COZY D-VIDE
We spend another two hours—and a total of three cosmos—in a whirlwind of handshakes and names I probably won’t remember. Adam’s calm confidence never slips, though he does mutter increasingly ridiculous facts under his breath as we approach people before he straightens and flashes his brightest smile, leaving me to control my laughter.
“Ron and his wife have six cats. They used to have eight. Pretty sure the fat one ate two of them.”
“Carly has been introduced to me no less than four times, and still thinks my name is Andy.”
“Last year, Denise and Carl sang ‘I Got You Babe’ at a karaoke bar while gazing at each other longingly. Looks like they’re still together. That’s nice.”
“Todd can solve one of those puzzle cubes in under a minute. Don’t ask him about it. He carries at least two mini ones in his pockets at all times so he can teach others how to do it.”
“Darlene is a professional yodeler.”
That one is followed by a wide-eyed look of mock terror that makes me almost spit out my drink. When I have to cover my mouth to hide my barely-contained cackle as the yodeler in question launches into the benefits of yodeling on tourism in the Sierra Nevadas, Adam thankfully makes an excuse to steer me back to the table of hors d’oeuvres. The aroma of bacon-wrapped dates and baked brie bites hits me, and my stomach growls. Loudly. I quickly chipmunk a couple of stuffed mushrooms into my cheeks so I have room in my hand for a bite-sized cheese ball.
Adam watches me stuff my face, a slight glimmer of amusement written in the curve of his lips. He tosses back the last dregs of another old fashioned, takes my empty martini glass from me, and hands them both to a passing waiter as I unceremoniously shove two pigs in a blanket into my mouth.
“What?” I ask around my mouthful when I notice him staring at me again. “Do I have something on my face?”
“No.” He chuckles, and the skin around his eyes crinkles. Those creases suit him. They make him look more distinguished, somehow. Dare I say, they’re attractive.
I shake my head and blink quickly. I’m feeling pleasantly buzzed from my three cosmos, but I must not have had as many hors d’oeuvres as I thought, because the alcohol is hitting my bloodstream faster than usual. That’s the only explanation for why I just thought of Adam Sullivan as attractive .
His hand has found its way to my lower back again. When did that happen? Why does it keep happening? And why is it so big ? It takes up at least half my back, and the warmth of it is a comfort.
I need real food. Fast. These thoughts are unacceptable, and the only explanation for them is too many cosmos and too-low blood sugar.
Luckily, it seems Adam is some kind of mind reader, because he leans in slightly to say, “This thing seems to be wrapping up, and we have a long day tomorrow. Why don’t we get out of here?” He looks pointedly at the cheese ball still in my hand, and the tick in his jaw would suggest he’s holding back a laugh at my expense. “We can order room service.”
As he drags his eyes back up to meet mine, a trail of heat follows. It’s funny. Not two hours ago, I was wondering what I could have possibly done to make him avoid all eye contact. And now, his eyes raking over my dress are making me want to crawl out of it. But I can’t let him know that he’s making me feel all tingly—no, that the alcohol is making me feel all tingly—because that would be embarrassing as hell. So I stare at him, unblinking, as I shove the cheese ball in my mouth.
“Lead the way.” The words are muffled by the food. He doesn’t hide his chuckle this time as he sweeps his arm in front of him, indicating I should precede him.
We both stand our ground, staring at each other, the air between us suddenly pulled tight. This feels like a battle of wills to see who will go first, but my stomach growls, and I’m not too proud to admit that I need sustenance. I press my lips into a firm line, give him a curt nod, and stalk out of the hotel bar.
The elevator ride back up to our room is silent and awkward again, which is a stark contrast to Adam’s suave smiles and casual confidence while mingling with the crowd downstairs. I try to study him out of the corner of my eye as the elevator takes us up, and he does seem tired. There’s a slight curve to his shoulders that’s matched in the downward pull of his mouth. It seems uncharacteristic of him. Every other time we’ve interacted, he’s exuded a brashness that has always gotten on my nerves. Seeing him now, though, has me wondering if his public face is different from his private one.
By the time we are back in the room, all thoughts of Adam in public or private are pushed aside by my stomach’s rude reminder that I was promised room service. Thankfully, Adam doesn’t waste any time pulling the menu from the top of the small desk near the window. He slides his free hand into his pocket as he reads it, flips it over, reads some more.
“How do you feel about pizza?” he asks.
“I feel very strongly about pizza,” I return as I slide my heels off my aching feet and kick them out of the way.
“Is it a good strong, or a bad strong?”
“Good.” I flop on the side of the bed and fold my legs underneath me. My stomach makes a rumbling noise I’m sure he can hear. “Right now, very good.”
His gray eyes meet mine over the menu, and a small smile lights up his features. It completely dispels the exhaustion I sensed a few moments ago, and I can’t help but question if he’s faking it with me now like he must have been faking it with the crowd downstairs. For some inexplicable reason, I hope he’s not.
“Why don’t you… change? Shower? Whatever you do at night. I’ll order,” he offers.
I take him up on it, collecting my pajamas, toothbrush, and toiletries from my suitcase and locking myself in the bathroom. When I finally emerge, Adam jumps up from the armchair to take my place. But not before I notice how comically large he looks in it. I flop into the bed and starfish out, now painfully aware that my hands and feet don’t even reach the edges.
