Daddy in Disguise (Crescent Cove 7)

I hauled out two tubs of chocolate truffle and debated unearthing my personal stash of caramel swirl. Nope. I had a feeling I’d need that one. I shoved it under a pail of cookie dough.

No one needed to know about that one but me.

I grabbed the spare vanilla I used for coffee shakes to ease my guilty conscience and loaded it all on my bastardized hand truck with a basket

attached for just this kind of thing. “So, what does that mean? Are we talking—”

“Like it’s a freaking One Direction concert.”

“What? Oh my God.”

“I sold out of all my ice cream. The diner has an hour wait for a stool at the counter. Women are planting themselves on the grass near the gazebo with freaking long range lenses and binoculars.”

“No, they aren’t.”

“Pinkie swear.”

“Will you sit down or something?” I pushed her out of the doorway of the freezer and pulled over my rolling chair I used to do paperwork at my hidden corner desk.

She sat gratefully. “Do you have any of that special Gatorade?”

I spun and went to my restaurant grade fridge. I’d kept a six-pack of low sugar grape Gatorade for her since she passed out on us in the height of summer. Damn tin can of an ice cream truck was a sauna. Of course now it was chillier than my apartment, thanks to August, her big brother, and Rory Ferguson, her fiancé. They’d jerry-rigged a super conductor of an air conditioning unit for the truck so she could withstand even the craziest of pregnancy hot flashes.

I twisted off the top and handed the bottle to her. “At least the entire town is making out on this shitshow.”

“Kinleigh convinced my brother to help her bring racks of clothing and her trunks out to do a sidewalk sale. It’s like a festival out there.”

“Festival of women on the hunt for single dads.”

She laughed. “Pretty much. Add in all the Instagram stories that everyone is sharing and tagging your café and it’s getting ridiculous out there.”

I only knew what an Instagram story was because of Clara. She’d convinced me to get an Instagram account for the café and she managed it. She always had a damn camera in my face.

“The last I heard two of the local news vans were taking up residence just past the park.”

“Good God.”

“Macy?” Clara peeked her head into the kitchen. “Councilwoman Whitaker is here.”

“Crap.”

Ivy finished her drink and handed me the bottle. “I’ll head her off. Give you a second to breathe.”

Was I really going to let a heavily pregnant woman run interference for me?

Ivy straightened her apron and grabbed the handle of the hand truck, dragging ice cream behind her. Then I caught a glimpse of the crowd of people in the coffee shop.

Yep. I sure was.

I plopped my ass down at Ivy’s chirpy and friendly voice. “Have you tried my newest ice cream, Irene? Why don’t you come out to my truck?”

“I really need to speak with Macy.”

“She’s elbows deep in coffee grounds. She’ll be out in a few.” The door swung shut and I rolled forward to rest my forehead on my knees. First, to stretch out my back which was screaming. And secondly, to prevent me from actually screaming.

I was not going to look on Facebook. I had three-thousand things to do and about fifty customers waiting for drinks. It would be a banner sales day, thanks to that idiot man who evidently couldn’t keep a shirt on.

I stared at the floor for three minutes before I caved.