A near miss. A meet-cute that nearly ends in the morgue. A trucker cap left behind. A responsible business owner and a reckless skater boy. What could possibly go wrong?
Murphy Cotton has made a quiet life for himself in tiny Seabreeze, South Carolina. Owner, CEO, and head driver of Cabana Cones, his telltale neon pink and blue ice cream trucks are a constant presence on Seabreeze’s sprawling boardwalk. But when a chance encounter with a reckless skateboarder threatens to melt the very contents of his ice cream truck one hot summer day, Murphy knows his life will never be the same. And when the skater leaves his trucker cap behind during his escape? Murphy knows it’s more than just an item for the Lost and Found, but a chance to discover what’s been missing in his life.
Van Sylvester never thought he’d fall for an older man, let alone a lame ice cream truck driver, but when a near miss brings them together, the reckless skater can’t shake the feeling Murphy is the man for him. Now all he has to do is convince Murphy he’s not the punk kid Mr. Ice Cream Van thinks he is!
I sigh and carefully slip a few paper towels from the dispenser on the wall, wetting them briefly before patting their dampness beneath each arm and swatting the sweat from my throat and chest.
“Sure, Murph,” his sister chuffs from a few yards away. “Maybe you sleep over during inventory or when we’re burning the midnight oil doing the taxes? But some random weeknight? In summer? What gives?”
Her tone, breezy at first, has subtly shifted to something far more curious.
“I was running late,” Murph bluffs, making me nod at myself in the mirror. For a kind of dweeb, he sure is good at coming up with zingers on the fly. Well, that and, you know, chugging cock! “And didn’t sleep so well last night, so I figured ... why not?”
“Why are you so sweaty?”
I stifle a laugh, literally clapping my hand over my mouth as I peer at my stunned reflection in the bathroom mirror, as if canoodling with a friend over the hilarity of my current situation.
Romcom much, anyone?
Murph is predictably, adorably baffled. “What? Who’s sweaty?”
“You’re sweaty, Murph. Why?”
“Have you ever even driven one of our trucks, Roxie?” he bluffs. “In the middle of a South Carolina summer? It’s hot as shit in those things.”
“Yeah, but your route ended hours ago. Or should have.”
“Yeah, well ...” I hear the pause and swallow. Hard. “I hit a little snag, okay?”
I beam proudly, admiring my own reflection. It’s me! I’m the snag!
“Okay, fine. Hot truck, Murphy’s sweaty, but ... why is your hair all messed up. Your shirt’s all wrinkled, your tube socks are slipping down I mean, Jesus, bro. You look like you just woke up.”
“I mean, yeah, like I said ...”
“Why are you acting so weird?” I hear high heels clattering on the break room floor, as I recall a kind of stiff, hardwood laminate. “And since when do you eat tuna fish?”
“What?” I can hear the tension in Murphy’s voice. Sure, I haven’t known him that long but even I can tell he’s being raked over the coals by this nosy ass sister of his. “I love tuna fish.”
“Since when?” Roxie huffs, though her voice is becoming less playful the longer this ugly meet cute wears itself down. “You told our stepmother you were allergic.”
“Who, Sylvia?” Murph tut-tuts. “Sure, of course I did. Because hers sucked!”
They share a conspiratorial laugh as I literally wipe sweat from my brow. Sharing a relieved smile with myself in the mirror, I notice a flash of white and pink in the background and turn for the first time. That’s when I realize: this isn’t just a men’s room, it’s a men’s locker room. Literal lockers line the walls, even if there are only eight of them, two stacks of four on top of each other. And showers, too.
I turn, spying stacks of Cabana Cones T-shirts on top of a shelf next to cheap, white, threadbare towels. I strip quickly, spying tubes of shampoo and body wash affixed to the walls between the two shiny spigots. Cool water douses my feverish body, washing off sweat and funk and whatever spunk Murph hadn’t swallowed from my sticky, smooth pelvis.
I lather liberally, rinse thoroughly and dry off quickly, snatching a fresh shirt in my size and dressing quickly before an even quicker glance in the mirror tells me I look a far sight better than I did five minutes ago. Far from put together or remotely professional, that is, but hopefully my little ruse will throw Murph’s sister off the scent.
And maybe in time for me to pay my sexy new lover back for, uh, his afternoon snack?
