Bubble Guppies Ice Cream Novels & Stories

His tall, solid frame hovered behind me like some expensive, intimidating bodyguard, forcing me to do a weird shoulder wiggle just to fish my wallet out of my crossbody. “Vanilla,” he said flatly. I snorted. “Of course you’d pick the most basic flavor known to man.” Without waiting for his rebuttal, I ordered one matcha for myself and one scoop of existential crisis, aka plain vanilla, for Mr. Predictable over here. The ice cream guy smiled, but his eyes were bugging out, probably wondering if we were a couple, or if this was some kind of very aggressive TikTok date. Or maybe he was just intimidated by Julian’s chest doing its version of a power pose.

he asks me , and I shyly nod at him. “ Hmmm…Pick any one that you want – it’s on me today” he lets me know as we enter the ice cream parlour. I place my finger on my chin as I examine the menu thoroughly. I try to find an ice cream that I enjoy while it also being cheap and affordable. I look at one and my mouth practically waters – bar one ice creams with brownie chunks , walnuts and whip cream with bar one sauce. I really want that ice cream but decide otherwise as it is way to expensive.

My wolf is supposed to feel insulted but it's already established that she's beyond abnormal. "Ice cream is the antidote for all stress," Scarlette said cheerfully, licking a red ice cream cone, "especially if the seller is nonhuman. This is blood-berry flavoured," she whispered and giggled. She stretched the basket out to Gil and me. "Want some?" We looked at the basket filled with cups of ice cream of that same flavour. I cringed. "I'll pass," "Gross,"

Royer asked. “Yes, only if you tell me your favorite flavors,” I responded. “I like Chocolate and strawberry.” Tyris replied with more excitement than her brothers. Reon was still quiet although he now wore a smile. Kamille's silence was hard to ignore but I felt so eager to know the children that I decided to allow her brood. “Where is your best ice cream spot?” I asked Tyris. “Me? It’s Mr. Buckin's cream, close to our house in the US.” She responded.

I added my silver necklace with the tiny paintbrush charm and called it a win. “Better,” she said, fluffing my hair. “Stop fidgeting. You look gorgeous.” My stomach ran its own private Olympics the entire bike ride to the hockey house. Music thumped through the walls before we even reached the lawn. Cars lined the street; people spilled onto the porch, red cups in hand, already loud in the specific way of a party that had been going for at least an hour. Owen spotted us the second we walked in — tall, easy-smiling, built like the rest of them. “Sophie! You made it.” His eyes flicked to me. “And you brought a friend.”