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“Deadly,” Conrad replies, and there’s an edge of challenge in his tone. “Brielle wants it.”
“Fine. But this is ridiculous.” Levi throws his hands up.
I giggle. I can’t help it; the sound bubbles out of me. “Ice cream isn’t ridiculous. It’s essential,” I declare, my words slurred but my conviction solid as a rock.
Conrad chuckles, the sound of dark chocolate and sin. “You heard the lady.”
20
LEVI
The neon glow of the ice cream parlor sign flickers. As I stop the car, Conrad’s phone begins ringing. He glances at the screen and curses under his breath. “Can you handle her?”
“Conrad, I—” I start, but he’s already stepping out to take the call, the door closing with a soft thud that seals me inside with Brielle.
“Levi…” Her voice, a sultry whisper, curls around my name. She’s leaning over the center console, her lips parted in a pout that beckons me closer. I can smell the intoxicating mix of alcohol on her breath and the faint scent of her floral perfume. It’s dizzying, the way she looks at me through those heavy-lidded eyes—like she’s seeing straight through to every hidden desire I’ve pushed away.
“Please…” she begs, hands finding the fabric of my shirt, pulling me toward her with a drunken determination. “Let’s get ice cream. With you. I want it…with you.”
I swallow hard, the weight of responsibility pressing down on me even as something else stirs deep within—a wild craving I’m not supposed to have. I tell myself she’s just drunk, that she doesn’t mean it, but then there’s the heat of her body so close to mine, the softness of her skin where it brushes against my arm, and the way her gaze holds mine through the rearview mirror with an intensity that burns.
“Alright, Brie,” I relent, my voice rough with a cocktail of frustration and arousal. I slip from her grasp, pushing the car door open and stepping into the night air. It’s cooler outside, but the heat follows me, radiating off Brielle’s skin as I reach back in to help her out.
I shrug off my pullover, the fabric heavy with warmth from my body. Brielle shivers in her seat, her eyes wide and glossy from the alcohol still coursing through her veins.
“Here,” I say, draping the jacket over her bare shoulders. “Can’t have you parading around in just your underwear.”
Underwear I’m trying hard not to look at.
A rosy blush spreads across her cheeks, a stark contrast to the paleness of her skin. She murmurs a thank you that’s barely audible. The jacket drowns her smaller frame, but it’s a necessary shield against the night and prying eyes.
“Levi,” she whispers, looking up at me with those damn vulnerable doe eyes. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.”
She nods, a clumsy gesture, and makes to step out of the car. But her feet tangle, and she stumbles, a quiet gasp slicing through the air. Instinct kicks in, and I catch her by the elbow, steadying her before she can hit the ground. My grip is firm, yet I’m careful not to squeeze too hard, aware of how fragile she seems right now.
“Easy there,” I warn, my voice low. Every part of me screams to pull her close, to protect her from more than just the unforgiving pavement.
“I’m okay,” she insists, though her wobbly legs betray her words. I don’t trust it, not one bit. So I slide an arm around her waist, guiding her toward the ice cream shop with slow, deliberate steps. She leans into me, her head resting against my chest, and I feel her sigh flutter against my skin.
The bell above the door chimes a lazy greeting as we step into the cool hush of the ice cream shop. The scent of waffle cones and sugary sweetness wraps around us, a stark contrast to the night’s earlier chaos. Brielle’s eyes, wide and shimmering with a childlike wonder, dart across the rainbow of flavors showcased behind the glass.
“Levi,” she breathes out, her voice a melody laced with indecision, “they all look so good. How do I pick just one?”
“Start with what you know you like,” I suggest, my gaze fixed on her as much as the choices before us. Her lips part, then press together in concentration, the tip of her tongue peeking out as though she can already taste the ice cream.
“Chocolate…no, strawberry! Wait—mint chocolate chip?” She’s a whirlwind of whimsy, each option tempting her more than the last.
I can’t help but sigh, the sound rougher than I intend, as frustration nips at my patience. She’s impossible—and yet, I find myself drawn to every facet of her unpredictability.
“Okay, enough,” I decide, taking the reins before she can spin herself into another round of indecisiveness. I point to one of the tubs, creamy and speckled with beans. “Vanilla bean. Classic, never disappoints.”
Her smile erupts, bright and blinding as the summer sun. “You know me so well,” she says, and there’s an innocence in her gratitude that punches straight through my chest.
“Two scoops of vanilla bean,” I tell the disinterested teen behind the counter, who barely looks up from his phone. He shuffles to get our order, and I take the opportunity to study Brielle.
There’s a flush to her cheeks, a sparkle in her eyes that makes her seem almost otherworldly. And it hits me then—she’s under my skin, and I’m in way too deep.
