Chapter 19
Stevie
Ike is gone, and Adam and I are alone on the sidewalk in front of the whole town. And I can’t pull my eyes away from his muddy jeans. What has he been up to tonight? I want to ask him more questions and have a long conversation like we did last night.
There’s unmistakable hope in his gritty voice when he asks, “Is your date over already?”
My gaze darts to his face. When we talked last night, I learned that Adam’s eyes do the talking.
They also ask a lot of questions. He looked at me so deeply it was like he wanted to see everything about me—my past, present, and future.
Right now his eyes are asking if I made a Love Connection tonight.
Then he sees something on my face that makes his brow furrow.
“What happened?” he asks carefully, but embers are burning beneath the surface.
“What?” I swipe my fingers over my cheeks, just in case. Did some of those tears accidentally fall out? I don’t think they did, so I answer honestly. “Nothing. All goooooooood.” What am I saying? I blame Adam’s jeans for my loose lips.
His eyes tighten. “Hmm.” He steps closer. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here when I said I would be.”
The sad little ache that started to form when he didn’t show up starts to ease. I bite my lip. “The guy had headlights on his Crocs.” And I feel rotten after spending ten minutes with him, but I don’t mention that.
Adam smiles.
A couple of women leave the diner and step around us on their way out. Their conversation comes to an abrupt halt, turning to whispers when they’re a few feet away.
“Want to go somewhere?” I ask, then lean in to murmur, “I need to get away from people who are actively betting against me.” I want to be far away from the prying eyes. I’d like to have a harmless talk with Adam without causing more people to ante up.
“Yeah, but I’ll drive.” Adam motions to his muddy boots. “You don’t want me in your car.”
My nose crinkles. “Yeah, what happened to you?”
I can’t wait to find out. There will be a good story and a long conversation.
I grin when Adam opens the passenger door, and I climb into his big truck—no small trick in this denim skirt.
I have to maneuver carefully to keep the color of my underpants a mystery.
I might overshare on my podcast, but a woman has to have some secrets.
Adam waits until I’m settled and buckled in before he closes my door and circles the hood.
I’m all dressed up, and a handsome man helped me into his truck.
While he climbs in and cranks the engine, I dig my lip gloss out of my pocket.
Flipping down the visor and checking my face in the mirror, I swipe the peachy gloss over my mouth.
My lips twist, contorting my words when I say, “This feels more like a date than any date I’ve been on in weeks. ”
Adam coughs. “That right?”
I hide my smile. “Uh-huh.” I smooth my lips together and slide my lip gloss back into my pocket.
“Hmm.” He signals onto the main road that runs through Cape Georgeana. “If I were taking you on a date, I’d have a lot less mud on my jeans.”
“But not none.”
Strangely, I don’t mind his beyond-filthy jeans. Like his tan skin and strong hands, they’re evidence that the man works. Or he could be a mud wrestler in his free time. Either option is preferable to racist, misogynistic, creepy Crocs charms.
“Never none,” he agrees. His quiet, deep voice is almost lost under the rumble of his truck’s engine.
“If this were a date, I would . . .” I pause.
How would I dress to go out with Adam? Where would he take me?
A smile takes over my face at the thought.
“If you took me on a date, what would we do? Hypothetically, I mean, since I can’t come anywhere near you until I win this bet,” I remind both of us.
Adam’s chest rises and falls slowly while he thinks.
The rain clouds finally parted long enough to let some light through, but it’s getting late.
Summer days are long in Maine, but the sun is already dipping behind the trees.
Yellow sunbeams flash through Adam’s window around him intermittently, and I swear I hear Barry White echoing in my head when he rests one hand over the steering wheel and settles into his seat.
Why does he have to look like that? I swallow.
Then, flashes of memories replay as déjà vu washes over me: Adam’s tan hand hangs over the steering wheel, and his elbow rests on his door. The sound of a diesel engine. Sunlight coming through the trees behind him. The scent of cedarwood and earth. Mud everywhere.
I’ve been here before. My chest aches.
Adam’s voice rumbles through my delirium. “Hypothetically?”
To heck with hypothetically. I want this so much, my brain is counterfeiting memories. I’m also well aware of the pickle I’m in with this bet.
I sigh. “Yeah, hypothetically. What would we do on a date?”
“How long have we been hypothetically dating?”
Oooh. Great clarifying question. I like how his mind takes unexpected left turns. It’s another thing I noticed last night. “Let's say we’ve been seeing each other for”—I scrunch my face at the top of the cab—“a year.”
“Hmmm.” The sound rolls like thunder while he scratches the scruff on his jaw, thinking. “Our one year anniversary. This needs to be good.”
“Don’t mess it up like our third date.” I fake a grimace. “What a mess.”
Adam sobers. “The oyster bar was your idea, Carrot Cake.”
