Junk Mail(20)

After grabbing my keys, I shoot Gram a quick text letting her know I’m off to a meeting with Josh and won’t be by the senior center until later. She responds almost instantly with an onslaught of heart and tongue emojis. Sheesh. Way to be discreet, Gram.

On my way out the door, the foyer mirror reminds me that my slouchy pink sweater and jeans don’t exactly scream “professional.” Should I throw on a pencil skirt and a button-down, or something else instead? I decide against it, slipping into my brown booties and then locking the door behind me. I’m guessing this ice cream shop won’t have much of a dress code.

When I arrive at Scoops, Josh is already waiting outside, leaning against the building. He looks like a popular kid leaning against the lockers. This really is high school all over again. He’s got on a black T-shirt underneath an Army-green jacket and dark-wash jeans, proving that he’s just as drop-dead gorgeous in casual clothes as he is in a suit. I’m glad I nixed the pencil-skirt idea.

“Welcome to Scoops,” Josh says with a warm smile. “I’m so excited for you to try this place.”

I can hardly get out a hello before he’s leading me up the steps and through the door. Excited might be a bit of an understatement.

A bell rings as the door swings open, welcoming us into the warm, sugary air. The storefront is filled with the sweet scent of fresh-baked waffle cones. The space is small and lit with warm, yellow light, with bright blue tables scattered throughout, and black-and-white photos framed on the walls. It’s old school and charming . . . no wonder Josh loves it.

The moderate line to the counter consists mostly of parents and kids. A few high school couples are scattered here and there, confirming my theory on the switch to coffee that comes with maturity. Josh peels off his jacket and tosses it over the back of a chair, claiming a table for us before we hop in line.

As I size up the menu, Josh leans in, offering his recommendation. “No pressure, but they do have the best chocolate-dipped cone I’ve ever had,” he whispers, as though excellent ice cream is somehow a secret. His lips graze my ear, spreading a buzz of pleasure across my skin.

“High praise from a professional ice-cream taster like yourself,” I say, chuckling.

“Hey, what can I say? Everyone has their vices. And I’m not much of a coffee drinker, so ice cream it is.”

How fitting that someone as sweet as Josh would have such a sweet tooth.

When we reach the front of the line, the woman at the register beams in recognition. “Chocolate-dipped cone, Josh?” she asks in a bubbly voice, already reaching for her scoop.

“Just like always, Connie.” Josh laughs, then adds, “And whatever this lovely lady is getting as well.”

“Make it two dipped cones, please,” I say proudly, which gets a smile out of both Connie and Josh.

“Great taste, this one,” Connie says, waggling her eyebrows at Josh as she reaches for a second cone.

When she rings us up, I mean to check if Josh uses his personal or corporate card—is he paying for me as a date or as a business partner? But he moves too quickly for me to get a good look. Either way, I thank him for paying as we make our way to our table. The second we settle into our seats, Josh goes into full business mode.

“Okay, so I don’t want to completely overwhelm you with financial stuff, so stop me if you’ve heard enough about profit margins. Sound good?”

I nod, appreciating the image of a man holding an ice cream cone telling me about profit margins. It’s immediately clear that we’re not going to discuss what happened in the hotel coat closet, which is a bit of a relief. I’m not sure I have a good explanation for what happened, and if we don’t put in some hours on this Wish Upon a Gift deal, it’s never going to turn out.

Josh launches into his spiel on his company’s reimbursement model, and unlike his tour of the hotel, I’m able to pay attention to what he’s saying this time. I pull my planner from my bag and flip to the notes section, writing down percentages as he throws them at me. I’m impressed by the cut of sales that the company offers its business partners.

When he pauses, I look up from my notes to find Josh licking the ice cream dripping down the side of the cone. Suddenly, my professionalism has flown out the window.

God, I want him to lick me like that. Cover me in chocolate and lick away.

“Sorry.” Josh laughs when he catches me staring. “I don’t want to waste any. Like I said, everybody has their vices, right?”

I nod, echoing the statement back to him in an almost breathy tone. “Everybody has their vices.” I’m just worried he might be mine.

“Anyway, back to the reimbursement model.”

We both snap out of our daze and back into business mode, finishing off both our discussions and our dipped cones. The notes section of my planner is overflowing with information, but we’re definitely a step closer to getting my boxes on store shelves.

Josh pulls a napkin from the dispenser in the middle of the table. “Now that the boring stuff is out of the way, I have to ask.”

My throat clamps up. Shit. We’re gonna talk about that hot make-out sesh in the coat closet after all, aren’t we?

“Have to ask what?” I ask meekly as Josh swipes the napkin across his lips, then balls it up in his fist.

“Was I right?”

Confused, I blink at Josh. “Right about what?”