Chapter 15
Adam
This thunderstorm is nuts. Light clouds and drizzle started yesterday morning and only got heavier.
Dark clouds rolled in and pouring rain persisted through the night until booming thunder pulled me out of sleep this morning.
I don’t mind starting my week working on my laptop on my covered front porch, scrolling through trail-camera footage while thunder rolls through the forest around me.
I have the best job, and this is my favorite kind of weather.
The photos are just what I expected to find, unfortunately.
It's all deer, raccoons, and the occasional hikers, but I still haven’t found what I’m looking for.
No poachers, but that’s not what I’m after.
I mean, of course I’m looking for a close-up of those guys.
That’s the whole point. But what I’m really after are the pictures of Stevie going Jackie Chan on that turkey last week.
I haven’t gotten to them yet. So far it’s just raccoon after raccoon.
My phone dings with a message. It’s a text from Ruth with a link to the latest episode of Stevie’s podcast. It looks like she kept busy on our rainy day yesterday.
I press play, happy to have something to listen to while I work through the images from the trail cameras. I’m only three minutes into the episode when Stevie says something that makes my stomach lurch.
Her voice is sweet like honey but so serious: “A few listeners have reached out to me with interest in guided tours. If you’re a Squatcher who’d like to tour the sighting area, you’ll find a link with all the info in my show notes.”
The link leads to a simple page with an email address and rates.
Oh, Stevie. What are you up to? Now instead of imagining her hiking alone in the woods, I’m picturing her alone with a random stranger from the internet, and my pulse pounds.
At least she’s created a separate email to protect her privacy, I guess. That’s something.
With a gusty sigh, I click back to my trail-camera photos and focus on the task at hand.
Raccoon.
Raccoon.
Deer.
Raccoon.
I strum my fingers on the leg of my jeans, chewing the inside of my cheek while I scroll.
Raccoon.
Hiker.
Raccoon.
My jackhammering knee almost bounces my laptop off my legs.
I can’t work like this. I slam my computer closed and grab the keys to my truck from the hook by my door. I’m backing down my long muddy driveway before I know where I’m headed. Where would Stevie be at ten o’clock on a Monday morning?
I dial her number and turn onto the main road into town while the phone rings over the speaker.
“Hello?”
I gulp. How does that single word from her make my throat tighten? How does she do this to me? Every word I’ve ever known leaves my head, and all I can think about is our hug and the way she looked with oxeye daisies in her hair—and some other guy walking behind her on the trail in the preserve.
“Hello?” she sing-songs. “Adam?”
“Uh, Stevie?”
“Yeah?”
“This is Adam.”
“I know.” She’s definitely grinning.
And I’m acting like an idiot. I give myself the world’s fastest pep talk: Pull it together. Stevie isn’t scary. She’s just the most fascinating woman you’ve ever met.
I clear my throat. “Where are you?”
“Uh—”
“Can I come see you, I mean?” Why do I think talking to her in person will be any easier?
“Sure. I’m at the diner. Your timing is perfect—the morning rush is over.”
Oh. That’s good, I guess. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
“Sounds good. Bye, Adam.”
I swallow. “Bye.”
A few minutes later, the bell jingles when I push through the door into the diner. Stevie is topping off glasses at a booth in the back, and the place is empty otherwise.
“Have a seat anywhere you like,” she calls, then looks up. “Oh, hi.” She gestures with the pitcher. “Gimme just a sec.”
I take a seat at the counter near the register. Maybe if I ignore her cute yellow uniform dress and don’t look at her freckles, I can get a coherent thought to leave my mouth. I’m looking at anything but Stevie when I spot the big chalkboard sign on the wall behind the counter.
It has a simple chart with two columns labeled “Bigfoot” and “Boyfriend” with names and dollar amounts scribbled hastily under each.
There’s a glass jar half full of cash on the shelf beside it, and I realize what’s going on here.
I’ve listened to the podcast. And judging by the number of people who have bet on “Boyfriend,” most of Cape Georgeana thinks Stevie is going to lose this little wager. Things are getting serious.
Forgive the pun, but this puts me in a hairy position.
I don’t want her friends to succeed in finding a man for her, because .
. . Why? I don’t know. I’m not examining it too closely.
I just know that I don’t like them setting her up on random dates.
But I don’t want to encourage Stevie’s search for Bigfoot because I am the Bigfoot she’s after.
