Best Served Cold

by Emma Hart

  Chase Aarons, with his stupidly thick dark brown hair and bright blue-green eyes. With his stupid stubble over his chiseled jaw and his stupid white t-shirt that showed off his tanned muscles.

  “Need a hand?” he asked, nodding toward the poster with a twinkle in his eye.

  Not from you, I wanted to say.

  I said nothing. Just stared at him.

  “What? You can’t even accept my help for the five seconds it would take to tape that sign on the window?”

  No.

  No, I couldn’t.

  I went back to finding the edge of the tape. After a few seconds, I found it. The cracking of the tape as I peeled it back filled the horrible, tense silence. I turned to hold the poster in place, but as I did, it slipped out in a second and landed just in front of Chase.

  He picked it up, then came over and held it against the window for me. The scent of his cologne was deep and earthy, and my stomach panged at the familiar scent.

  “You can tape it. I’m not going to drop it just to piss you off.” Laughter tinged his tone, and I pursed my lips.

  I ripped the tape off with my teeth and stuck the poster against the window as quickly as I could. This time, I folded the edge of the tape so it wouldn’t take me half an hour to find the end the next freaking time.

  “Renovations, huh? Are you finally bringing this place into the twenty-first century?”

  I wasn’t going to bite. I hadn’t intentionally said a word to the man for six months, and except for the “thank you” I knew I had to offer up on his way out, I wasn’t going to start today.

  Chase twisted his lips to the side. “Still giving me the silent treatment, huh?”

  I assumed that was obvious, but he had always liked to state it.

  I folded my arms and stared at him.

  He was done.

  He could go now.

  He sighed and ran his hand through his hair. “One day, you’ll talk to me again.”

  That wasn’t likely. Not that I told him that.

  A piece of his hair stuck up where he’d messed it up, and I almost reached out to smooth it back down. I knew that piece of hair well—it’d stuck up every time I’d run my fingers through his hair when we’d been together.

  Apparently, old habits really did die hard, even when you hated the person they were associated with.

  Ugh.

  “All right. I know a lost cause when I see one.” He shrugged one of his wide shoulders and made for the door.

  “Thank you,” I said, trying not to sound like it was forced. “For the help.”

  He turned back to me and reached out, chucking me under the chin. “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it, Rae?”

  I glared at him.

  Laughing, he winked and pulled the door open. “I’ll see you.”

  Not if I could help it.

  He pulled the door shut with a click after him, and I rushed over to turn the key in the lock. I wasn’t going to have any more unexpected visitors stop by, thank you very much.

  Door locked, I tugged on the blinds and pulled them all down so nobody could see in. The beige blinds showed their age, and I grabbed the notepad I had on the counter and scribbled ‘new blind’ down on my list of things to buy.

  Unfortunately, for me, gussying up the store was only one half of the battle. I now had some kind of a plan for that—new paint on the walls, the ice cream lights, the cone tables, stools made out of macarons stacked on one another—but I had nothing for the point Grandma had made.

  Make them want to come.

  Customers needed a reason to come to me and not The Frozen Spoon. Sure, when word got out about the renovation, nosy regulars and interested tourists would keep me in business for a couple of weeks, but when the shiny new toy got a little older, I’d be struggling again.

  I sunk onto the nearest stool and looked out at the store. I could almost visualize how it’d look in two weeks. Multi-color pastel stripes on the wall behind the counter. Ice cream cone lights on the walls. New tables, fresh paint, new storage—but I couldn’t see the It-Factor.

  There wasn’t one.

  I sank my fingers into my loosely curled hair and slumped forward. I needed to get the It-Factor. I needed to find my uniqueness that would turn this store around. I had to believe it existed and that there was something I could do to change it.

  Ice cream had been my whole life. My earliest memories were of helping my grandparents and my parents in this building. I could make ice cream before I could tie my shoelaces on my own. It was all second nature to me.

  I didn’t know how to do anything else.

  I blew out a long breath and sat up straight. Sitting here moping wasn’t going to get me anywhere. I had a to-do list as long as my arm, and I needed to make a start on it before time caught up with me.

  I couldn’t afford to shut the store longer than two weeks. It really wasn’t that long in terms of time, but financially, it was almost too long. I only justified it by knowing the loan was there for me to dip into if I needed it.

  And, let’s face it. I wasn’t exactly breaking any records with my profit margin now, was I? Assuming I even had one, and I expected my accountant to call me any day informing me I didn’t.

  I jumped off the stool and walked through to the back. The kitchen that had once been my solace was now a place of fond memories and sadness. I couldn’t remember the last time I actually enjoyed pulling ingredients together to make ice cream. It’d been so long, and I’d almost reached the point of buying it in just so I didn’t have to wake up early to slave back here for no reason.

  I threw out more than I sold. All my friends were very well kept in ice cream, as were my grandparents.

  And me.

  Hips don’t lie.

  At least mine didn’t.

  I emptied the dishwasher, walking back and forth as I put the scoops and dishes back where they belonged. There were only a handful of things to be washed from yesterday, so I filled the sink with hot water instead of running the dishwasher.

