Chapter 28 That’s… Three Ice Creams
'HOURS LATER— PETE’S POV'
The morning light slipped through the heavy cream silk curtains like liquid gold, pooling in soft, trembling patches across the king-sized bed. At seven sharp, the room smelled faintly of fresh linen, bergamot from the diffuser on the nightstand, and the ghost of last night’s lavender macarons someone had left half-eaten on the marble side table.
Pete woke with a slow, luxurious unfurling of limbs. The mattress— some impossibly deep, cloud-like memory-foam thing— cradled every inch of him, refusing to let go. He lay there a moment longer, eyes half-lidded, watching dust motes spin in the slanted sunbeams, before the spell broke. One languid arm stretched sideways. Fingers closed around the cool glass-and-aluminum edge of his iPad.
The screen bloomed to life at his touch. Thumb already moving, he sank back into the pillows, scrolling. A girl in a beret twirled under the Eiffel Tower at golden hour. A street accordionist played something achingly romantic. A poodle in a tiny trench coat strutted past Ladurée. The algorithm knew exactly where he was. Paris pulsed through the tiny glowing rectangle in his palm.
Then it hit— a sudden, sharp bloom of pressure low in his belly. Urgent. Non-negotiable.
He exhaled through his nose, set the iPad face-down on the duvet, and swung both legs over the edge of the bed. Bare feet met the thick, dove-grey wool rug. The fibers were so dense they felt like walking on warm velvet. He padded across the room, past the velvet-upholstered chaise that no one had yet dared to sit on, past the gilt-framed mirror that reflected the chandelier’s crystal teardrops in a thousand tiny prisms.
The bathroom door sighed open on silent hinges. Inside, everything gleamed: Calacatta marble veined with soft gold, matte-black fixtures, a rainfall showerhead the size of a dinner plate. Pete lifted the lid of the toilet— also black, also flawless— and relieved himself in a long, steady stream that sounded almost musical against the porcelain. When he finished, he pressed the discreet chrome button. Water rushed in a powerful, hushed torrent, then silence again.
He washed his hands under water so perfectly warm it felt like nothing at all, dried them on the thickest towel he’d ever touched, and turned back toward the bedroom.
Halfway across the rug, memory arrived uninvited, sudden as a dropped champagne flute.
Yesterday afternoon. The ice-cream shop on 'RUE DE BIRAGUE.'
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The bell above the door gave a soft, silvery chime as Andrew pushed it open, his left hand wrapped gently but firmly around Pete’s smaller one. Warm sugar-scented air rushed out to meet the cooler street breeze. The shop was narrow, all gleaming white subway tiles and soft rose-gold lighting that made every tub of ice cream glow like a jewel. A faint jazz piano drifted from hidden speakers— something slow and forgiving.
The scooper looked up from the stainless counter the moment their shadows crossed the threshold. Mid-thirties, brown hair swept back in a careless but deliberate wave, sleeves of his cream linen shirt rolled precisely to the elbows. A thin silver chain glinted at his throat when he moved. He smiled— open, practiced, but not fake.
“Bonjour, messieurs. Quel parfum de glace allez-vous prendre aujourd’hui?”
Andrew’s polite half-smile flickered. He gave Pete’s hand a tiny, reassuring squeeze before answering.
“Sorry— English, please. I don’t understand French.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, opening a translation app.
The ice cream scooper watched with mild amusement as Andrew spoke into the device. A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, his eyes crinkling slightly. He raised both hands in a casual gesture.
“It’s okay. I can speak English.” A light shrug. “Foreigners, huh?”
Andrew gave a small laugh through his nose. “Yeah. Guilty.”
“Here for business?” The scooper leaned one hip against the counter, arms loosely crossed now, genuinely curious.
“No. Family vacation.” Andrew’s thumb brushed absently across the back of Pete’s knuckles.
“Oh, nice.” The man’s gaze dropped briefly to Pete, softened. “And how long are you staying?”
“A week. Leaving in five days.”
A slow nod. “Hope you’ve been enjoying your stay so far.”
“Sure. I’d say so.” Andrew’s tone was easy, relaxed.
“Good.” The scooper straightened, clapped his hands once, brisk and cheerful. “So— what flavor of ice cream would you be having?”
Andrew looked down. Pete was already up on his toes, nose almost touching the curved glass, eyes huge.
“What do you want, champ?”
Pete’s finger shot out, decisive, bouncing once on the balls of his feet. “Vanilla! That one— the big tub right there!”
His smile was sudden and enormous, cheeks rounding, one dimple deeper than the other.
Andrew’s mouth curved. He glanced back at the man. “One vanilla for him. And one chocolate for me. Thank you.”
“Alright.” The scooper gave a quick salute with the ice-cream spade, already moving.
He worked fast, elegant, almost theatrical in the best way. One clean scoop of vanilla— perfect round dome— dropped into the first sugar cone with a soft thump. Another scoop for the second cone. Then a third vanilla, same flawless motion. Finally the chocolate, darker, richer, curling into place like spilled ink.
Andrew’s brow lifted when the third cone joined the first two in the small kraft paper bag.
“That’s… three ice creams.”