Page 47 of Wicked Serve

She takes a sip of her cider, frowning. “That’s so sad. They’re too cute to get STDs.” A woman holding a squirming toddler throws us a look as she passes. Her eyes widen. “Whoops.”

“That one’s on me,” I say with a snort.

She sighs dramatically. “Okay, what about your favorite ice cream flavor?”

“Don’t have one,” I say, guiding her around a puddle so she won’t ruin her sneakers.

She stops in her tracks so suddenly, we almost stumble into the next booth. “What? That’s impossible.”

I shrug. “Obviously it’s not.”

“Because every flavor is so delicious and you can’t pick?” She shakes her head. “No, even I have a favorite flavor.”

“Which is...?”

“Usually it’s—nope, not until you answer.”

I play with her hair. “Guess I’ll never find out, then.”

“This is tragic.” She finishes off her cider and tosses the cup into the nearest trash bin. “Are you allergic to dairy? Wait, is that why you never put milk in your coffee? You’ve always been mysterious about that.”

“Some people just like their coffee black, you know.”

“Some people? You mean psychopaths.” She wrinkles her nose, considering me. “How have you lived on Earth for twenty-one whole years without deciding—”

“My dad never let me have sweets,” I admit. I hardly ever say anything about him aloud, so the words feel weird in my mouth. “I just never ate ice cream or anything like that growing up.”

She looks genuinely upset for me. “Who doesn’t give a kid ice cream?”

I think of Mom sneaking me sour candy after swimming and chocolate after tough losses. When she didn’t agree with something Dad decided, she’d rebel in her own quiet way. She didn’t always get away with it. “Sometimes my mom would buy me candy.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“Isn’t it?”

She brushes her lips against mine, the taste of pumpkin mixing with apple. “Okay, new plan.” She gives me a mischievous smile, practically dancing in place. “And I’m very committed, so don’t say no.”

Chapter 22

Nikolai

An hour later, I’m stretched out on a bench in a quieter area of the park next to Isabelle, spoon in my mouth as I ponder if mint chip is better than pistachio. She’s sitting cross-legged, a cup of cotton candy ice cream in hand, watching me like I’m playing an overtime period in the Stanley Cup Final.

It’s adorable. I’ve been putting on a show for her for the past ten minutes, dutifully tasting each flavor and giving her a verdict. One of the things I like best about her is how much she cares about everything—whether that’s the welfare of koalas or Love Island drama or if I have a favorite ice cream flavor—and I don’t want to disappoint her.

“I don’t know, I still like coffee best,” I say, shaking my head.

When she walked into the ice cream store and declared that we needed as many tasting cups as possible, the two girls manning the counter, alone in the shop and taking advantage of the quiet to listen to a murder podcast, giggled the entire time they filled a tray with mini scoops of ice cream. Isabelle made conversation with them so seamlessly that in a matter of minutes, we learned that they go to Moorbridge High, they’re applying to colleges out of state, and they both love birthday cake ice cream the best. She’s so good at making herself at home with other people, a skill that I’ve never been able to master.

“Are you dating?” one of the girls had asked bluntly as I paid and shoved all the cash in my wallet into the tip jar.

“No,” Isabelle said, balancing the tray carefully in her arms. “We’re just friends.”

“Good friends,” I added before I could help myself.

Worth it, since she beamed at me on the way out the door.

Now, she groans, tipping her head back. “Coffee? Could you be more boring?”

---