by Naima Simone
“How do you like that?” Leo grumbled. “I’m only your childhood best friend. But she gives you chocolate and is offered your love. No loyalty at all.”
The other woman’s husky burst of laughter bounced off the bright walls of the shop. The handful of customers sitting at the cute pastel circular tables must’ve been accustomed to Cecille’s bouts of hilarity, because they only glanced up with smiles, then returned their attention to their conversations and ice cream.
“I see the rumors about you didn’t lie,” Cecille said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, too.”
Some of Sydney’s delight dimmed, her old but familiar protective shields reinforcing themselves. “I’m almost afraid to ask what you’ve heard.”
“Oh, let’s see.” Cecille squinted, tilting her head to the side. “That you pulled the best pranks, could sell kryptonite to Superman and convince him it was for his own good, could charm a polar bear out of its fur coat, and that you were a beautiful girl who returned to town a gorgeous woman with a body to die for, even with a baby bump. And, woman, they were not wrong.” She wiggled her fingers directly over Sydney’s breasts, which, admittedly, were looking pretty fabulous in the halter-style top of her dress. “I’m fighting a severe case of envy right now. My two kids sucked the elasticity and perkiness right outta mine,” she grumbled.
A giggle tickled Sydney’s throat at Cecille’s wholly delightful inappropriateness. A freaking giggle. But even as she battled back more laughter, surprise cascaded through her. Pulled the best pranks? Charming? Beautiful? That’s what people had been saying about her? Disbelief crept under the trickle of shocked pleasure.
You don’t expect Cecille to tell you the mean things they’ve shared with her, do you?
No. No, she didn’t. And the knowledge endeared this effervescent, kind woman to her even more.
“Part of me feels like I’m being sexually harassed, and the other part is like, tell me more about how pretty the girls are. I’m so conflicted,” Sydney said, frowning in mock confusion.
“Eh, figure it out over ice cream.” Leo hooked an arm through Sydney’s, guiding her to the long glassed-in freezer that stretched across one side of the store.
On the adjoining wall, a tall refrigerated dessert case displayed beautiful sheet and multilayered cakes of all flavors and colors as well as different fruit pies. A free-standing counter containing several toppings, from sprinkles to syrup to candy, occupied one corner.
When she’d left Rose Bend, Mabel Lawson had owned this place, and it’d been nice but a little old-fashioned, offering nothing more exotic than vanilla, chocolate, strawberry and rocky road ice cream. Maybe butter pecan once in a while. Cecille had obviously renovated the space and transformed it into something straight out of a Willy Wonka fantasy.
Including so many flavors, Sydney’s stomach released an embarrassing rumble as she stared down at the variety of tubs.
“Forget what I said about my undying love,” she said. “I’m going to build a shrine and dance naked around it at midnight, sacrificing waffle cones in your honor.”
“What is happening here?” a new, younger voice asked.
Sydney looked up, spotting the newcomer stepping out of the double doors that led to the rear of the store. The pretty Black girl—well, not a girl, but huddling on the cusp of womanhood—glanced back and forth between Sydney and her employer, smiling.
That smile.
Even if Leo hadn’t tossed out a “Hey, baby sister!” Sydney would’ve guessed her identity.
An image superimposed over the girl’s features. Rounder cheeks, almond-shaped light brown eyes, a wide mouth, ebony skin and a tall frame of long lines and pointy angles. The cheeks had thinned, and the eyes and mouth were no longer too big for her face, and curves had softened the angles, but that smile with its tiny gap between the front two teeth remained the same.
“Florence?” Sydney whispered.
Leo’s younger sister grinned. “Hey, Sydney. Long time, no see.”
“Oh my God.” Sydney reached across the glass counter and Florence grasped her hands in hers. “You have to be, what? Eighteen or twenty now?”
“Eighteen.” She squeezed then released her. “Moe mentioned you were back. It’s so good to see you.”
Sydney laughed, still wading in disbelief. “You’re so...big.”
“True that.” Florence laughed. “Almost a decade will do that to a person.”
