28. Adam
Chapter twenty-eight
Adam
I had this trip to Naples to see my mom planned before our NLA presentation proposal was accepted. She had a minor outpatient procedure scheduled, and I wanted to be there to drive her back and forth and make sure she was okay. But now, as I’m driving up I-75 back toward St. Anastasia on Thursday afternoon, I worry it was a mistake to leave Nicole hanging like that. We had a moment—a whole series of moments really—in New Orleans. I was so tired on the drive home that I feel like I basically ignored her. She agreed to dinner tomorrow night, but I fear I’ve lost momentum somehow. I can picture her replaying the New Orleans trip over and over in her mind and worrying about our interactions, questioning what it meant to me. My asking for a date should have been a straightforward indication of my romantic interest, but knowing Nicole, she’ll find a way to rationalize it into being less significant than it is .
I get back to town late, so it’s not until Friday morning that I stop by the pet resort to pick up Joan, who’s overjoyed to see me. She wags her tail so hard I wonder if it’s going to fall off.
My thoughts stay on Nicole all day. We texted while I was gone. Just casual things. I sent her memes, of course, but leveled them up. I’m sending her flirty memes now, or at least what I construe to be flirty, given that I am not, by nature, a flirtatious person. The one I sent this morning said:
“How do introverts flirt? Eye contact.”
I included my own message about how I’m excited to “see” her tonight. That’s funny, right? Flirty? I inwardly groan. Imagine getting this far and then letting my awkwardness ruin it all. But I’ve been myself all along with Nicole, and she seems to like it. Like me.
Okay, self-doubt neutralized. For now. My next challenge is wardrobe. I want to look nice, but not like I look at work. Honestly, I care very little about clothing. I wear dress pants and shirts to work, and I wear what makes me feel comfortable when I’m at home. Clothes to wear on a date is an alien concept. I do an embarrassing amount of googling “men’s casual date outfits” as I decide. Plus, as the calendar creeps closer to May, Florida forgets all about spring and jumps right into the arms of summer, meaning it’s too warm for jeans. Cargo shorts feel too schlubby. Finally, I settle on casual navy-blue shorts that hit right above my knees, and a button down short-sleeved shirt—white with a subtle dot and cross pattern. I leave it untucked, with the top two collar buttons undone.
I’m exhausted before I even leave the house. I’m also buzzing a little with nerves but a lot with excitement .
I park in front of Nicole’s apartment at six and walk up the steps to her door. She answers my knock quickly, and I’m too stunned to greet her. Her face looks fresh—less done up than what she typically wears for work. Her lavender hair, which has grown out a bit, is pulled off her forehead in a tiny half ponytail near the back of her head. She wears a white tank top that’s tight against her skin, tucked impossibly neatly into black shorts with a red and white floral print and black lace trim. The shorts make her legs look remarkably long, stretching down to her white Vans.
“Wow,” I finally stammer.
She smirks at me. “That sounds like a good ‘wow.’”
“Uh, yeah.” I swallow thickly. “Definitely a good wow.” Meeting her eyes, I add, “You look beautiful.”
She blushes and smiles. “Thank you.” Then, she takes her time perusing from my white tennis shoes all the way up to my face. When she meets my eyes again, hers are dark. “You look really nice, too.”
If I make it to the end of this night before kissing her, it will be a miracle.
I push away that thought—for now—and take her hand instead. “We’re walking tonight, if that’s okay,” I say. “Staying downtown.”
She nods.
We walk a couple of blocks to an upscale casual restaurant with rooftop seating that overlooks the intercoastal waterway. We’re up high enough that a cool breeze cuts the humidity a little.
“This is gorgeous!” Nicole exclaims, looking down at the streets below from our table. We order and wait for our food, the conversation veering toward stilted. She seems anxious. When the server sets our food in front of us, Nicole’s expression is one of relief.
“Hey,” I say gently, tapping the top of her hand across the table. “What’s going on?”
“Well, it’s just…” she hesitates and then blurts, “this is a date, right?”
“Yes,” I say firmly. “This is absolutely a date.”
“Okay, because it’s just I wasn’t totally sure, and I know we held hands in New Orleans and my sisters were like definitely it’s a date, but maybe I was reading too much into things?” She looks down at her plate.