It can’t end well. Besides that, the part where she’s going to take strangers into the woods makes my shoulders tense. I tap my thumb on my leg while I wait.
“What’s up, Adam?” Stevie appears on the other side of the counter, her cheeks flushed and her hair in a ponytail. “Can I get you something to eat?”
I can’t think of anything except how it felt to hug her and how my inner compass realigned to her. I shake my head. “No.”
She bites her bottom lip, a question in her eyes. “Did you need something?”
I need to use words. I can do this. “I saw that you’re going to start doing tours.”
Her smile brightens. “I am. Is that okay? I checked online, and I didn’t see anything in the Biddeford Land Trust policies that said I couldn’t—”
“That part is all good.” I shake my head. “It’s just—I’d like to join you.”
Her mouth drops open. “You would?” She taps the bottom of a stack of plastic menus against the counter, straightening them with jittery fingers. “Why?”
To keep you safe.
Because I don’t trust random strangers with you.
I don’t say either of these things. Instead, my caveman brain takes over. “Because I like you.”
Whoosh. All of the air leaves my lungs. I like Stevie. Of course I do.
The stack of menus Stevie was holding scatters on the floor, sliding in every direction. “Oh!” She drops behind the counter.
I jump to my feet, circling around to help her gather them. Crouching beside her, I add glossy menus to her stack. We’re taking way too long to do this.
“Have you scheduled any tours yet?” I ask, keeping my voice low. I appreciate this moment of semiprivacy behind the counter.
“Um.” She focuses on the menus, straightening the edges until they’re perfectly aligned. She doesn’t stand. “I have a group of guys coming from Portland later this week,” she murmurs.
A group of men? Oh, I don’t think so.
“Can I join you?” I just looked at her lips.
Tightening my jaw, I force myself to make eye contact. This is worse, though. Her big brown eyes blink at me, and I shift my gaze to her nose.
Freckles.
Nothing is safe.
“Uh-huh.” She nods, peering up at me and forcing me to meet her gaze.
“What?” I ask.
“You can come on my tour,” she says softly. “I’ll even give you a discount.”
The corner of my mouth hitches. “Oh, you will, huh?”
Her brown eyes blink a few times. Her answering smile is slow, and am I crazy or did her eyes just dart to my mouth?
A woman clears her throat above us.
Stevie startles.
An older woman grins down at us knowingly. “Can I pay my check?” she asks, then motions to the chalkboard. “And I want to put twenty bucks on ‘boyfriend.’”
“Of course.” Stevie scrambles to her feet.
The woman watches us emerge from behind the counter with a smug glint in her eyes, then she opens a big purse.
“Twenty bucks?” Stevie asks, scribbling the woman’s name in the Boyfriend column with squeaky chalk.
“Yes, ma’am,” she says happily, passing over a bill.
Stevie drops it into the jar, and when the woman leaves, she spins to face me. “Give me twenty bucks.” Her voice is so urgent and demanding, I half expect her to pat me down for the cash.
“What?” I ask with a shocked laugh.
She tips her face to the ceiling with a whine. “I was winning all weekend. I had it. Then this morning a bunch of locals came in and messed everything up. You’re betting on Bigfoot.” She holds out a delicate hand, curling her fingers toward herself over and over. “Give me your wallet.”
This is the strangest mugging I’ve ever been involved in.
But I do as Stevie says, sliding a twenty-dollar bill out of my wallet and dropping it into the jar myself. I’m starting to worry that I’d do anything this woman told me to do.
She poises the chalk under the Bigfoot column. “Adam . . . ?”
“Sandoval.”
“Adam Sandoval,” she murmurs as she scribbles my name onto the board.
I don’t appreciate having my name in the Bigfoot column, but I like rooting for Stevie to not find some random boyfriend. And the sound of my name in her soft voice makes me feel like I could lift a train over my head.
When she’s finished placing my bet, she drops the chalk on the counter with a clink. “So, Adam Sandoval.” She repeats my name, brushing her hands on her white apron. “You like me.”
My face burns. I already admitted it to her, and there’s no point in denying it. She might be delusional. She might believe in ten-foot-tall bipedal apes. But so help me, I like Stevie Sullivan.
“Yes, I do.” I fold my arms over my chest.
Stevie bites her pink lower lip. “Then we have a big problem.”