“Flo works here, and the brat that she is won’t bring home any of the goods. Some sister,” Leo teased.
“I’m just thinking of your waistline so you can catch that husband Moe has been on you about.” Snickering past her sister’s exaggerated groan, Flo turned back to Sydney. “What can I get for you?”
“God.” Sydney leered down at the multicolored vats of ice cream. “I don’t know what to choose.”
“Take your time, Sydney,” Cecille said to them, walking away to ring up a customer. “And it’s on the house.”
“I can’t—”
“Of course, you can’t. But as the owner, I can. It’s the welcome-home special. I just created it.” She flashed a smile and turned to her customer.
“Good Lord, is she different from Mrs. Lawson,” Sydney muttered, switching her focus back to the cold treats laid out before her in a smorgasbord.
Florence laughed. “Mrs. Lawson would’ve charged you for those samples. Cecille and her husband moved here from Ohio about five years ago. Nate is a math teacher over at the high school, and she bought this place from Mrs. Lawson, who retired to Georgia to live with her daughter and grandkids.” Flo slipped on gloves. “Decide what you’d like yet?”
“I’m going to go with one scoop of salted caramel and another scoop of strawberry cheesecake.”
“Great. Cone or cup?”
Sydney shot Florence a get real look. “Flo, don’t play with me. Cone. The waffle cone with the chocolate edging at the top.”
Florence chuckled. “Gotcha.”
As she moved toward the case to grab Sydney’s requested cone, the bell above the entrance tinkled. On instinct, Sydney glanced over her shoulder. Then barely managed to stifle a groan. And this one was not of pleasure.
She slowly turned, using those few seconds to shore up her defenses—both facial and emotional. Even as she fixed a polite smile on her face, she drew on every ounce of her I don’t give a fuck reserve. This particular cache she only drew on when forced to deal with Daniel’s uppity coworkers, salespeople who followed her around stores because she committed the crime of shopping while Black and, at times, her parents.
And now for Jenna Landon.
Daughter of the town’s former mayor. Spoiled. Mean girl.
To be fair, the willowy, beautiful redhead could’ve changed during the last eight years. People did that occasionally...
“Well, if it isn’t Sydney Collins. I’d heard you’d made your way back to town,” Jenna purred, the sneer in her voice as crystal clear as her blue eyes—and the glitter of spiteful glee in them.
Nope. Same ol’ stank attitude she’d always had.
“Good to see you, Jenna,” Sydney lied, voice carefully bland.
“You remember Karina, don’t you?” Jenna waved to the brunette standing next to her, a carbon copy of herself, complete with the same stylish blouses and shorts that hit their slender legs midthigh, and platform wedges. Even their pedicured toes were the same shell pink. “Karina Bloom.”
“I sure do.” Sydney nodded at the silent brunette. “Nice to see you again, Karina.”
How could she forget her? The other woman had trailed behind Jenna like a puppet attached to her master with strings. And it looked like that hadn’t changed either. How awful for her. Too bad Sydney couldn’t drum up any sympathy since it was Karina’s choice to be attached at the hip to Jenna.
“You, too,” Karina prac
tically cooed. “Even under these...circumstances.”
“Circumstances?” Leo echoed from beside Sydney, an edge creeping into her voice. God love her, Leo had always been ready to throw down on Sydney’s behalf. Didn’t matter who it was—mean girls, even Sydney’s parents.
Sydney arched an eyebrow, unobtrusively settling a hand on Leo’s arm. “Not sure what you’re referring to.”
“We heard about your,” Jenna’s gaze and voice dipped, the former landing directly on Sydney’s stomach, “state. And it’s so sad you have to go through this alone...and abandoned by your husband.”
Phony sympathy dripped from Jenna’s tone, and Sydney forced her face not to move. Ordered her lips not to tremble or allow the curve tilting them to slip. Even as she tightened her grip on Leo’s arm.
Even as her heart slowed to a deliberate, aching thud against her sternum. Even as a light buzz droned in her ears. Even as heat swept up her spine and spilled over her skin as if she’d stepped into a sauna.