  My arms were elbow-deep in suds when I picked up the plastic bowl I’d used when Soph and Jessie had come in yesterday. Smears of blue and pink and purple decorated the sides of the pink bowl, and remnants of sprinkles were stuck to the dried-on ice cream.

  Unicorn ice cream.

  Jessie’s request screamed at me.

  Unicorn ice cream. That’s what she’d wanted. Something girly and pretty and fantastical.

  My grip on the bowl slipped, and it dropped into the water with a splash that sent bubbles over both the wall and me.

  I didn’t care.

  A goddamn four-year-old had just given me the biggest inspiration of my life.

  What if my specialty was unicorn ice cream? Colors and glitter and magic all in cones and sundaes and bowls?

  Was it possible? Was that what I needed to do to save the family business?

  I tossed off the rubber gloves I’d put on to protect my nails. They splashed as they hit the water, but I still didn’t care. I could clean up the mess anytime I wanted.

  That was not right now.

  I ran to my phone on the counter and opened my Pinterest app. I typed the term into the search bar, and a shiver ran over me when hundreds of results popped up. And not an, ‘Oh, shit, someone just walked over my grave’ kinda shiver.

  It was an, ‘Oh, shit, this is a real thing, and I can do it’ kinda shiver.

  Hoards of images of multi-colored ice cream and decorated cones popped up. Blues, purples, and pinks all mixed together in a galaxy-looking mix. There were several different versions of the ice cream, and my heart beat a little faster in anticipation of every single scoop being totally different.

  Mixed in were images of cones dipped in chocolate then in sprinkles. Ice cream sundaes had cones sitting on top as a unicorn horn. One ice cream image showed pinks and greens and yellows mixed together with tiny candy stars. Sundae glasses that were dipped in white icing and then in hundreds and thousands of sprinkles
.

  There was even ice cream nachos. A plate full of wafers topped with ice cream and sauces and toppings.

  That was the perfect first date or post-shopping treat.

  I put my phone down and stared at the coffee machine behind the counter. The milkshake maker was right next to it, and the chrome finish of both had the overhead lights glinting back at me.

  That was it.

  Unicorn ice cream.

  I didn’t know of any place nearby that did it. It would draw people here to see it, and as Grandma said, it had the potential to get online attention.

  I dragged my hand down my face.

  Oh, my God.

  I had it.

  I knew what I needed to do.

  I tossed my phone to the side and ran into the kitchen. A large metal pan was empty on the shelf, so after I rinsed it, I pulled out all the ingredients I needed to make ice cream.

  The colors I had weren’t the brightest like the photos seemed to indicate, but that didn’t matter. This was only a test. I needed to see how well I could make this work.

  After making the initial mixture, I split it into three different bowls and added the food colorings. Pink, purple, and blue. They each mixed into the white mixture, and when it was done, I took my time adding each spoonful into the pan.

  I would mix everything in a minute. It didn’t need to be perfect.

  Ten minutes passed until I’d gotten the whole mixture into the pan, complete with multi-color sprinkles. It looked like a horrid mess of color, but that only got worse when I grabbed a metal skewer. Over and over, I made a figure of eight in the mixture, drawing it all into a marble-looking pattern until the colors all mixed together except around the very edges.

  With a deep breath, I put the pan in the walk-in freezer.

  And I hoped like hell it’d worked.

  I didn’t want to think about what would happen if it didn’t.

  CHAPTER THREE – CHASE

  She was insufferable.

  I knew that, though. She always fucking had been. Headstrong and stubborn, Raelynn Fortune was a force of nature. In fact, I’d say she was an unnatural force. She was a hurricane of unstoppable proportions, which meant the fact that she’d spent two years losing business to me without screaming at me was confusing..

  Rae had a temper. She always had. She was a snap-your-fingers-and-scream girl. She was unable to hold anything back.

  Yet I’d been here two years, and she couldn’t even talk to me.

  She’d pretty much choked on her fucking thank you this morning.

  Jesus, she had no idea. No matter what the rumor mill said, I hadn’t stolen her ideas. I’d been inspired by them, yes. But this store was a last-ditch attempt to make her talk to me. It’d been a stupid fucking idea, yes, but we weren’t over.

  I knew that the moment she cried when she’d broken up with me.

  We weren’t over. Something lingered there. I still fucking wanted her even though I could count on one hand how many times she’d spoken to me since she’d walked out of my apartment.

  All I wanted was for her to talk to me. To look at me and not see through me. To not pretend that I didn’t exist when she knew as well as I did that there was unfinished business between us.

  Maybe I was delusional. There was always that chance. Maybe I was seeing things that didn’t exist because I couldn’t get over that goddamn woman. If that was how it was, then fine. I’d accept it, but I needed to hear it to my face.

  I needed her to give me a real reason for why she’d broken up with me.

  I didn’t believe her reason.

  “I don’t love you anymore,” she’d said.

  She hadn’t even looked me in the eye.

  She’d lied. I didn’t need to be a fucking body language expert to see that. I knew Rae inside and out, upside and downside.

  CLOSED FOR RENOVATIONS.

  I tapped my fingers against the granite counter. I’d never opened before midday, but now I wished I did. Her sign had occupied every free space of my mind.

