Page 18 of Laying Low With the Billionaire

Joel hums, considering. If he says no to this, then I’m all out of ideas. “Okay. But you’d better be right about this.”

“Trust me,” I say and head off down the street. If we were a couple, I’d take his hand and lead the way.

But we’re not, so I don’t even know why I’m thinking like this.

We don’t say too much as we walk, quickly weaving through all the people who come at us like they’re our video game enemies. We’ve kind of exhausted small talk. Being trapped in the same three rooms as someone for days will do that.

The quiet is kind of nice, though. Despite the cold and the gray, it’s not a bad day out and it is really good to get some fresh air. It’s just nice to be out of the house, moving my legs instead of atrophying gently away.

“What flavors are there?” Joel asks as we get close, like he’s sensed it without knowing.

“All the usual ones: caramel crunch, peanut butter cup, mint, coffee, raspberry. I really like the black cherry one.”

“Ew,” he says, sticking his tongue out. “Fruit ice cream shouldn’t be allowed.”

“It’s not ice cream!” I say, bumping my shoulder into him and rebounding off his arm.

“What’s the difference, then?”

I open my mouth and shut it again, floundering because I actually don’t have a clue. He raises his eyebrow, waiting.

“Well, we’re here,” I say, relieved to see the green-and-white bunting in the shop window save me from awkward questions. “You can see for yourself.”

He follows me inside. The bell above the door chimes and we’re hit with a hot blast from the heater. It must be about eighty degrees in here. Weird, for a gelato place, but not totally unwelcome. I unzip my jacket because more than two minutes in here with it zipped all the way up to my chin is going to boil me alive.

The guy behind the counter welcomes us in with a cheery wave. To my surprise, there are a couple of people ahead of us in line, wrapped up in hats and scarves just like us. The couple ahead of us are holding hands, shoulder to shoulder as they gaze up at the handwritten specials chalkboard. They’re in an intense debate about pumpkin spice and caramel syrup, bickering with smiles on their faces.

My fingers tingle with a desire I don’t quite understand.

“That’s an impressive drinks menu,” says Joel, folding his arms. “That’s almost the most syrup flavors I’ve ever seen.”

“The cinnamon one’s really good in the white hot chocolate.”

“Indulgent,” he says, nodding.

“Don’t tell me, you don’t eat sugar because it interferes with what your dietitian recommended.”

He opens his mouth in mock horror, his eyes widening and letting me look deep into the glittering blue. “You honestly think I have a dietitian?”

My own mouth wavers in uncertainty. “Well, I just assumed because, like… I mean, you’re not exactly unfit, are you?”

“Are youcomplimentingme?” His wide eyes pair with an incredulous grin and I don’t think I can back out of this one. I can’t exactly pretend I didn’t notice the perfect toning of his arms and legs or the well-proportioned body underneath tight-fitting T-shirts. And, even though it was against my will, I have seen a couple of photos of his ass.

“No,” I snap, drawing my eyebrows into the sternest look I can manage. “I just thought that was the kind of thing rich people did. Get their whole lives managed for them.”

His shoulders shake in a silent laugh. “Whoa, dude. Way to be biased. My dad would love for someone else to manage me, maybe then I wouldn’t make myself look so dumb all the time.”

“I don’t think you’re dumb,” I say without thinking. He blinks in surprise, as taken aback by my words as I am at speaking them. I return to staring at the blackboard so I don’t have to look at him, but from the corner of my eye it looks like he’s looking at me as intensely as I’m pretending not to look at him.

“I don’t think anyone’s ever said that before,” he says quietly, and it kind of breaks my heart.

The couple in front of us make their order and both whip out their wallets, a standoff over who’s going to treat the other. The cashier stares blankly into the middle distance as they bicker, clearly having seen this debate a hundred times.

“What are you getting?” Joel asks me as the couple finalize their payment.

“Hmm. I’m torn between peach and coconut. How about you?”

“Chocolate hazelnut, no contest. And an extra scoop of walnut, just to really ruin my diet.”

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