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“Fine. Thanks.” I select Rocky Road, offer a smile as I make sure to keep my distance from him as I do, and then take a seat on the opposite side of the island to him.

“Rocky Road. That choice says a lot about a person.”

“What’s that?”

“It says you like a little chaos with your sweetness. Nuts and marshmallows mean you’re definitely not afraid to make things complicated. You went straight for the flavor that doesn’t play it safe.”

I bark out a laugh. “All that from an ice cream flavor?”

He nods. “Everything says something if you’re listening loud enough.”

“And what does salted caramel say about you?” I ask.

He purses his lips and nods. “It says I like depth. A little edge. I’m not out there chasing sprinkles and whipped cream because I want my satisfaction to come from the ice cream itself.”

“Please tell me you just made that up because...” I can’t stop laughing.

“That lame, huh?”

“More than.”

“You put me on the spot.” He reaches out his spoon and taps it against mine sitting on the counter. “Cheers.”

I stare at him as he opens the lid of his and takes his first bite in silence.

I do the same, afraid of being caught staring for too long.

Afraid of being charmed by a man who just toasted our spoons like it wasn’t a big deal at all.

I welcome the reprieve to process my thoughts and try to figure out who exactly this irreverent woman is because she is nothing like me.

I’m straightforward. I’m black and white. I’ve...never sat in a dimly lit kitchen eating ice cream with my employer.

And I’ve never sat and wondered what his kiss tastes and feels like.

But I just did, and now my cheeks are flush and my body is keenly aware of him.

I shake my head to clear it. It’s just because of who he is when you’re used to stuffy accountants and strait-laced lawyers.

“I lied to you,” he says, breaking the silence.

My breath hitches, but I think I succeed in keeping the same expression.

“About?”

“I didn’t have plans tonight. I needed...a breather, a moment to process...I don’t fucking know, but I just needed to get some space.” He runs a hand through his hair. “From my own house. How fucked up is that?”

There’s a rawness to him. To his voice. An honesty I haven’t seen yet. He’s not the performer right now. Not the cocky guy on stage soaking up all the fans screaming his name.

Just Gavin Caldwell—unfiltered and fraying a little at the edges.

And he’s making an admission that most people wouldn’t to a woman they barely know.

I nod slowly and meet his eyes. “You had something major sprung on you.”

“I’m not a bad guy,” he says. “I just...never wanted to have kids. Never thought I’d bethis. And it’s overwhelming to have someone make that choice for you and then be thrown into it three years later without warning.”

“That’s valid,” I say.

“Every part of me wants to buck against the idea that she’s mine, but she’s my goddamn reflection.”

I don’t say anything. I don’t need to. He sees what anyone would see from the outside, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to accept it without a fight.

“Fuck.” The word is a long, drawn-out sigh that emotes exactly how he’s feeling.

I’ve seen families where the children are the afterthought.

Not necessarily loathed but not exactly wanted.

The career-driven parents who believed that having kids was just part of life’s goals— checking off the list .

They’re the parents who reluctantly bond with their mini-mes, but it takes time. Sometimes more than others.

“It’s not always something that’s automatic,” I say. “The connection. The loving your child. Sometimes it takes work and time, but it happens eventually.”

“I’m well the fuck aware of that. I’ve lived it. I know that. But you’re wrong. It doesn’t always happen,” he says, and by the aversion of his gaze back down to his bowl, I can tell he fears that he’s said too much.

But it’s enough for me to know he has scars from his past resulting in the emotional tumult he feels right now.

That I can at least work with.

“This is one of those moments,” I say finally. “Where you either jump...or you don’t. You can sit on the ledge for a while, but at some point, you have to decide who you are and what you’re going to be to her.”

He studies me. Really studies me like he’s trying to decide whether he hates that I see him or if he’s grateful for it.

“You know, you’re the second person who’s said something like that to me tonight. I appreciate the sentiment, but I’m not quite there to appreciate it just yet.”

“Noted and I appreciate the honesty.”

He scoots his stool out, grabs his ice cream and spoon, and looks at me. “I’ll leave you be. I’m sure the last thing you wanted when you came out here was some surly asshole like me.”

Before I can respond, he turns to go. I think I’m slightly relieved that he does so that I can overthink this entire interaction.

But before I can even start, when he’s halfway down the darkened hall, he pauses and then tosses over his shoulder.

“Good thing your boss is fuckably hot because I heard he’s emotionally constipated. ”

I blink.

My mouth falls open.

And then he disappears into the dark, chuckling.

Shit.