“Hi.” He holds up a hand in a small wave.
The storm clouds from this morning have parted, and the last rays of sunlight burst around him. If my heart wasn’t drumming in my ears, I’d probably hear Barry White murmuring the seductive opening lines of “Can’t Get Enough of Your Love” while Adam stands there with the sunset glowing behind him.
“A—” I try to say his name again, but the word catches in my throat. I frown, swallowing his name and trying again. “Ad ...”
Why does he have to look like that? His dark hair is doing that long, flipping thing over his tan neck. He’s wearing a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms. There are two perfect lines between his dark eyebrows, and there’s worry in his eyes.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
There’s a record scratch, and Barry stops singing.
I shake my head. “I’m good,” I say too loudly, holding the door open wide. “Come in.”
Adam pulls a leather messenger bag over his head. I didn’t notice it before, engrossed in his Barry White entrance as I was. “You still up for this?”
His cedarwood scent is in my living room. My head fills with daisy crowns, raindrops on cheeks, and the feeling of being carried against his chest. Shirtless Adam, the mythical being, is standing on my worn-out carpet.
“Uh ...” I can’t get my mouth to work. “Yes.”
Chapter 17
Adam
“Did I interrupt dinner?” I ask, eyeing the plate of food on Stevie’s coffee table.
Maybe she has low blood sugar. She’s been acting strange since she opened her door. Honestly, seeing her so out of sorts is helping me keep my head on straight. I needed a reminder of who Stevie is.
The pep talk I got from Ruth on the drive here certainly didn’t help. For my sanity, I had to hang up after she started giving me pointers about how to “make a move.” I will be making no moves tonight. For reasons that defy logic, Stevie is determined to win this bet with her friends, and I’m not a guy who pushes past a woman’s objections.
Yet here I am using trail-camera footage as a flimsy excuse to be near her. The needle on my compass is still pointing to Stevie. I can sit on her couch, in her house that smells like apples and cinnamon andher, and behave myself.
I still can’t believe I told her I like her, like we’re in third grade, and I couldn’t find better words. I have better words, but something about this woman steals them away from me.
Stevie runs her hand over her red hair, drawing my eye. “Those are just my pot stickers,” she says, like everyone keepsa platter of pot stickers on their coffee table like potpourri. She stops fidgeting with her hair, tossing the curling ends over her shoulder with a huff. She sits and motions for me to take the spot beside her, centering the plate between us. “Help yourself.”
That is definitely Stevie’s dinner. “Thanks,” I say, not reaching for her food. “Why don’t you eat while I pull up the photos?”
I don’t have to ask her twice. She takes the plate, folding her legs under herself and digging in while I start my laptop and click on the right folder. Is she humming a Queen song while she eats?
“I should warn you, I already looked at some of these, and there’s not much to see.” I relax against the cushions beside her.
She's blowing on a pot sticker to cool it off, but she stops to glare at me. “You looked without me?”
I shrug.
“I know, I know. It’s your job, but still.” She blows on her pot sticker again, her pink lips parted in a perfectO. I wish she wouldn’t do that. “You didn’t delete anything, right?”
I have to look away. “Are you accusing me of destroying evidence?” I ask with a small chuckle. I’m figuring it out: as long as I don’t look directly at her, I can talk and act like my real self.
“I don’t know, am I?” With an accusatory look, she holds up a pot sticker like a weapon.
“Uh ... No?” I stumble over the word. I looked at her. That’s my mistake. I refocus on the computer, balancing it on my knees and clicking the most recent of the photos. “So, this is most of it.” I gesture to the raccoon on the screen. “You ready?”
Stevie nods, chewing her food. “Give it to me.”
I click through the photos while Stevie rates the cuteness of the raccoons on a generous scale and finishes her pot stickers. I track her in the corner of my eye as she slides her plate onto the coffee table, retucking her legs beneath herself.
I don’t understand how women are able to sit like that. My body doesn’t bend that way. Stevie’s, though?
