Page 69 of Can't Win 'Em All
“Hey,” she said when she saw me. Her smile was at the ready. “This is turning into a habit.” If she recognized I was feeling keyed up, she didn’t show it. Instead, she leaned in and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Admit it. You time it to meet me here every single day so you can have ice cream guilt-free and blame it on me.”
“I do like having ice cream with you,” I admitted.
The smile she sent me was beautiful. I wanted to see that smile on my daughter’s face … although not for the same reasons. “I might get the banana today and be wild.”
My eyes narrowed. Before she could order, I stepped in front of her. “I’ll have a hot fudge sundae with nuts, whipped cream, and a cherry.”
“Rude,” Ruby said behind me.
“She’ll have a two-scoop sundae with real freaking vanilla ice cream, hot fudge, whipped cream, and three cherries.”
Genuine surprise had Ruby’s eyebrows moving toward her hairline. “I can’t have real ice cream. Also…how did you know I don’t like nuts?”
“Because you complained when I got Thai two weeks ago. You thought the Pad Thai was for you. You mimed throwing up over the nuts.”
“Oh, right.” Her lips curved. “I can’t believe you remembered that. I also can’t believe you had my favorite meal with you that night. Nobody knows about that meal. It’s only served at one freaking Thai restaurant on the Strip.”
Pad Woon Seng. It was a transparent noodle dish with ribbon mushrooms and tomatoes. Pearl had told me about it. She’d been amused at the time when I asked, even though I’d played it off coolly as not wanting to wake Ruby from her nap, and now I had to wonder if that was because she’d thrown money into the pot for the bet.
“I’m just that good,” I said.
“I still can’t have regular ice cream.” She turned a sad look toward the woman behind the counter.
“Do you have a legitimate reason for not wanting the hot fudge sundae? Like … have you suddenly developed a dairy allergy? I’ve read that can happen when someone is pregnant. Are you suddenly lactose intolerant?”
“No.” Ruby shook her head. “It’s just too much sugar. Gestational diabetes is a thing.”
Now it was my turn to make a face. “You don’t allow yourself to have any treats. To you, pickles dunked in tomato juice is a treat. Unless your doctor has specifically said something—and since I’ve been to all your doctor’s appointments with you, I know that’s not the case—there’s no reason you can’t splurge on real ice cream and hot fudge.”
“But—”
“No.” I cut her off with a firm shake of my head. “I’m not saying you have to eat what I want you to eat. I’m not saying you should have ten hot fudge sundaes a day or anything. Although, if you want them, I will get them for you. I’m saying, just this one time, there’s no reason you can’t have the real thing.”
She blinked, and I knew I was right. She wanted the real ice cream. “Make sure there are extra sprinkles on that sundae,” she whispered, her face breaking out into a wide grin before she skipped off toward the booth they kept reserved for her, giggling the whole way.
I watched her go, my heart filling with an emotion I’d never felt before. Was it love? We hadn’t even been on a real date yet. It couldn’t be love. It was something close, though. It was infatuation and adoration all rolled into one big feeling that I could no longer tamp down.
“Well, that was interesting,” Celia, the woman behind the counter, drawled. “It was kind of cute. I bet you hear that all the time, though.”
I gave her a pointed look. “When do you have in the pool?” I demanded.
Her eyes went wide. “I’ll … get right on those sundaes.” She couldn’t get away from me fast enough.
When I turned to look at Livvie, I found her smiling. “What?” I challenged, practically daring her to say something obnoxious.
“Are you about to make your move?” she asked. It wasn’t really a question. She already seemed sure of herself.
“That depends,” I replied.
“On what?”
“If you tell me the truth.”
She waited without speaking.
“When do you have in the pool?” I pressed.
Livvie had a good poker face. I’d always thought that about her. In the wake of the question, nothing shifted on her features. I thought I might—stress might—have seen a brief quirk of her lips. That was it, though. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
