Before I can protest, the cold wet tip of his double-scoop cone connects with my cheek. “Did I miss your mouth?” he asks innocently. “You did that on purpose,” I crack up, reaching for the napkins. “I’m so sorry,” he laments in his signature deadpan, but then another wet kiss of ice cream grazes my earlobe. “Riley! Come on!” “What’s the matter? Did I miss again?” he asks, running his fingers from my ear to my cheek, smearing the mess.