Nope. She refused to give this chick the satisfaction of knowing she’d dented her shields.
But she had. God, she had.
“Did you two want to order something?” Florence asked from behind Sydney, anger thrumming in her voice.
“No, I know some of us don’t have to worry about our figures, but I’m very conscious of mine. And besides, I’m just visiting an old friend, here.” Jenna slid the dig in with a saccharine smile.
Sydney smothered the urge to grimace. Hard to believe that during their freshman year of high school, they’d actually been friends. Something happened that summer before their sophomore year, and Jenna had turned into such a mean girl she could’ve starred in her own movie. And Sydney had been one of her favorite targets.
“Really,” Leo drawled. “I wasn’t aware you had those.” She flicked a glance at Karina. “No offense, babe.”
Forcibly holding back a grin, Sydney twisted around and wiggled her fingers over the glass countertop. “Well, Florence. Give me Jenna’s scoop. I’m eating for two, after all. As for being alone and abandoned,” she returned her attention to Jenna and her sidekick with a half shrug, “I’m divorced, not Oliver Twist. And I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific about my husband. Which one are you talking about?”
Karina’s nose scrunched in disgust, her chin tipping up. “Exactly how many have you had?”
“Technically, one,” Sydney said, narrowing her eyes and tapping her bottom lip. “Because, legally, I could only marry one man. Polygamy laws, and all that.”
Leo frowned. “I thought you told me you didn’t marry any of them because you couldn’t possibly choose between the three?”
Sydney shook her head, tsking. “No, you remember. I married one, but I called the other two my husbands as well.”
“Riiiight.” Leo snapped her fingers. “I believe the kids nowadays call it a reverse harem situation.”
“Yes, but we called it love.” Sydney heaved an exaggerated sigh and tried not to loose a grin at the strangled bark of laughter behind her. “Anywho, I became pregnant—let this be a lesson to you about safe sex—and rather than tear my men apart with insecurity and jealousy over who fathered my child, I decided to leave for the good of us all.”
Applause broke out, and she glanced over her shoulder to wink at Cecille, who’d apparently finished ringing up her customer. Beside her, Flo choked on her laughter.
“You think you’re so smart,” Jenna sneered. “And yet, here you are, with your tail between your legs, back in Rose Bend when you declared to anyone who would listen that you’d never return. Like you were too good for us. Tell me, Sydney. What flavor is crow?”
“Chocolaty with a nougat center,” Sydney shot back. “And while this little welcome-home party is making me misty, I have some ice cream to chug. So, it was nice seeing you again, Jenna, Karina. It warms my heart to know some things never, ever change.”
“So sad. Some people could do with a change—for the better,” Jenna jabbed with a sniff, before spinning on her platform heels and striding from the store, her lapdog right on her heels.
“No, what’s sad is she came in here with the sole purpose of dumping crap on you,” Leo raged. “And it’s even more pathetic that at her age she’s still a bully. Not a good look. She’s only halfway decent to me and Flo because she’s been panting after Cole like a dog in heat.” She sniffed. “I’d disown my brother if he ever even thought about dating her. Right after I put a beating on him.”
“And then castrate him,” Flo added with a snarl.
Sydney snickered, ignoring the nosedive her stomach took toward her feet at the mention of perfect, beautiful, non-pregnant Jenna with Cole.
“Meh.” She waved a hand toward the exit, pretending that the women’s barbs hadn’t struck deep. Pretending that in those moments, she hadn’t been hurled back to high school when she’d been the target of petty taunts and cruel words from Jenna and other students just like her.
Pivoting to face the other women, she shook her head, injecting a flippancy into her voice that veered so far from the truth, her pants should be on fire—if she were wearing any.
“My mother has a word for someone like her—mataray,” Cecille added. “And I’m not talking about her angelic disposition.”
