Total pages in book: 15
Estimated words: 13377 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 67(@200wpm)___ 54(@250wpm)___ 45(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 13377 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 67(@200wpm)___ 54(@250wpm)___ 45(@300wpm)
He grunts. "You said she's testing the cabins out?"
"Yeah, it's like a soft opening to see how customers would use them and how they last through a short stay. The storms actually come in handy as she gets to see how the new construction stands up to the weather. You guys are more than welcome to come with me. We can hunker down until the morning."
"Dad, let's just go. I don't want to sleep in the car," the little girl moans against him. She turns to look around the shop, and her brows knit together as she peers inside the display case. "Did you make all of these?"
"Sure did. Go on and pick out a few flavors. Once you're both warm and I get some food in ya, we'll have dessert." I glance at her father, who nods with approval.
"Is that peach cobbler ice cream? And apple pie?" Her eyes squint with curiosity as she looks from one flavor to the next.
My eyes close as I tell her about one of my favorite flavors. "Yes, ma'am. The peach cobbler ice cream is actually a roasted peach ice cream with a caramel streusel swirl that has actual chunks of peach cobbler folded into it."
"What about the apple pie?" the dad asks, his gaze equally stoic as his daughter’s.
A moan escapes my throat as if I can taste it coming off the spoon. My eyes close just thinking about another one of my favorite concoctions. "That is a cinnamon graham cracker ice cream with apple pie filling swirls and little chunks of salted buttery pie crust. It's a customer favorite."
"I'm Dallas, by the way." He extends a wet hand but quickly offers me a grin before pulling back his soggy sleeves that drip drops of rain onto the counter. "Sorry about that, but yeah, I was saying I'm Dallas Kincaid, and this is my daughter, Francesca."
"I like Frankie better," she replies with a huff. "Why do you have so many flavors?"
She steps away from her dad, forgetting about the storm outside as she slinks from one display case to the next.
"There's only about fifteen flavors. I like to keep things simple," I tell them with a chuckle. I remember the onslaught of preteen snark from my youth, but Frankie's keeping it mild. I'm certain the distinct look of faux indifference is her default, but with every longing glance, her smile widens just a smidge.
My voice draws her softening gaze to me as I say, "Besides, fifteen is a number just high enough to keep customers coming back. Everyone wants to try a new flavor or a flavor they haven't eaten in a while. How about you choose a few flavors to take to the cabin?"
I can tell she's having a hard time from the way her eyes dart back and forth to multiple tubs.
"How about this? Let's do a baker's dozen," I tell them both with a raise of my eyebrows.
"What's that?" Frankie asks.
I grin and lean forward to point at the different buckets under the curved glass. "It's like a sample tray. You get two scoops of whatever flavors you want. It's like picking out your favorite donuts. But with a baker's dozen, you actually get 13 cups. Sometimes, the customers will let me pick a surprise flavor for the 13th cup."
"How much?" Dallas asks abruptly.
"This is free of charge," I tell him with a shrug. "I was going to bring some with me to pig out and watch movies later. It's going to be way better to share what I already planned to bring. What do you guys say?"
"Come on, Dad, please?" she begs. "You pick six. Then I can pick six, and Miss Rye can pick the last one. Maybe we can even smoosh them all together to make a milkshake."
"That sounds like a lot of sugar," he grumbles.
In a moment to ease his hesitation, I offer a solution. "All the cups come in resealable cardboard containers. You don't have to eat a ton of ice cream in one sitting. You can save some for tomorrow—"
This time, Frankie interjects, "And then help save the planet by recycling."
"Exactly, Frankie." I give her a nod and a wink.
He runs his fingers through his soaking-wet brown hair. "Okay, but we really should find a place to grab something to eat first. No ice cream until after dinner, Frankie."
Frankie rolls her eyes, but there's no room for debate. With everything all set, I close the shop while Dallas and Frankie grab their stuff from their car. It doesn't take long to drive out to the old Garrett farm. It's where my sister, Maddie, dedicates every waking hour, turning the place into some sort of creative artist retreat destination.
The main house and barn serve as a bed-and-breakfast and an event venue. Smaller cabins are spread out across the property. There are four right now, but none of them are actually close to any other cabin. Rain beats down on the lush acres of fresh-cut grass as we drive to my reserved cabin. The sound of my keys jingling around my finger echoes between the beats of the storm as I lead Dallas and Frankie inside.