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“Cone or tub?” I ask. This is the real personality test.
He shrugs. “I like either but I’m getting a tub today. Cones are a summer thing.”
“Correct answer,” I grin. “Except cones are a never. They get so sticky!”
“What can I get for you folks?” The cashier shuffles across to the freezer, gesturing at the display. The couple pass behind us, giggling. They both got cones. My respect for them hits rock bottom.
“I’ll get a scoop of peach and another of lemon, please. In a tub.”
“Great choice.” Expertly, the cashier creates two balls of gelato in two swift moves and slides my tub over the counter, putting a small plastic spoon in with a flourish. “And for your gentleman?”
The cashier turns his gaze to Joel and I feel my cheeks heat up. I was already warm, but a flush settles inside my chest at the idea that we look like a couple. If Joel is at all flustered like I am, he doesn’t show it, his usual cool demeanor front and center.
“I’ll take two scoops, hazelnut and walnut, in a tub to go. And we’ll have two white hot chocolates with a splash of cinnamon syrup.”
“Coming right up.” The cashier sets to work again, and when he turns his back to pour our drinks, I finally get the nerve to turn back to Joel.
“He thinks we’re a couple,” I hiss.
At this point, I’m considering hitting him with a lamp again because that’s the only thing I’ve ever seen Joel lose his cool over. He shrugs again like it’s no big deal. As if my heart isn’t racing in my chest. “So what? Just roll with it.”
I can’t formulate an argument quickly enough, so I drop it because the cashier turns back to us and reads our total. “Do you want to split it?”
“Yes,” I say.
At the exact same time, Joel says “No,” and taps his card so fast on the machine that I barely have time to protest it.
“Joel! No!” is all I manage to say, which I admit is not very eloquent.
I don’t take well to surprises. He should know that by now.
“Anna, yes. Come on, let’s go.” He grins at the cashier who gives him the same look he gave the other couple, a kind of fond, knowing shake of the head.
Joel hands me my drink and ushers me out of the store. I can’t even decide what emotion I’m feeling, so I let myself get herded back onto the street. I want to be angry. Just because he’s a billionaire, doesn’t mean he has to pay! But part of me almost feels giddy, like I’m a newborn foal running for the first time. Like this is the first time anyone’s ever been kind to me in my life. Which is obviously not true, but thinking about it, I can’t remember the last time anyone got me a gift.
I decide to go with anger instead. It’s easier. “What the hell was that for?”
“What?” Joel is preoccupied with trying to sip his drink without burning his mouth. He keeps going for it and wincing in surprise as if he doesn’t quite realize boiling water takes more than three seconds to cool. I let rage flood through me so it can stamp all over the affection.
“Why would you pay for both of us?”
“It wasn’t expensive,” he mumbles into the plastic lid of his cup. “It’s not a big deal.”
“I’m fully capable of paying for myself, you know. I’m not some peasant following you around in awe because you’re rich and I think you’ll do stuff for me. I didn’t ask you to pay. Why would you assume that you should?”
My tirade brings him to a halt on the street. Frowning, he lowers the cup from his lips which have turned red from the cold and the heat. “You think I paid because I think you’re average?”
It’s not what I’m expecting him to say. It’s gentle. Until three days ago, I would never have imagined that Joel Lockhart could be gentle. My mouth opens and closes like a goldfish.
“I paid because I wanted to treat my friend. That’s all. Guess I shouldn’t have assumed we’re friends.”
Never before have I seen a man so capable of looking utterly tragic. Joel’s shoulders droop and his face falls, a cloud of disappointment settling over him as he tries again to sip his drink, and again gets surprised by the temperature. I’ve been so busy trying to prove myself to him that I didn’t see how much he was trying to prove himself to me. He’s right. I am biased. And I don’t think I’m wrong to assume the worst of rich people as a general populous, but I can see now that I was so wrong to assume it of him.
I don’t think I can deny my crush on him anymore.
“We are friends,” I say. He lights back up again, a golden retriever wagging his tail because someone called him a good boy. When was the last time anyone told this man that he was worth more than his money? “Just… ask next time. Okay?”
“Okay.”
