Page 9 of Love in the Time of Conversation Hearts

“How’d you know I like these?” I ask around my mouthful.

He places a hand on the back of my seat and begins reversing out of my driveway. The lump of pastry gets stuck somewhere in my throat, and it takes a lot of effort to force it the rest of the way down. I can sense more than see the expanse of his forearm mere inches from my head. The hairs on the nape of my neck stand on end, and I shiver in response.

“Everyone likes them,” he says, with a tone that supplies an unspoken duh. “And Dorothy may have mentioned it.”

“That snitch,” I mutter.

He chuckles drily. In no time, we’ve passed through Main Street and made it to the two-lane road Adam so despises, headed toward I-80. Aside from the occasional pothole, the highway is pristine, and traffic flows easily. I straighten in my seat, even more confident that the council made the right decision in siding with me.

“Careful, your head is getting so big over there that I can’t see out my side mirror,” Adam chides.

“Ha ha.” I swallow the last of the cinnamon roll and fold the paper bag neatly, then set it on the floorboard beside my purse. “Just admit it. I was right, and you know it.”

He shakes his head. “I stand by my pitch. But I meant what I said. We want the same things; you’re just skipping over some practicalities that should be addressed before we start drawing in traffic that these roads cannot handle.”

I fight back the urge to mock-snore at his speech. “I promise you, Adam. All the research I did points to this being the right decision. If this conference is worth its weight, maybe they’ll be able to convince you since I can’t seem to.”

His lips twitch, and the fine lines at the corner of his eye crinkle. “Oh, please. You won me over a long time ago.”

My stomach clenches. I blame it on the sweet scent of the coffee, rather than his gravelly voice forming words that shouldn’t mean anything. “It’s only been a week since the meeting.”

“I know that.”

I flatten my lips. I have no clue what to do with that, so I choose to do nothing. Facing forward, a cloud of white greets me as we merge onto the interstate that will take us to Reno. As the proverbial cherry on top, the snowstorm was delayed and is now projected to hit in earnest over the weekend. Flurries rush the windshield, and his wipers hustle to clear them. The trees are blanketed already, and while the roadways are passable, I imagine the plows will be working overtime soon enough.

“If we get snowed in and my fundraiser suffers for it, I will never forgive you,” I say flatly.

Out of the corner of my eye, I note his jaw ticking. “I’d expect nothing less.”

Satisfied, I settle into my seat for the drive. It’ll only take an hour, and the conference will be over by Sunday. Add in a few cosmopolitans at the welcome cocktail hour this evening, and I have no doubt I can get through this largely unscathed. It’s just two days at a hotel with my work adversary in the middle of a blizzard. How bad can it really be?