CARTER:It happens to the best of us. Take the opportunity to see more of the town. See you at dinner.
“We’re officially dismissed until dinner.” I show Adam the text, and he starts laughing.
As I glance down the street at the buzz of people milling about, a pang of jealousy hits me. “I wish I could walk around without the security detail. I just want to blend in for once.”
“I have an idea,” he says, stepping aside to exchange a few words with Patrick, who doesn’t look too happy, but nods.
“Done. They’ll hang back a few feet. Come on, let’s get you a lobster hat from that shop over there.” His hand closes over mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
My heart leaps up into my throat. “What are you doing?”
“You want to be incognito, right?” he says with a wicked tilt of his mouth. “You’ll look less like you’re in witness protection without the guards flanking you if we’re just a regular couple.”
“Is this your idea of help?”
Adam tips his head closer, lowering his voice. “Isn’t it what friends do?”
That damn word again.Friends.
“How generous,” I deadpan. “How will I ever repay you?”
Despite my efforts, I sound breathless. If this is his idea of being friendly, I don’t know if I’m going to survive it.
“You can get lunch.” Adam winks, utterly unbothered, tugging me into the sea of people.
We take a detour through the harbor, where the water shimmers under the bright sunlight, and colorful sailboats line the docks, bobbing lazily in the breeze. The freedom of being invisible among the wandering tourists hums under my skin.
It’s shockingly easy to forget someone out there still wants to hurt me.
I breathe in the salty air and the scent of lobster rolls, cheeks warming under Adam’s amused gaze, his hand still securely wrapped around mine.
A couple of hours later, my stomach decides to cash in on the promise of food. And it’s loud about it. “We passed an Italian place on the other side of Main Street?”
The corner of Adam’s lips quirks. “I was joking about lunch.”
Is it weird I’m nervous about going to a restaurant with him? It’s not a date.
“We’re banned from going back home. Besides,” I add, trying to sound casual, “do you want to spend the rest of the day with me running on low blood sugar?”
He smiles in that way that steals my breath away, and the heavy cloud inside my chest presses harder. “I’ll let Patrick know.”
My favorite bodyguard is already waiting for us, arms crossed, outside the ivy-covered restaurant, next to the old wooden doors.
Adam unbuckles and observes Patrick through the windshield. “That spells trouble.”
He’s all scowls when we reach him. “I don’t like it.”
The lightness evaporates, letting worry rush in. “Do you thinktheymight be here?”
“Um. No.” He’s unusually shifty. “It’s just…bad vibes.”
The use of the word “vibes” by a man drier than a stale crouton should be worrisome. But as I glance through the window at the cozy round tables and a few booths lining the walls, I don’t see the problem. “Looks like a nice place. Harmless,” I say.
Adam opens the door and I step in behind him. The restaurant looks so authentically Italian that you’d forget you’re in Maine. Warm brick walls and terracotta floors, complete withwrought-iron lights, remind me of the summer in Tuscany, one of the rare holidays we all went on as a family when I was little.
Unlike those Mediterranean restaurants, though, this one is completely empty. Besides the three men in suits tucked around a table in the back corner, who raise their heads in perfect, unsettling unison.
“This is great,” I say lightly. “No crowds. Relax, have some wine.”