  Was she finally fighting back? If she was, it’d taken her long enough.

  Renovations.

  What was she doing to the place? I knew what that store meant to her. I hated that my stupid, ill-fucking-thought-out attempt at revenge had hurt her.

  I didn’t have to be a billionaire CEO to see that my business was killing hers. All I wanted was for her stubborn ass to talk to me. I was dumb.

  In more ways than one.

  I’d opened this fucking business.

  I’d fucking hurt her.

  And she still had to choke on her own spit to thank me.

  I collapsed forward onto the counter and clasped my fingers behind my neck. That goddamn woman would be the death of me. Two years and I still couldn’t shake my feelings for her. I wasn’t the demon the rumor mill had made me out to be.

  I didn’t care about this store. I wanted to march into hers with a toolbox and ask her how I could help. I wanted to do everything it took to make her business a success. All I wanted was for her to be happy—with or without me.

  But that still didn’t change the fact I was still totally fucking in love with her.

  Call me pathetic, call me a loser, call me lame. Whatever. I didn’t care. I knew how I felt. You didn’t get over someone overnight—and getting over someone you loved more than life itself wasn’t something that happened easily.

  Closure wasn’t something Rae and I had ever had. Her excuse for breaking up with me had been bullshit, and she knew it. Still, she’d long refused to talk to me unless she absolutely had to.

  Like earlier, with her thank you.

  At least she hadn’t looked like it was physically painful to speak to me this time.

  For the most part.

  I sighed and stood up. The freezers whirred as I walked through the back. The sound grated on me—I’d never found it as comforting as Rae had. I hit the button on the radio to drown it out. There was nothing remotely comfortable about the sounds of a freezer.

  I got it. Some people could listen to white noise. Some people needed it to sleep.

  I needed it to fuck off.

  There was nothing more unsettling than constant, repetitive noise.

  I pulled out tub after tub of ice cream, ripping the stickers off each one as I went. While I didn’t think my customers gave a shit that I didn’t make it, something inside me felt dirty that I was buying it. Probably because Rae made hers from scratch.

  When we were dating, nothing made her happier than standing in the kitchen with four ice cream machines going to speed up the process. For her, new flavors had always been important. One a month, at least.

  She’d stand there, covered in sugars and sprinkles and fruit juices, oblivious to the outside world. Flavors and colors were everything to her. Getting it just right was an obsession.

  I’d gone downstairs in my house and found her mixing flavors at two in the morning. I’d woken to sprinkles coating the floor more than once. I’d found torn up recipes stuffed in kitchen drawers more times than I could count.

  She was a visionary, and I was a fraud.

  But it felt like that was how success went to a higher level. The people who imagined stuff and created it all got no credit, while the people who stole it got all the credit and the success.

  That was how she viewed me.

  She was wrong.

  I hadn’t stolen her ideas. I’d been inspired by them, but not stolen.

  The neon barstools she’d wanted in her store were primary colors in mine. The floor was black and white, but mostly black. There were no vintage posters like she’d wanted. The tables were white and simple, the chairs metal and painted white with multi-colored cushions to sit on.

  It was nothing special.

  It was nothing close to the neon, psychedelic vision she’d had.

  But she’d never know that. She’d never step foot in here.

  I didn’t need to be Einstein to know that.

&
nbsp; The woman I was in love with hated me with every bit of her soul. And I didn’t blame her at all.

  If I were her, I'd hate me, too.

  CHAPTER FOUR – RAELYNN

  It was a glorious mess of colors that all mixed together in a weirdly magical, galactical display.

  Pink and purples and blues and even greens. They mixed together like marble, and when I ran a scoop through the colorful mix, it made something even more amazing.

  Unicorn ice cream.

  I’d made it.

  It was my fourth attempt, sure. It’d taken more than one try and a few trips to the store to replenish the ingredients, but I’d made it work.

  Finally, I’d found the magic ingredient.

  And that was not giving a damn fuck.

  Make the ice cream, but not care about the colors. Throw them in like you’d throw a chip packet in the trash. Give them a careless mix and freeze.

  It was the laziest way to make ice cream ever, and I loved it.

  I put a scoop of the ice cream onto the chocolate and sprinkle dipped waffle cone and looked at it.

  I wasn’t an Instagram fiend. I could barely take a selfie that didn’t include my worst angle, an extra chin, or a blur. But if I was, would I Instagram this?

  Maybe. It needed work.

  I set it down in the holder and looked at it. Every ice cream cone that used this ice cream would be different. That was what was so fun about it.

  I grabbed a cone I’d decorated with edible glitter and scooped ice cream into it. Setting it down next to the other, I quickly grabbed my phone to snap a picture and send it to Sophie before they melted.

  Then I ate one.

  What? It was quality control. That was what I was telling myself.

  Also, it was lunchtime, and I was hungry. The quality control thing just sounded more professional. Not that I had to justify my eating it to anyone, but still.

  Sometimes you needed to justify things to your future self. Like wearing white pants or leaving home without a tampon.

  Both of which were stupid ideas, for what it’s worth. Especially if you did both on the same day.

  Sophie’s text came back pretty quickly.