Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 44479 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 222(@200wpm)___ 178(@250wpm)___ 148(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 44479 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 222(@200wpm)___ 178(@250wpm)___ 148(@300wpm)
I can’t help but glance at the shop as we approach, half-hoping that the lights are off and the doors are locked, so I can avoid the embarrassment of indulging in ice cream in subzero temperatures. But of course, they’re open.
As we reach the entrance, I catch a glimpse of the colorful ice cream cones displayed in the window, and I feel a mix of excitement and dread bubbling in my stomach.
“See? It’ll be fun,” York insists. I can’t help but chuckle at his enthusiasm, despite my reservations. Maybe I’ll just have to embrace the insanity of it all. After all, who wouldn’t want to share ice cream with a guy like York Steele, even if it feels utterly ridiculous?
I step up to the counter, my heart racing. “I’ll have a cone of vanilla ice cream with sprinkles, please,” I say, flashing a bright smile at the woman behind the counter. York orders a rich chocolate cone, his own smile infectious as we joke about how we plan on walking outside with our ice cream despite the freezing temperatures.
The lady behind the counter chuckles, shaking her head at our apparent madness. “You two are definitely a bit crazy,” she says with a wink, and I can’t help but laugh.
With our cones in hand, we step through the glass doors of the little shop, the brisk air greeting us with a sharp bite. York’s smile is radiant against the winter landscape, and as I watch him, my mind drifts back to his earlier words about his mother. It suddenly dawns on me how much this place must mean to him.
“Your mother used to take you here, huh?” I ask, curiosity piquing in my voice.
He nods, his tongue swirling through the rich chocolate ice cream in a way that momentarily distracts me. I can’t help but watch in rapt fascination as he savors the treat. “Yeah, she did,” he replies.
“Will you tell me about her?” I venture, a hint of worry creeping in as I think he might shut down. But I want to know more about the person who shaped him.
He sucks in a deep breath, as if gathering the courage to share something significant. “I’ve never opened up to anyone about my mother,” he admits, and my heart sinks a little, knowing how difficult it can be to talk about such personal things.
I nod in understanding, giving him the space to share. I want him to know he can trust me. “She was a great mother, but she had depression. Among other things,” he continues, his eyes growing distant as if he’s wandering back through memories, some bittersweet and others maybe painful.
The weight of his words hangs in the air between us, and I can see the vulnerability in his expression. I wish I could reach out, to comfort him in some way, but I remain still, offering my silent support as we stand together in the middle of this bustling holiday scene.
“She’d have good days and then she’d have some really bad days,” he whispers, his gaze fixed on the cone in his hand as if it holds all the answers. He abandons it, letting it droop in his grip, the chocolate ice cream slowly dripping down the side. “We didn’t know how to help her, and my father tried to pretend everything was fine.”
I feel a pang of sympathy for him, my heart aching at the thought of the struggles he and his family faced. “I’m sorry,” I offer softly, wanting to ease the weight of his memories, even just a little.
“My father pushed me to play hockey, and my younger sister to play the piano,” he continues, his voice low and heavy with unspoken emotions. I vaguely remember hearing about his younger sister, how she plays for an orchestra in New York City.
“That must have been hard on you all,” I say gently, trying to validate the struggles they faced.
York nods, his expression a mix of sadness and resignation. “Yeah, it was.” His words hang in the air, a poignant reminder of the sacrifices and pressures they endured.
My heartbeat quickens as I sense the depth of his pain. “What happened to her?” I ask, my curiosity piqued but laced with caution, aware that I’m treading on sensitive ground.
York wipes at his eyes, his tears glistening in the cold air. “This is all a bit much for ice cream talk, isn’t it?” he says, attempting to lighten the mood even as the emotion lingers in his voice. With a sigh, he tosses his cone into the nearby trash, and I follow suit, suddenly losing my appetite for the sweet treat that felt so innocent just moments ago.
York turns toward me, his gaze penetrating to the very depths of my soul. I want to live in this moment with him, and he raises a hand to my cheek to brush a stray strand of hair that he tucks behind my ear. “You’re so pretty,” he whispers, and I feel an intake of air rush out of me.