Page 50 of As You Ice It

I jump when the server’s cheerful voice yanks my attention away from Camden. “If you’ll just turn your attention to the screen, answer a few questions, and add your signature, we’ll be all set.”

Her cheery mood sets my teeth on edge, and I jab my fingers at the iPad screen while keeping an eye on the table across the room. The woman just reached across the table toward Camden, and I think I might scream.

“Whoa!” the server exclaims. “Thank you! This awesome tip is deserving of a little more cowbell!”

“What now?” I once more jerk my attention away from Camden and his date, wondering what she means bythis awesome tipas well asa littlemore cowbell.I certainly didn’t mean to leave a large tip, and so far, there has been no sight nor sound of cowbell, which is how it should be.

According to my receipt, I tipped fifty percent. My bank account is weeping. I can only hopecowbellis some kind of metaphor.

Unfortunately, it is not.

The teenager retrieves an actual cowbell from underneath the counter and starts clanging with wild abandon. She adds ayeehawfor emphasis.

I want to grab her wrist to stop her, but would that be considered assault? My brother Jake would probably tell me yes, legally it could be construed as assault. Since I’ve already punched one person this month, I should really find better ways to manage things.

“Less cowbell,” I hiss, as other servers around the restaurant start whooping and clapping. “Please, I beg of you—less cowbell!”

The server rings it harder, as though the survival of the human race is dependent on the enthusiasm with which she cowbells.

Why couldn’t I have gone to a normal restaurant? But no—I listened to Parker’s recommendation, choosing one where accidentally enormous tips are rewarded with the ringing of a cowbell. And coincidentally the exact restaurant where Camden happens to be on what looks like a date.

Camden is now, of course, looking my way with a very intense expression on his face as we lock eyes. The cowbell is now more of an alarm bell.

Run, Naomi!it seems to say.Run now!

It’s far too late now that Camden has seen me, but I still snatch the cowbell out of the server’s hand, tossing it out the open door as another group of people enters the restaurant.

Thankfully, the cowbell sails over their heads and out into the parking lot. A car alarm blares.

What’s next—will my hair spontaneously combust? Is a cartoon anvil going to fall on my head?

“Hey—my cowbell!” the server protests.

“My Lexus,” a woman by the door says, glaring.

And for me—without a word, I snatch my bag off the counter and take off.

Not toward the closest door, since that’s blocked by a woman whose Lexus I allegedly just nailed with a projectile cowbell, and not toward Camden, who is now standing up, but toward the hallway next to the kitchen. Common sense tells me this will lead to the bathrooms and another exit.

Possibly the alarmed kind of exit, but at this point, if I could, I would run straight through the wall and leave a Naomi-shaped hole in my wake.Anythingto get out of what is quickly turning into one of the most embarrassing moments of my entire life.

What’s a little emergency exit alarm, all things considered?

Thankfully, at the end of the dimly lit hallway is a door with a red exit sign above it. I’ve almost reached it when an arm curls around my shoulders, pulling me to a halt.

“Naomi, wait.”

I do. Partly because Camden’s strong arm is banded around my collarbone, making it really hard to keep moving. But also because his voice has more of an effect on me than I care to admit.

I wait for him to loosen his hold, but he doesn’t. I don’t fight, instead slumping against him in defeat. My back lines up with his chest, and I can feel him breathing heavily.

“What is it, Camden? I need to go.”

“Out the emergency exit?”

“I already made a scene. Might as well finish strong.”

He sighs, and as he does, his chin drops until it rests on the top of my head. I squeeze my eyes closed.

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