This tentative, unsure version of Nicole kills me. At work, she’s the picture of confidence and strength. Never hesitating to speak up in meetings. I would never have known, had she not told me, the way she agonizes over each conversation after the fact, obsessing over her choice of words and the reactions of others in the room. It strikes me then that knowing this about Nicole, knowing the parts of her that she keeps hidden, is a privilege. I’m honored by her trust. And though she fears that sharing these parts of herself will drive people away, for me, I’ve never wanted to be closer to her more than I do now. She’s no longer the Nicole I saw in my early infatuation, pretty, but two-dimensional, hazy at the edges. She’s in focus now, a full person with depth and weakness and joyful beauty. A person who loves tater tots but doesn’t think she ought to eat too many. Who makes bold choices, and then overthinks the risks when it’s already too late to turn back. Who charms the whole room but allows few people to see who she is beneath the sparkling personality and fearful of rejection.
“Nicole,” I say, wanting her full attention. “Look at me.” She raises her eyes, and I hate the uncertainty I see on her face. I reach across the table and take her hand in mine. “You’re not reading too much into this. To any of it. I like you. I like you a lot, actually. I want to date you.”
“You do?” she whispers.
“I’ve never wanted anything more.” The truth of that statement hits me in the chest as I say it. She’s it for me. I knew it the minute I saw her standing in the doorway of my office.
She slowly smiles then, her lips curving up shyly. “Okay,” she says softly.
She picks her fork up and takes a bite of her braised short rib. My eyes track the movement up to her mouth. “So delicious,” she sighs.
My whole body heats, and I let myself imagine, just for a moment, what her lips would taste like.
She looks up at me then and blushes at whatever she sees on my face.
“What?”
I clear my throat. “Nothing,” I say.
The moment passes, and we fill the rest of the time eating and chatting with our typical ease. She catches me up on the library gossip from the week, and I recount my trip to Naples.
“Do you want to get dessert?” I ask as we finish our meals.
Nicole groans and rubs her stomach, then brightens. “Can we get ice cream?” she asks. “Somewhere else? ”
“Anything you want,” I say. “Do you want to walk a bit first?”
Nicole shrugs. “Sure.”.
After I pay the check, we leave the restaurant and start walking. I take her hand right away and guide our steps to the waterfront. We walk all the way down the sidewalk by the water, and then back, holding hands and talking about everything and nothing.
We turn down Cannon Street, a narrow pedestrian thoroughfare lined with restaurants and shops. We stop at a shop known for its chocolates, but that also has amazing ice cream. We both order waffle cones—she chooses chocolate chip cookie dough and laughs at my order: Superman swirl.
“No, nuh-uh,” she laughs. “You are not ordering Superman ice cream.”
“Sure I am,” I shrug. “I like the fruit flavors.”
She rolls her eyes as we step outside the shop and find an empty bench. “This is like the sour gummy worms all over again,” she sighs.
I sit first on one end of the concrete bench backed up against the smooth stucco wall of the candy shop. My pulse ratchets up when Nicole sits directly next to me, our thighs touching.
She’s still teasing me as we start eating our ice cream. “That’s the ice cream Mr. July is going to order? Really?” Her eyes sparkle.
I groan. “You’re never going to forget that story, are you?”
She leans toward me, her shoulder only just brushing against my arm. I instinctively angle closer, and I’m staring into her eyes, our lips inches apart. “Never ever,” she hums, before tilting her body away again. I catch my breath as she focuses on her ice cream .
I look up to see Nicole watching me over her cone. “Can I ask you a question?”
I grin. “You just did.”
She rolls her eyes. “Can I ask you multiple questions?”
I laugh. “You can ask me whatever questions you want.”
“How long have you been interested in me?”
Oh boy. Moment of truth, I guess. “Since the first time I saw you, standing with Herb in my office doorway the day you came to interview,” I answer honestly.
Her eyes widen. “Really? All that time? Why didn’t you say anything before?”
I shrug and smile. “I have no game.”
She laughs. “But I like that about you,” she says. “I don’t like games. My ex played far too many, and I never knew where I stood with him. I was always on edge.”
What a jerk. I will never understand men who feel the need to keep women guessing. It speaks to their own insecurities.
