I love the Cherry Blossom Festival.

Now as a guy, saying that may make me seem kind of soft. As if I like those little pink flowers that float from the trees at every monument dotting the national lawn.

But hear me out. It’s a time when DC becomes a city of celebration, when families and groups of friends and college students put on their spring clothes and come out in droves. When the whole Capitol puts on its dancing shoes and smiles and attends parties, museum exhibits and street fairs.

Droves are a good thing for me. They’re a good thing for business. Thus, I love the Cherry Blossom Festival.

And okay, maybe there is a certain ambience about those little pink flowers in the trees, but you won’t hear me admitting that out loud. At least not to the ladies. Although if it gets me a leg up in that arena, then maybe I should.

I ponder the thought of all of the single women milling around my truck as I open the freezer, checking on my latest batch. Merlot and Fudge, and damn it’s as good as it sounds.

“Do you really serve alcoholic ice cream?” A blonde twenty-something slurs a bit as she peers into the window of the truck.

Clearly, she’s already partook in the alcohol part of this festival. “We sure do. Of course we have non-alcoholic flavors as well, for the kids and those not looking to get a buzz on. What can I get you?”

There are three people lined up behind her and it’s only ten o’clock. Sweet baby Jesus, I love cherry blossom time. And so does Cones & Corks, my business. My baby. My fleet of three food trucks that roam the streets of Washington, DC providing sweet treats for kids and adults.

“How is the Pistachio Pinot?” She bats her eyelashes, and though she’s about a day over twenty-one, I flirt back.

Because you know, always please the customer and all. "Delicious, the perfect treat for a hot day."

I give her my Virginia boy charm, flashing the smile and the dimple I know she's staring at.

"I'll take that then." She swishes her hips, and another four people get on line.

I quickly scoop her order, ring her up and have her sign the receipt. I'm not surprised when I get the piece of paper back with a wink, and her number scrawled at the top.

Politely, when she's out of view, I throw it in the trash bin. At thirty, I'm too old for her. And I've also sworn off women after my last disaster of a relationship.

Yep, it's just me, my laptop and a box of tissues for the foreseeable future.

Cycling through the line of customers, I chat and scoop. Hand out cards, give them the maps of where they can find this truck and the other two on any given day of the week.

"I want a Sponge Bob Popsicle!" A little voice yells from down below, and I have to peer out to see who it comes from.

Standing at the bottom of the truck is a little girl, her curly brown hair in pigtails and a little red dress hanging off her small body.

Her eyelashes blink up at me, and I wave. “Well hi there, pretty girl, I don’t have any SpongeBob here, but I think I have something that you might like.”

I look across the lawn, the Washington Monument shooting straight up into the sky. A frantic looking young woman jogs across the grass, a large bag slipping off her shoulder.

The minute she reaches my truck, and the little girl, her voice turns scolding. "Lennon, what did I tell you about letting go of mommy's hand?"

The little girl, who must be Lennon, shrugs, looking nothing but innocent. "Ice cream man says I can have ice cream!"

"He did, did he? I guess today I couldn't be any worse at being a parent, so fine let's get you a cone." She looks at the side of my truck, her eyes scanning the description for regular and alcoholic ice cream. "Do you really make alcoholic ice cream? Because I could use about a bottle of Cabernet in mine if so."

She sighs, her shoulders falling in defeat, and looks up. Dark brown eyes, long dark curls, a beauty mark on her left cheek, a strong, sharp jaw. Her looks resemble that of a fox’s, something mysterious and sharp about her. And a niggling in my chest tells me that this person is familiar.

I smile down at them from my place above in the truck. "Well, unfortunately we only serve half the bottle in our scoops."

Surprisingly, she laughs at my corny joke, a husky, deliberate sound that makes my skin vibrate. "Of course, just my luck. What do you have for this girl?"

She points to her daughter, and again I feel like I know her from somewhere. "Hold on a second ..."

Going into the truck, I make up a cone of Cookie Bar Crunch for the girl, the usual flavor I recommend for kids. And I get a cup for her mom, expertly pressing two round scoops of my favorite, Oreo Peanut Butter, into it.

"And here we are. I held off on the alcohol ... unless you weren't kidding, I could just hand over the bottle of Merlot I made my last batch with." Part of me hoped that she loved the flavor as much as I did.

Lennon tore right into the cone, getting drops of it on her red dress and not caring in the least. Kids were amazing like that. Her mom took a tiny spoonful and carefully put it in her mouth, her lids fluttering when the taste hit her tongue. And shit, I think I had a semi right then.

“That is incredible, oh my God. Wow. Okay, kid, you did good finding this ice cream man. How much do I owe you?” She looks up at me.

"It's on the house. Cute kid discount." I was shamelessly flirting by giving her free ice cream, but hey, I was the boss and I did what I wanted.

"Stop it, really, that's too much. Let me pay. This is quality stuff." She shuffles her feet, that big bag weighing down her shoulder.

"I should know, I make it. But no, it's on the house." I hesitate, still feeling a connection to her. "Hey, this may be weird, but do I know you from somewhere?"

She studies me closer, those big brown eyes inspecting my face. "I'm not sure ... did you grow up around here?"

"I've been around here for a while. Since college actually."

She tilts her head to the side, her curls blowing in the wind. "I went to Madison College, maybe that's where I know you from?"

Suddenly it all clicks. Her face a little younger, that perky butt in gym shorts. "You were a freshman when I was a senior! I worked in the gym, goofy kid in the red polo at the front. Jake Brady." I sound so desperate, trying to get her to remember me. But I used to have a major crush on this girl.

"Hmm ... I kind of remember. Sorry! Most days my brain is the consistency of scrambled eggs living with this little one." She points to Lennon. "I'm Samantha, I'm not sure if we ever officially met."

Not really, since I was too chickenshit to go after the innocent freshman back then. Lennon, now done with her ice cream, starts pulling on Samantha's jeans. "Mommy, we go see Dorothy now?"

Samantha chuckles but ruffles her daughter’s hair. “Yes, we can go see her shoes. Dorothy herself isn’t there, though.” Turning up to me, she rolls her eyes. “What three-year-old is obsessed with the Wizard of Oz? I used to be petrified of those flying monkeys, but not her. Thanks for the ice cream, and nice to see you again!”

She waves as Lennon pulls on her, dragging her toward the Smithsonian Museum of American History.

I watch as they amble to the line, a ball of energy and fun chaos surrounding them. Samantha. I couldn’t remember her last name, maybe I never knew it.

But for the rest of the day, as I served and promoted, my thoughts kept straying to the sexy freshman who had just tumbled back into town.