Damn him. I feel bad making him take the chair. Even if it’s his fault we’re in this mess in the first place.
The shower starts, so I flip on the television and channel surf until I land on some inane reality show about home buying. A knock sounds at the door, so I open it to grab the pizza, then put it on the desk. The smell has my salivary glands working on overdrive. For about half a second, I consider waiting until Adam is out of the shower, but I can’t. I grab a slice and shove it in my mouth, completely foregoing the paper plates that came with the delivery.
“Oh, sweet. I love Home Finders ,” Adam says from behind me. I must have been so engrossed in my pizza that I didn’t hear him come out of the bathroom. When I turn around, he’s naked. Well, not naked. He’s got low-slung black joggers hanging from his hips. But he might as well be nude for all the sinful thoughts that enter my mind as I study the firm washboard of his abs, the smattering of dark hair over his chest. And now I’m not sure if my mouth is watering because of the pizza or because of him standing there, full torso on display and skin rosy from the warm shower.
He notices me staring, and with an apologetic shrug, points to his suitcase. “Sorry. Forgot to grab my shirt.”
I try not to fixate on the way his muscles flex and stretch as he bends to retrieve a bundle of gray fabric that becomes a faded Berkeley T-shirt when he pulls it over his head. It must be the steam spilling from the restroom that heats my cheeks. Or the remnants of the alcohol still flowing through my veins.
I quickly swallow the bite of pizza that’s gone stagnant in my mouth and cough as it works its way down my suddenly dry throat. “The only thing better than room service is room service and shitty cable,” I quip, hoping my voice sounds steadier than I feel.
“Absolutely,” he agrees, grabbing a slice of pizza and sitting cross-legged on the bed. He angles himself so he can see the television. “Looks like they’re in Tahoe.”
“They are.” Hoping some stability will help my lightheadedness, I move to sit on the opposite side of the bed. “She’s a butterfly gardener and he’s a work-from-home food blogger. Their budget is one million.”
He pauses with his slice of pizza halfway to his mouth. “I’m not sure if you’re being sarcastic or serious.”
“With this show, it could be either.”
He considers this for a moment, then he shrugs his concession and finally takes a bite of his pizza. “One million won’t get you too much in Tahoe these days.”
“Which is why it’s going to be so nice to have a beautiful, revitalized downtown to attract people like”—I consult the screen—“Allegra and Cornelius and their four beautiful children.”
Adam hums as he chews thoughtfully. “Yes, if only they could actually get to Heartsong from Tahoe, what with the state of the roads and all.”
I roll my eyes and let them land on him in a glare. “Maybe next year you can win your own grant and get these roads you’re so hell-bent on obsessing over.”
He chuckles good-naturedly. “I have no doubt your revitalized downtown will bring in enough revenue to widen our roadways without needing another grant.”
Inwardly, I preen at the compliment, though I try not to let it show. This feels good. Normal. With carbs and cheese in my belly, I’m no longer drooling over Adam like a teenager locked in a closet for seven minutes in heaven with her crush. Wild what a little hunger will do to a gal. We finish off the pizza with another episode of Home Finders , and when Adam notices me stifling my third yawn, he suggests we turn in to get ready for a day full of panel discussions and presentations tomorrow.
I crawl under the covers as he brings what looks like a scratchy blanket from the closet to the armchair, turning out the lights on his way. It’s pitch-black in the room, but I can hear him rustling around. It goes quiet for a few minutes, then he starts shifting again, scraping against the fabric of the armchair as he tries to get comfortable.
This goes on for another couple of rounds before I sigh loudly in exasperation. “Are you going to sleep?”
“I’m trying,” he mutters. “This is… less than ideal.”
I lie stock still for a few breaths. Just the thought of his large frame in that tiny chair has my neck aching. A low, almost growling noise rises from my throat, and I curse my empathy as I snap, “Get in the bed.”
“But—”
“We can set up a pillow barrier.” I’m already working on it, moving one of the decorative throw pillows into a makeshift divide between my pillows and the other two I hadn’t touched. “Roll up your blanket and put it between us. You can behave yourself and stay on your side, right?”
“Yes, ma’am.” The bed bounces as he slides in.
“Great,” I murmur.
“Great,” he repeats.
We lay in silence for a moment, but I can’t seem to close my eyes. I stare into the dark space of the ceiling, stiff and trying not to move. This close, I can smell the spice of his shampoo. The bed feels somehow warmer, even with the pillows between us. That electric awareness I’d been feeling earlier returns, now with no alcoholic accompaniment to blame.
With gritted teeth, I tell the ceiling, “If you tell anyone at work about this, I will personally make sure Dorothy never serves you warm pastries again.” It’s the best threat I can come up with.
“Noted,” is his curt response.
“This is awful,” I grumble.
“It’s not so bad.” Though even he doesn’t sound fully convinced.
I wiggle a bit to try to force my muscles to relax, then I squeeze my eyes shut. “Good night, Adam.”
“Good night, Cora,” he says. Then he annoyingly sing-songs, “Sweet dreams.”