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She opens her eyes and gives me the most innocent look. “Please what, Chance? I was just thinking this is the best thing I’ve ever tasted. In fact,” she pierces me with her gaze, “I can only imagine one other thing in the world that might taste better than this.”
Her gaze darts to my flanks, right where my cock is hidden by the kilt. She’s so focused, I glance back to ensure nothing is accidentally hanging out. Relieved that I’m fully covered, I look back at her to see a knowing smirk on her perfect face.
Perhaps she’s waiting for me to ask her what might taste better than ice cream. I don’t know what she’s planning on saying, but what I do know is that, by the bold look on her face, she’s going to embarrass the shit out of me.
“Want to know what that might be, Chance? What might taste better than panda-monium pecan?”
“No.” I shake my head, then shake it faster when it becomes clear she’s going to say it anyway. “No, Jo. I don’t want to know.”
Just as she’s about to respond, the bell dings. By the sour look on Jo’s face, there could only be one person walking through that door right now. Sure enough, when I turn to look, it’s Colonel Slater.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Jo
“Hello, Colonel,” Lucy says, her voice perky. “Welcome to Wild About Ice Cream. What can I get you?”
I consider sneaking out while he’s ordering, but can’t figure a way to do it without being obvious. He orders a scoop of Howlin’ Hazelnut and is about to leave when Chance politely asks if he’d care to join us.
Slater’s face lights up, as if he’d been hoping for an invite. Because there’s only one stool in the shop, his choice is to either sit on a regular chair and feel like a child at the adults’ table, or stand. He chooses to stand and bellies up to our table.
“Watch it.” I glance at the floor, indicating he should notice how the table is perched precariously on books. “This thing is none too sturdy.”
“Looks as if I’ll have to order a tall table and stools for this place.” He smiles, then takes a long lick of his cone and calls to Lucy, “Absolutely delicious. You’ve made some excellent choices for your menu.”
His attention back on us, he asks, “How are you two doing? I haven’t gotten a daily update from you in weeks.” He quirks an eyebrow in a way that makes me wonder if he’s scolding me or just interested in our progress.
I praise Chance. That’s easy to do. Although I don’t mention how good he’s gotten at circumventing the net nanny, I describe how well he’s doing with both JavaScript and Python, which are both notoriously tricky computer languages to learn.
“Nice to know.”
The conversation stalls. Chance makes an awkward comment about how much he enjoyedThe Lion Kingthe other night. Although he and I have wonderful talks, he’s not great at throwing the conversation ball back and forth with the commanding officer of the base.
Slater says, “Glad you liked it,” then sighs and pierces me with his steel gray gaze, and says, “Have you forgiven me yet, Josie?”
Josie, my childhood nickname. No one has used that in years. Calling me that must be a hard habit to break.
“Forgiven you? For what?” I ask innocently, as if I have no idea what he’s talking about.
Chance’s eyes are wide, his head tipped back in fear. He’s not oblivious to the tense subtext and must wonder if one or both of us is in trouble.
Slater’s mouth quirks, which is his only tell that he’s disappointed in my answer. I’m about to fluff it off, find a way to wiggle out of the conversation, and go back to the deep discussion of favorite movies and ice cream flavors when I see Chance’s expression out of the corner of my eye.
His gaze flicks between Slater and me as he waits for us to have the discussion we’ve obviously needed to engage in for a long time. As I consider if now is the time to finally dig up old wounds and put them to rest, one of Chance’s back hooves clops onto the floor, his tail swishes in that way I’ve learned means he’s agitated, and he says, “Why don’t I leave you two alone? There are several things back in my dorm—”
“No. Stay.” I reach to clutch his hand, heedless that Slater has noticed the casual act of intimacy.
His gaze wordlessly asks if I’m sure, and I nod in response.
“Have you forgiven me, Josie?” Slater asks again. A vertical line appears between his eyebrows as he adds sincerely, “I was a fucker.”
My head jerks back in surprise. Especially when I was younger, I imagined this conversation often. I’ve pictured it a thousand ways, but never with his bold admission that he was a fucker.
“When I married your mom, I was young and cocky and knew nothing about wives, much less kids. I was a shitty husband and a shittier father. I was lucky your mom didn’t divorce me sooner. She was good to me. Better than I deserved.”
I feel like a confused cartoon character whose head is turning in circles as I sort out what he’s saying.
“Uh, I don’t know what to say.”