She blushes and looks away. “Sorry. I guess it’s bad form to talk about an ex on a first date.”
“I don’t mind,” I say. “I want to know everything about you. Truly. Besides, this doesn’t really feel like a first date, does it?”
She’s quiet for a moment. “No,” she says with surprise in her voice. “It really doesn’t.”
I grin. “Must be because we’ve already spent so much time together. The whole romance trope of work colleagues to friends to lovers…” I feel my face burning as I trail off. I can’t believe I just said that.
She bursts out laughing. “Let’s not jump ahead,” she teases.
I feel heat all the way up to the tips of my ears, not only from embarrassment, but now I am jumping ahead, in my brain at least. Shut it down, Adam , I order myself as I picture my palms sliding over Nicole’s curves, fingers tangling in soft, lavender hair. Maybe it’s my imagination, considering my current train of thought, but Nicole’s eyes look darker, her cheeks flushing as she bites her lip.
I clear my throat. “Anyway,” I say.
“Anyway,” she echoes. We stare at each other for a beat.
“ Now it kind of feels like a first date,” she says, her eyes twinkling.
“Yeah, I made things awkward. My superpower,” I say dryly.
Nicole laughs. “Everyone has to be good at something,” she quips, and we’re grinning at each other.
I hold her gaze, and the grin on her face dips. She leans closer, holding eye contact. My heart drums in my chest, and I’m getting that jittery feeling again. I’m hypnotized in this moment, standing at the precipice of the desire that has been fizzing inside me since I sat captivated in Nicole’s interview presentation almost two years ago. We’ve been locked in a back and forth these last several months, me pushing forward, scraping for any morsel of progress, and her flitting away again even when I think she’ll linger. And I let her go every time, hoping she’d flutter back to me, that she’d recognize me as a safe place to land.
I survey her now, tendrils of pastel hair loose and wild around her face. Emerald eyes dilated and deep, like the most verdant jungle. Smooth skin tinted red on the apples of her cheeks, just under a cluster of delicate freckles. Pink lips supple and pinched between her teeth. Glowing. Ethereal. Ephemeral.
Before I can overthink it, I’m drifting forward. I slide my free hand onto the back of her neck and my eyes drop closed. Nicole gasps softly just as my lips brush against hers, gently, tentatively inquiring. She answers me back with an assurance that steals my breath. Her hand moves to rest on my thigh, gripping the fabric of my shorts, and I angle my head closer, pressing harder, tasting the chocolate on her mouth. I inhale through my nose and smell the thick, sugary ice cream and the ginger zest of her skin. The heat that has been simmering between us all night, for months now, really, finally boils over as we come together, no longer a back and forth, but a union, a blending of sensibilities and fervor.
Her teeth scrape against my bottom lip, and I suppress a moan. Distracted, I let her take the lead as she parts my lips with her tongue. I trail a hand down her spine as I push her closer into me.
Suddenly, I’m jolted out of the best kiss of my life by a shocking cold sensation. I’m utterly confused at first, my brain not making connections between the sensations I’m feeling and the nerve endings where they’re occurring. A glance at Nicole’s face tells me she's just as perplexed as to what might have happened, why I pulled away. Finally, I look at my elbow and see Nicole’s half eaten ice cream cone, still grasped in her hand, pressing against my forearm.
“Oh,” I say. I look up at Nicole, and her cheeks are flushed.
“I … I forgot I was holding it,” she manages.
I laugh and kiss her quickly on the lips. God, she’s adorable. As I emerge from my Nicole-induced haze, more details take shape. For one, the ice cream cone in my left hand is dripping messily onto my shoes.
“I guess we both got a little carried away.” I smile sheepishly.
“I didn’t mind,” Nicole says boldly, holding my gaze.
“Me neither,” I murmur. “But maybe let’s get some napkins.”
After I get cleaned up, we walk slowly back to her apartment, stealing kisses every few yards. In late spring in St. Anastasia, the jasmine vines blossom with delicate white flowers exploding onto greenery across the city. The heavy, sweet aroma of the jasmine blossoms wafts into the streets. It’s a heady combination: Nicole’s lips and the fragrant, sultry smell of jasmine. It's a scent I know I’ll forevermore associate with this night, with this woman, and with this start of a dream come true.