Adam smiles.
A couple of women leave the diner and step around us on their way out. Their conversation comes to an abrupt halt, turning to whispers when they’re a few feet away.
“Want to go somewhere?” I ask, then lean in to murmur, “I need to get away from people who are actively betting against me.” I want to be far away from the prying eyes. I’d like to have a harmless talk with Adam without causing more people to ante up.
“Yeah, but I’ll drive.” Adam motions to his muddy boots. “You don’t want me in your car.”
My nose crinkles. “Yeah, what happened to you?”
I can’t wait to find out. There will be a good story and a long conversation. I grin when Adam opens the passenger door, and I climb into his big truck—no small trick in this denim skirt. I have to maneuver carefully to keep the color of my underpants a mystery. I might overshare on my podcast, but a woman has to havesomesecrets.
Adam waits until I’m settled and buckled in before he closes my door and circles the hood. I’m all dressed up, and a handsome man helped me into his truck. While he climbs in and cranks the engine, I dig my lip gloss out of my pocket. Flipping down the visor and checking my face in the mirror, I swipe the peachy gloss over my mouth. My lips twist, contorting my words when I say, “This feels more like a date than any date I’ve been on in weeks.”
Adam coughs. “That right?”
I hide my smile. “Uh-huh.” I smooth my lips together and slide my lip gloss back into my pocket.
“Hmm.” He signals onto the main road that runs through Cape Georgeana. “If I were taking you on a date, I’d have a lot less mud on my jeans.”
“But not none.”
Strangely, I don’t mind his beyond-filthy jeans. Like his tan skin and strong hands, they’re evidence that the man works. Or he could be a mud wrestler in his free time. Either option is preferable to racist, misogynistic, creepy Crocs charms.
“Never none,” he agrees. His quiet, deep voice is almost lost under the rumble of his truck’s engine.
“If this were a date, I would ...” I pause. How would I dress to go out with Adam? Where would he take me? A smile takes over my face at the thought. “If you took me on a date, what would we do? Hypothetically, I mean, since I can’t come anywhere near you until I win this bet,” I remind both of us.
Adam’s chest rises and falls slowly while he thinks. The rain clouds finally parted long enough to let some light through, but it’s getting late. Summer days are long in Maine, but the sun is already dipping behind the trees. Yellow sunbeams flash through Adam’s window around him intermittently, and I swear I hear Barry White echoing in my head when he rests one hand over the steering wheel and settles into his seat.
Why does he have to look like that? I swallow.
Then, flashes of memories replay as déjà vu washes over me: Adam’s tan hand hangs over the steering wheel, and his elbow rests on his door. The sound of a diesel engine. Sunlight coming through the trees behind him. The scent of cedarwood and earth. Mud everywhere.
I’ve been here before. My chest aches.
Adam’s voice rumbles through my delirium. “Hypothetically?”
To heck with hypothetically. I want this so much, my brain is counterfeiting memories. I’m also well aware of the pickle I’m in with this bet.
I sigh. “Yeah,hypothetically. What would we do on a date?”
“How long have we been hypothetically dating?”
Oooh. Great clarifying question. I like how his mind takes unexpected left turns. It’s another thing I noticed last night. “Let's say we’ve been seeing each other for”—I scrunch my face at the top of the cab—“a year.”
“Hmmm.” The sound rolls like thunder while he scratches the scruff on his jaw, thinking. “Our one year anniversary. This needs to be good.”
“Don’t mess it up like our third date.” I fake a grimace. “What a mess.”
Adam sobers. “The oyster bar was your idea, Carrot Cake.”
“Carrot Cake?” My heart thumps over our imaginary third date and his fictional term of endearment. He is way too good at this, and I knew I didn't mishear him the other night.
He nods, all business. “For our one year anniversary, though?” The corner of his mouth hitches. “I’d want to get you alone.”
I raise my eyebrows, holding my breath.
“Somewhere outside . . .”
