Page 102 of Lamb

“Um …” I turned to the cabinet, briefly catching my warped reflection in the glass casing and the hat on my head; bright colours and big pops of writing I assumed spelt the name of theshop. It was horrible but better than nothing at all. I squinted past my face, the light reflecting off the surface of the rounded glass making it even harder to focus.

“One pecan, one dark chocolate, and a butterscotch,” Lamb interrupted, saving me from my social peril. “With all the trimmings.”

“Wait—that is too much.” I pulled on his hand, but Lamb had already decided. He had his phone out of his pocket and over the card machine before I could protest anymore.

“It’ll be over to your table in a jiffy.” The cashier beamed at Lamb before turning to me with an equally polite but much less enthusiastic smile. I did not return it.

We slid into a booth in the corner, my back turned to the room, closest to the wall. Lamb slid next to me on the same side, blocking me in. I wanted to protest, but even with my escape route blocked, I still felt better hidden behind him than if I was exposed on the edge. I mulled over the duality of my old sensitivity and new security as Lamb pulled out silver spoons from the pot on the table and arranged them in front of himself and me. I was amused by his meticulous procedure—folding napkins and moving the unnecessary cutlery away as he prepared our dessert set up.

It had truly been a “jiffy” as two large bowls of ice cream were slid onto the table in front of us by a young waitress whose eyes lingered on Lamb long enough for our ice cream to soften. Lamb paid her no mind, sliding my bowl closer and putting a spoon in my hand.

He did not bore over me like he had with breakfast, or any meal I had had to consume in front of him. Instead, he got to work on his own ice cream, taking in measured spoons of his dessert, his face neither changing from the sweet taste nor the cold temperature.

Left to my own devices, I looked down at the enormous bowl. The scoops were no bigger than a tennis ball, but they felt as big as footballs staring up at me.

I would try a bite. Just one. I could at least manage that.

I scooped a small curl of ice cream onto my spoon of the dark chocolate flavour and tried hard not to think much of it as I slipped it between my lips. And then I tried the pecan, and finally, the butterscotch.

My nose wrinkled at the bitterness of the dark chocolate, and although better, the thick buttery taste of the pecan was too heavy for my taste. And at last, the butterscotch was sweet on my tongue, melting into a warm, creamy texture that lingered long after I swallowed.

I went for a second spoon, scooping on more before sliding it back into my mouth. I revealed the duplicate sensation; how the cold pooled in my stomach, but the taste warmed my mouth.

I felt like Goldilocks, having found my perfect porridge and found the chore of eating subsiding as I enjoyed each bite I took.

Until I saw a rogue spoon coming my way, and then I became the bear.

I slashed at the spoon, nearly growling as I whirled on the assailant. Lamb’s brows bounced to his hairline, eyes wide and an amused smile pulling wide on his lips.

“I think you like that more than me,” Lamb grumbled, lowering his spoon but not dropping it completely. I eyed it wearily.

“I do.”

“You know, I think I’m becoming the jealous type.”

“Of ice cream?” I scoffed.

“Of everything.” Lamb’s eyes held mine, deadly serious. “You need to like me the most. I won’t stand for anything less.”

I rolled my eyes, returning to my ice cream. “Whatever.” As the cold ice cream burned in my stomach, I slipped another sweet spoon onto my tongue to try to soothe the rising heat.

Silver flickered past my eyes quicker than I could react. I had let my guard down and, in that second, a large spoonful had been snatched before my eyes.

I jerked my hand, clamping tight around the escaping spoon, and before Lamb could resist, I shoved it straight into my mouth, sucking it clean off.

I was smug and satisfied as Lamb watched me lick my lips, successfully thwarting his attempts to steal my ice cream. It was sweeter than any of my previous spoonsful, and I could feel myself becoming addicted. “Take that—”

Lamb’s lips pressed against mine, his tongue stealing my words. His hand held the back of my neck, and the sudden invasion of his warmth and pressure had me becoming malleable in his grip, responding to him in kind, the sweet butterscotch mixing on our tongues.

Lamb pulled back, and the white noise of the parlour grounded me back into the booth. I glared at him, but it was too late. He had a saccharine smile, his tongue soothing over his damp lips.

“You’re right,” he purred. “It’s sweet.”

My jaw dropped.

This man was beyond all reason and comprehension, going that far to steal a bite. It did not surprise me, as such, but the reality of being with this man in front of me was beginning to settle in.

I was screwed.

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