Page 48 of Wicked Serve

“What? The espresso bits were yummy.”

She gives me a sideways look, mouth full of ice cream. “Okay,” she says once she’s swallowed. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you use the word yummy, so I’m still considering this a success.”

“Pistachio is a close second,” I say, mostly to make her groan.

“Are you secretly a grandmother? Coffee, pistachio. What about rocky road? Or cotton candy? Even mint chip would be a better pick.”

“Isabelle,” I say with faux seriousness, “cotton candy was the worst.”

She gasps. “You take that back.”

“It was even worse than birthday cake.”

“I regret everything.”

I burst out laughing. “It’s so easy to wind you up.”

“You’re the one being ridiculous,” she says, poking me in the ribs.

“I think you like it,” I say, catching her hand before she can withdraw it.

“Nik?”

“Yeah?”

“Why didn’t your dad let you have stuff like ice cream?”

I stiffen; I can’t help it. “He just... I had a training plan.”

She sets her ice cream cup in the tray and moves the whole thing to the end of the bench so she can scoot closer. I put my arm around her, even though suddenly, moving feels so incredibly difficult.

“But you were just a kid,” she says, resting her head on my shoulder.

Part of me wants to deflect, to make her laugh or kiss her, but she’s looking at me so earnestly that I can’t bring myself to do it.

“He wanted me to play hockey professionally from the moment I was born. I learned to skate before I learned to run.”

“So? My dad played football professionally, but he treated us like kids. Even James. He didn’t try to turn us into little athlete robots. What about your mom?”

“It wasn’t like that.”

It was, but I can’t bring myself to say so. Not to her. Not when it would skirt too close to the actual truth. I don’t want her pity and I don’t need her indignation. Or worse, for it to ruin what we have.

“But if he controlled what you ate—”

“It’s fine, Isabelle,” I interrupt. “It’s not as bad as it sounds.”

She lifts her chin stubbornly. “But—”

“Drop it.”

My voice is a touch too loud, and sitting this close to her, I can see how it makes her eyes shutter. She unwinds herself from me. Fuck. I can almost hear my father’s voice, his raspy laughter. I work so hard to act nothing like him, but the moment someone touches that nerve—even her—I want to snarl.

“I’m sorry,” she says, an uncertain note in her tone. “I just thought... we’ve been sharing a lot...”

It’s not her fault. She doesn’t know.

And she never will.

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