Total pages in book: 19
Estimated words: 16943 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 85(@200wpm)___ 68(@250wpm)___ 56(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 16943 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 85(@200wpm)___ 68(@250wpm)___ 56(@300wpm)
I sigh, feeling the weight of perpetual eldest brother obligation pressing down on me. Ignoring Grant is like ignoring a persistent rash: easier said than done. Besides, maybe getting out of this too-quiet cabin will help lift the funk that's been eating at me for days. “Fine. Noon it is. But you’re buying me my banana split.”
“Deal. And try not to look like a mountain man who just crawled out of hibernation, okay?” He hangs up before I can respond with a growly retort. Typical Grant.
A shower and a hastily thrown-together outfit later, I’m almost ready. I stare at myself in the mirror, trying to decide if this whole going-out thing is worth it. My reflection looks back, unimpressed. Hair tamed, beard in a semi-respectable state, I figure I clean up well enough for a mid-winter ice cream outing.
Glacier Pass is doing its usual white winter thing outside. I don’t bother with a coat since my inner polar bear keeps me warm and toasty no matter how cold it is outside. I groan, seeing all the white crud built up on my black truck. Fuck. I hope the weather warms up a little so I can wash it before the salt and sludge eat through my paint.
The drive into town is uneventful, the familiar twists and turns of the icy roads more comforting than I’d admit out loud. The new ice cream parlor sits snugly between the bakery and the post office, its front window aglow with soft pastel lights spelling out “Polar Scoops.”
I park next to Grant’s SUV and hop out of the warm truck, instantly feeling the arctic air slap me in the face.
As I walk up to the ice cream parlor, I can’t help but chuckle under my breath. It’s seriously ballsy to open an ice cream shop in the middle of the winter. Even in a town chock-full of polar bear shifters.
From the looks of the line, it seems like the ice cream parlor is the hottest new thing since someone thought to put marshmallows in cocoa. There’s an undeniable irony in the image of burly polar bear shifters spooning their way through scoops of frozen cream and sugar.
I push through the door, a little bell jingling annoyingly above me. Stepping into Polar Scoops, I feel like I’ve been teleported into a different era. The air is thick with the scent of creamy sweetness, a mix of freshly churned ice cream and baked waffle cones, that tickles my nose and instantly perks up my inner polar bear.
The walls are painted in pastel colors. The main color is a cozy mint green complemented by accents of pale pink and creamy yellow. There’s a playful array of vintage posters adorning the walls, promoting ice cream specials from who knows how many years ago. The one featuring a cartoon polar bear tipping his top hat catches my eye. “Polar Treats to Warm up Your Inner Beast!” it reads in a fancy script. I can't help but snort. As if this place could be any more on-the-nose.
The flooring is classic checkered black-and-white tile. There’s a long, polished wooden counter running down one side, and a shiny glass display case is filled to the brim with every flavor you can dream of.
Behind the counter, a gleaming old-fashioned ice cream machine churns away, the sound of its whirring blending harmoniously with the laughter and chatter of the customers. A chalkboard hangs above the cash register, scribbled with the day’s specials, almost begging customers to dare to choose something a little outrageous. “Today’s Flavor: Honey Maple Berry Bliss” reads one line, while another boasts “Maple Bourbon Bon-Bon made with our famous Maple Bourbon sauce.”
Grant’s already there, waving from a booth like some excited kid. The place is filled with brightly colored chairs and whimsical dancing ice cream cone decorations.
“About time you got here,” Grant cheers, gesturing wildly. I make my way over, nodding at all the folks I recognize. It’s the kind of place where everyone knows everyone, which has its own charm if you're in the mood for it.
“What flavors do you want in your banana split?” Grant asks once I’m settled in. “They’ve got some wild flavors, man. Bacon maple swirl, sea salt caramel, you name it.”
“I’ll stick to something straightforward,” I say, eyeing the menu like it’s a complicated puzzle. “One scoop of chocolate and two scoops of vanilla with a shot of their maple bourbon sauce.” Grant rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling, clearly just glad to have gotten me out of the cabin.
“Come up to the counter with me to order. I’m not asking for bourbon sauce on a goddamn banana split.”
Rolling my eyes, I follow him up to the counter. He orders a double scoop of chocolate sugar coma in a cone while I go for my unusual choice. The older lady behind the counter raises an eyebrow at my specific request but obliges with a wry smile. Apparently, I’m not the first bear in town to need a touch of bourbon sauce on their dessert. As a shifter, there’s no way the small amount of alcohol will affect me, but one can always hope something crazy happens.