Page 8 of Love in the Time of Conversation Hearts

Sturgeon Baker has been the city planner for almost as long as I’ve been alive. There are photos of him from ribbon cuttings in the mid-nineties on display in the conference room. In them, his now-gray hair is dark, and a dimpled, easy smile suggests a warmth about him that I assume he outgrew in his middle age. Now, he has the sense of humor of a damp washcloth, and equally as much personality. I avoid him as much as possible, though since he ultimately signs off on my paychecks, that effort is mostly in vain.

“Cora, I’m not having this discussion again. The tickets have been purchased. The hotel is booked. Adam has kindly offered to drive you both to Reno.” He glares at me pointedly over the black frames of his bifocals. “You haven’t given me a single good reason you shouldn’t be in attendance at this conference.”

“Not even my permanent ban from the state of Nevada due to an isolated bachelorette incident in my early twenties?”

He scowls at my attempt at humor.

“Right. Of course not.” I uncross my legs just to cross them again. It’s my third visit to his office since our meeting last Monday, and the last chance I have to make him see reason before I’m forced to load up in a car with my least favorite coworker for a road trip I’d nearly give up the grant money to avoid. Nearly being the operative word, since that seems like the only way I’d get out of it at this point, and I’ve yet to volunteer that option.

Sturgeon leans back in his chair, hooking interlaced fingers around his knee as he studies me. “This will be a great learning opportunity for you, Cora. Not only for your current role, but for any future endeavors you may aspire to. Who knows, perhaps one day you will be the one running for mayor.”

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from actively grimacing. I have no desire to be a figurehead. Being in charge of celebrating and growing my hometown is where I thrive. Being a pretty face to represent the hard work my fellow city employees and I do on a daily basis does not interest me. My ego doesn’t need nearly as much stroking as Adam’s.

But I don’t say any of that. Instead, I force a, “Perhaps,” out through gritted teeth. Sturgeon either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, because he returns his attention to the stack of papers on his desk. It’s his signature cue that I’ve been dismissed. I gather my purse and now-lukewarm coffee, then turn toward the door. “I don’t suppose I could expense a rental car with all-wheel drive so I can drive separately and return home after the beautification seminar?”

He lets out an exasperated grunt. Sturgeon’s version of, Hell no.

Palm on the brass doorknob of the ornately carved wooden door to his office, I sigh. “Thought not. Thanks anyway, Sturge.”

He doesn’t glance up, just waves with a ballpoint pen woven between his fingers. “Always a pleasure, Cora.”

Dejected, I let myself out of his office, then collapse against the other side of his closed door. There’s no avoiding it. Like it or not, I’m going on this trip with Adam Sullivan.

Time to pack my bags.

When a brand-new luxury vehicle—practically glimmering with its soft, gold paint job against the light dusting of fresh snow—pulls into my driveway, I roll my eyes so hard I nearly bust a blood vessel.

“Could you be any more of a stereotype?” I grumble.

Adam has rounded the front of the ostentatious SUV but pauses by the closest headlight when my words hit him. He places a gloved hand on the hood and turns to address the vehicle. “She didn’t mean that, Stella. She’s just jealous, that’s all.”

I scoff. “More like I’m judging your misuse of the community’s money.”

“You think I bought this thing on my seven-thousand-dollar annual mayor’s salary?” he asks, brow arched and lips half-quirked into a grin that says, You’ve got to be kidding me.

Snow crunches underfoot as I stalk past him with my suitcase in hand since it won’t wheel through the fresh powder. He jolts into action, scurrying past me to pop open the trunk. The bag is yanked from my hands before I can register he’s reached for it, and he places it in the trunk with a solid thud.

“What, afraid I’d scratch your precious baby?” I tease.

He narrows his eyes at me. The gray of his irises is especially piercing today, accentuated by the contrast of five o’clock shadow that is a shade darker than the light brown hair on his head. “No, Cora. My mother would never forgive me if I let a woman do the heavy lifting, and though she’s barely five feet tall and now in her seventies, I’m still scared of her wrath.”

His face softens when he mentions his mom, and my heart pinches. “Oh,” is all I can say in response.

It’s enough to satisfy him, and I’m glad for that. Though I love my parents, I don’t always like them. They live in Florida now, in some retirement community where it’s always sunny and they are responsible for nothing but themselves. Not that that’s much different than how they were when I was growing up.

I wish I could smile the way Adam does when I think of my mother. His clear sentimentality toward his family thaws my distaste for him ever so slightly. A man who still respects his parents’ teachings as he’s pushing forty is a rare find, if my dating experience as of late is any indication.

“Ready to go?” he asks. A line forms between his brows as he studies me, and it heats my cheeks in a way that is both welcome because of the cold, and annoying because I don’t want to react this way to anything Adam does.

“Since, per our boss, I have no choice,” I glance longingly toward my warm home, catching a glimpse of Harrison glaring at Adam through the window, “I suppose.”

Adam claps his hands together. “No need to sound so enthused, Cora. You might accidentally give me the impression that you don’t like me.”

I turn to him, one brow raised. “I don’t like you. I thought I made that clear.”

His laugh is a rasping staccato, as sharp as his jawline and equally as attractive, which infuriates me. “Get in the car, woman. There’s coffee and a cinnamon roll waiting for you.”

The fact that I’m instantly salivating has nothing to do with him, and everything to do with the promise of baked goods. He holds the door open for me, and sure enough, there’s a brown paper bag with the Sugar on Top logo sitting in the passenger seat. I’ve already taken a bite of the warmed-up pastry—Juan was right, it’s so much better this way—when Adam folds his muscular frame into the vehicle and shuts his door.