“You really have to feel compassion for people like Jenna,” Sydney said with a shake of her head. “Bullies aren’t just born, they’re created. Can you imagine the misery, anger and pain a person must feel to always be so unhappy and mean? What must it have been like for her growing up in a household where perfection wasn’t just expected, but anything less wasn’t tolerated? The burden to live up to that impossible standard must be exhausting. I can see people taking their hurt and rage out on others. I get it.”
Leontyne, Cecille and Florence stared at her, wearing matching incredulous expressions.
“You really believe all that?” Leo blurted out.
“Maybe.” Sydney flip-flopped her hand back and forth. “But truthfully? She’s a bitch.”
Barks of laughter burst from the other three women, and Sydney grinned.
“Like I said, mataray,” Cecille announced, still chuckling. “Just for that, your next two ice cream cones are on the house.”
“Welcome home, Sydney,” Florence murmured, before scooping ice cream out of the tubs.
Leo wrapped an arm around Sydney’s shoulders, squeezing her close. She smiled her thanks to her friend for the silent show of support, but inside...
Inside, she ached.
Because the encounter with Jenna showed her in vivid Technicolor that some people in this town wouldn’t allow her to live down her past, to be the woman she’d matured into.
Moving back here...had she given her baby a fresh start or a life sentence?
CHAPTER EIGHT
“OOF.”
“No, no. Not the ice cream!”
Even before he heard the husky voice lamenting her dessert, Cole identified the person he’d bumped into, the person whose arms he currently grasped. The sultry scent of orchids—sweet chocolate and spicy citrus—teased him, soft but heady with a natural heat that he suspected emanated from smooth, beautiful skin. He smelled that scent in his sleep, woke up to it still in his nose. As impossible as it was, the sweat on his own skin captured its essence, coating him in that special fragrance. So yeah, he knew whose firm breasts pressed against his chest, whose thighs grazed his...whose rounded belly nudged his lower abdomen before he even looked down.
Cole ground his teeth together, and a dull ache bloomed along his jaw. But he forced himself to breathe past the first ripple of panic, the initial dissonant vibration of pain.
Not Tonia. Not Mateo inside her.
He silently chanted the mantra to himself for what seemed like hours but was only seconds. Still, by the time he lowered his head, the red-tipped emotional claws had
gradually receded. Leaving bloody, ugly welts behind, but they’d receded.
Tight, dark brown curls grazed his throat and his chin. An almost too lush mouth tilted down at the corners. Espresso eyes narrowed on her outstretched arm and the hand that clutched a waffle cone with three scoops.
Whoa. Three scoops. Of different colors and flavors.
“What’s wrong?” he demanded.
The question caught them both off guard. Her head jerked back, her gaze locking with his. He hadn’t meant to ask, but that much ice cream? He recognized a DEFCON-3 situation when facing it.
“I have a mother and four sisters,” he explained. “I know emotional eating when I see it.”
A frown flirted with her eyebrows, but then she shrugged. “Fine,” she grumbled. “I’ll give you that one. Speaking of your sister, you just missed Leo. We had a dessert date.” Reeling the cone close, she gave the ice cream a long, self-indulgent lick.
Fuck.
Impossibly, he felt that lick straight up his dick. Felt that lustful moan vibrate down his flesh. If she’d been anyone else, he might’ve accused her of doing that on purpose. Of blasting fire through his veins and turning him into one massive, six-feet-plus, hungry ache.
Releasing his grip on her arms, he stepped back, interjecting much-needed space between them. He didn’t want to broadcast to Sydney the state of his rapidly hardening erection. Dammit, part of him wanted to snatch that offensive cone from her hand and hurl it across the street.
The other half demanded he reclaim the space he’d placed between them, curl one hand around the feminine flare of her hip and wrap the other around the fingers clutching the cone—and press it against her mouth, demanding she take another lascivious stroke. Put on a show for him.
Jesus.
He plowed a hand over his head, scrubbing his palm over his short hair. Where had that thought come from? Voyeurism had never been his kink, but damn if she couldn’t turn him onto that.
With ice cream.
This damn inconvenient and all wrong attraction to her was getting out of hand.