most successful investment firms in Canada.
“A falling-down house in Blossom Valley would probably rate dead last on my list of potential places to put money.”
“Are you always so crushingly practical?”
“Yes.”
“Humph. Well, I’m going to buy a business here, too,” she said stubbornly, her swollen brows drawing together as she read his lack of elaboration for what it was: a complete lack of enthusiasm.
“Really?” he said, not even trying to hide the cynical note from his voice.
“Really,” she shot back. Predictably, his cynicism was only making her dig in even deeper. “I’m looking at an ice cream parlor.”
“An ice cream parlor? Hmm, that just edged the house out of the position of dead last on my list of potential investments,” he said drily.
“More-moo is for sale,” she said, as though she hadn’t heard him. “On Main Street.”
As if the location would change his mind.
He told himself he didn’t care how she spent her money. Didn’t care if she blew the whole wad.
But somehow he did. Given free rein, Kayla would rescue the world until there was not a single crumb left for herself.
There was no doubt in his mind that More-moo was one more rescue for her, one more thing destined for failure and therefore irresistible. It was time for him to walk away. And yet he thought if he did not try to dissuade her he might not be able to sleep at night.
Sleep was important.
“Nobody sells a business at the top of its game,” he cautioned her.
“The owners are retiring.”
“Uh-huh.”
She looked even more stubborn, her attempts to furrow her brow thwarted somewhat by how swollen it was.
It was none of his business. Let her throw her money around until she had none left.
But of course, that was the problem with having tasted her lips all those years ago. And it was the problem with having chased with her through endless summers on the lake. It was the problem with having studied with her for exams, and walked to school with her on crisp fall days, and sat beside her at the movies, their buttered fingers accidentally touching over popcorn.
It was the problem with having surrendered the first girl he had ever cared about to his best friend, only to watch catastrophe unfold.
There was a feeling that he had dropped the ball, maybe when it mattered most. He couldn’t set back the clock. But maybe he could manage not to drop the ball this time.
Whether he wanted to or not, David had a certain emotional attachment to her—whether he wanted to or not, he cared what happened to her.
At least he could set Kayla straight on the ice cream parlor.
“There is no way,” he said with elaborate patience, “to make money at a business where you only have good numbers for eight weeks of the year. You’ve seen this town in the winter. And spring, and fall, for that matter. You could shoot off a cannon on Main Street and not hit anyone.”
“The demographics are changing,” she said, as if she hoped he would be impressed by her use of the word demographics. “People are living here all year round. It’s become quite a retirement choice.”
“It’s still a business that will only ever have eight good weeks every year. And even those eight weeks are weather dependent. Nobody eats ice cream in the rain.”
“We did,” she said softly.
“Huh?”
“We did. We ate ice cream in the rain.”
David frowned. And then he remembered a sudden thunderstorm on a hot afternoon. Maybe they had been sixteen? Certainly it had been the summer before the kaleidoscope, before he had kissed her, before Kevin had laid claim, before the drowning.
A group of them had been riding their bikes down Main Street and had been caught out by the suddenness of the storm.
It had felt thrilling riding through the slashing rain and flashing lightning, until they had taken cover under the awning of the ice cream store as the skies turned black and the thunder rolled around them.
How could he possibly remember that Kayla’s T-shirt had been soaked through and had become transparent, showing the details of a surprisingly sexy bra, and that Cedric Parson had been sneaking peeks?
So David had taken his own shirt off and pulled it over Kayla’s head, making her still wetter, but not transparently so. He could even remember the feeling: standing under that awning on Main Street, bare chested, David had felt manly and protective instead of faintly ridiculous and cold.
How could he possibly remember that he’d had black ice cream, licorice flavored? And that her tongue had darted out of her mouth and mischievously licked a drip from his cone? And that he had deliberately placed his lips where her tongue had been?
How could he possibly remember that he had felt like the electricity in the air had sizzled deep inside him, and that ice cream had never since tasted as good as it had that electric afternoon?
David shook off the memory and the seductive power it had to make him think maybe people would eat ice cream in the rain.
“Generally speaking, people are not going to go for ice cream if the weather is bad,” he said practically. “One season of bad weather, you’d be finished. A few days of bad weather would probably put an ice cream parlor close to the edge.”
“Well, I like the idea of owning an ice cream parlor,” Kayla said firmly. “I like it a lot.”
He took in her eyes peering at him stubbornly from under her comically swollen forehead, and knew this wasn’t the time.
“Your ambition in life is to be up to your elbows, digging through vats of frozen-solid ice cream until your hands cramp?”
“That sounds like I’m selling a lot of ice cream,” she purred with satisfaction.
“Humph.”
“My ambition,” she told him, something faintly dangerous in her tone, “is to make people happy. What makes anyone happier than ice cream on a hot day?”
Or during a thunderstorm, his own mind filled in, unbidden.
He said, “Humph,” again, more emphatically than the last time.
“It’s a simple pleasure,” she said stubbornly. “The world needs more of those. Way more.”
He had a feeling if he wanted to convince Kayla, he had better back his argument with hard, cold facts: graphs and projections and five years’ worth of More-moo’s financial statements. What would it hurt to have one of his assistants do a bit of research?
“I
