy one.”
I start to tell him that I am very definitely not greedy, but the wicked look in his eyes reminds me of this morning in my kitchen—and just how many times I begged him to make me come.
Okay, so maybe I am a little greedy…
“What would you like on the triple?” the girl asks me.
“She doesn’t get a vote,” Kian says as takes a scoop of ice cream and slowly, deliberately licks it off his spoon.
He’s just fucking with me now, messing around and probably trying to embarrass me. And the truth is, if any other guy did that, it would probably gross me out. But somehow Kian manages to look crazy hot doing it—even with the hat, the colored zinc and the ridiculous sunglasses.
At first I think it must just be me—considering how many times he’s used that tongue on me in the last thirty-six hours—but a quick glance at the ice cream dipper tells me Kian’s sex appeal transcends his ridiculous disguise. The girl can’t be much over eighteen, but she looks like she’s ready to drop her panties for him too, right here in the middle of the ice cream shop.
“You’re ridiculous,” I hiss at him, crossing my arms over my chest to hide the sudden perkiness of my nipples.
He just grins, then turns back to the girl and says, “I’ve finally decided. My girl wants a scoop of butter pecan, a scoop of mocha fudge and a scoop of white chocolate raspberry in a Butterfinger-dipped waffle cone, covered in whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles. And absolutely no cherries.”
“That’s mean,” I tell him with a little pout.
But he just grins. “How am I supposed to get you to lick my cone if I don’t have something over here to tempt you with?”
“You’re disgusting,” I say with a roll of my eyes. “Besides, it’s going to take more than cherries to get me to lick your cone.”
“We’ll see.”
It takes five minutes for her to build the monstrosity Kian ordered for me, but when it’s finally done, we sit down at one of the corner tables to eat.
“So,” he asks after a second, “is there a method to this madness? Or is the goal just to make the craziest concoction you can think of?”
“I think that depends on the person.” I take a bite of mocha fudge. “Is that what you did for me?”
“Does it feel like that’s what I did?”
“Dude, I’m not one of your subjects. I don’t have to bow and scrape—which means you don’t get to ask all the questions here.”
