“Great. Come by around seven. The rest of the team should be gone by then.”
I try not to let it bother me that he obviously doesn’t want anyone to see us together. He agreed to help me, right? That’s got to count for something. And just because he wants to proceed with caution doesn’t mean he’s another Layton. Not every guy who’s closeted is in complete denial.
“Sounds good.” I stand to go. Harrison told me to take fifteen, and I don’t want to take advantage of his goodwill. “I’d better get back to work.”
Adam stands too. He’s got a good three inches and probably thirty pounds of pure muscle on me. This close, it feels like he could twist my arms behind my back and pin me up against the wall in five seconds flat. Not that he’d get any objection from me.
“Sorry for holding you up.”
Holding me up. I swallow a totally unsexy giggle. I know what he means, but my dirty mind is stuck on a different kind of holding up. The kind that involves him and me and that wall.
“No reason to apologize. You’re doing me a huge favor, remember?” I gesture to the V and V bag, still on the ground next to his chair. “Don’t forget your books.”
“Thanks.”
He bends to pick it up, giving me the perfect opportunity to study his perfect butt. His usual baggy track pants or droopy basketball shorts are gone today, replaced by a pair of jeans that do a pretty darned good job of showcasing all that he has to offer.
And man, does he have a lot to offer.
“One last question,” he says as he straightens up, depriving me of that spectacular view. “What’s your shoe size?”
I quirk a brow at him. “You know that whole thing about shoe size corresponding with penis size is a myth, right?”
He chuckles, and my insides go all mushy. I like making this guy laugh. I’d like to do it a lot more.
“I’m not angling for information about your junk,” he says. “But I’m guessing you probably don’t have skates.”
Of course not. “I’m a ten and a half.”
He nods. “That’s a pretty common size. I should be able to rustle you up a pair.”
“Rustle up?” I smirk. “Where are you from, the Wild West?”
“Rhode Island. Land of Mr. Potato Head, the Tennis Hall of Fame, and clear broth clam chowder.”
“Mr. Potato Head?”
“He’s our official family travel ambassador.” He puts air quotes around the last four words. “Hasbro, the company that makes him, is headquartered in Pawtucket.”
I’ve got nothing against tennis, so I skip that one and go directly to the chowder. “Clear broth sounds gross.”
He leans in and lowers his voice even though no one’s around to hear us. A fact I’m not about to point out to him because I’m too busy enjoying his warm breath on my neck and the earthy, woodsy scent of his body wash.
“I’ll lose my Rhode Island street cred if you tell anyone—”
“There is no such thing as Rhode Island street cred.”
“—but I prefer the New England kind.”
“Is that the one with milk or the one with tomatoes?”
“Milk. Tomato is Manhattan.”
“Has anyone ever told you you know way too much about clam chowder?” I ask, vigorously rubbing my arms. The cold is back. I mean, I know, logically, it never left. But I’m feeling it again now. I swear, it’s like the temperature dropped ten degrees in the last ten seconds.
“It’s a hazard of being a Rhodie. We take our chowder very seriously.” He bumps my shoulder with his. “Come on. You’ll freeze to death if you stay out here much longer, and I don’t want to be the reason you get fired.”
His concern for my well-being touches something deep inside me. It’s been a long time since I had anyone around to worry about my comfort level or job status. Yeah, I’ve got Hannah. And even though I don’t have contact with my other siblings, I know she’s doing everything she can to stop my parents from poisoning them against me.