“Carrot Cake?” My heart thumps over our imaginary third date and his fictional term of endearment. He is way too good at this, and I knew I didn't mishear him the other night.
He nods, all business. “For our one year anniversary, though?” The corner of his mouth hitches. “I’d want to get you alone.”
I raise my eyebrows, holding my breath.
“Somewhere outside . . .”
Points for Adam. He already knows outside is my favorite place to be.
“There would be food. A gourmet picnic—”
A snarling sound comes from my stomach, and Adam chuckles.
“We’d eat, talk until the sun went down, then we’d look at the stars.” His voice deepens. “Obviously, for the anniversary there has to be jewelry. I’d surprise you with—”
“Opals.” I sigh, leaning into the fantasy a little too hard. “I’m an opal girl, just for the record.” I rub my knees. Shut up, Stevie. Let the man paint a picture.
“Opals,” he murmurs with a nod, like he’s putting the information in his back pocket. “Done.”
We turn onto a treacherous dirt road in the middle of nowhere, and I realize I don’t know where we’re going.
Even though I’ve lived here my whole life, I’ve never been on this road that skirts the western border of the preserve.
It’s a mess with mud and washed-out areas that Adam steers around carefully. This must be impossible when it rains.
I have more interesting things to think about, though. I want to hear more about our anniversary date and how he’s going to shower me with opals. But when Adam parks in front of a cabin tucked in the trees, I raise an eyebrow.
A long set of natural steps, framed with worn wooden beams, blanketed with moss, and sprinkled on either side with wild strawberry blossoms, leads to a wide porch. The place isn’t huge, but the brown-shingle siding and rockwork make it perfectly cozy.
I want it.
I want it bad.
“Is this your place?” I stumble over the words.
He nods. “I need to change into clean clothes. I’ll be quick.”
Please take your time. I’m fantasizing here.
My mouth hangs open when I peer out the windshield. “Sure. Okay.”
He laughs, and my heart glows. “Would you prefer to wait here, or . . .”
“Oh, I’m coming.” I’m already opening my door. “If there’s a fireplace and a claw-foot tub inside, I will pass out on the spot.”
I’m satisfied when Adam’s face flushes, and he coughs. I know that cough. There is a claw-foot tub, or at least a fireplace.
Smiling to myself, I follow Adam up the earthy stairs to his cabin.
Now that we’re closer I see that the wild strawberries running amok around the steps are starting to ripen.
Some are plump and red, ready for Stevie Sullivan to pilfer.
And Adam still looks really good in those muddy jeans.
I don’t want him to change. I like him just like this.
“Hey.” I snag his hand, a bold move that I can’t bring myself to regret. I liked holding his hand last night. “Hold up.”
Adam stops, turning to face me. “Yeah?”
I squeeze his hand once before letting him go. “Can we just sit out here and talk? It’s so nice outside.”
“Ruth will hang me if I don’t wash up before we . . .” He frowns.
“Your sister doesn’t need to know.” I grin like I’m the cute little devil on his shoulder.
“She’ll know.” He takes my hand, leading me up the steps to his porch.
There’s a hammock that looks like it would be the end of my dignity if I attempted to get into it.
“You can hang out here, if you want. I’ll be less than five minutes, then I’m all yours.
” He coughs. “I mean—you know what I mean.”
I stifle a whine. “Five minutes,” I challenge, looking at my nonexistent watch.
He goes inside, and I eyeball the hammock.
It’s wide and sturdier than others that I’ve seen, with a wooden frame and thick padding over a web of cotton rope.
It’s tempting, but I’ve already fallen on my butt once in front of Adam.
That’s enough. Instead, I sit on the dry top step, lying on my knees and running my fingers over the soft moss at my feet.
I take a long, deep breath. I need to calm down. It's good to have a minute to think and gather my wits.
Adam’s just a handsome man with an idyllic cabin, who happens to be an expert listener and conversationalist—once I get him talking, anyway.
Being able to talk to Adam feels like a rare privilege, like standing on the Faroe Islands or visiting the Oval Office.
Now that he’s consistently wearing a shirt, I’m clean out of objections.
But no one needs to know about this. Adam is my little secret, I decide.
I can fess up to my friends about him—if there's anything to admit, anyway—after I win this bet.
I pluck a perfectly red wild strawberry—barely bigger than a pea—and pop it into my mouth.
The sweet zing of sun-warmed juice covers my tongue, and I’m sure I’ve made the right choice.
I like Adam, and no one needs to know he’s nearly perfect.
I forage a few more berries, wishing I had thought to bring my cheeseburger from the truck.
“Okay, I—”
I startle, sucking in a breath. “Adam.”
He chuckles. “Sorry, I thought you heard me.” He lowers beside me on the step, scrubbed clean. His hair drips lightly on his heather-gray T-shirt, but it’s combed away from his face in a way that makes my breath catch. He drapes his arms over his knees. “Well?”
I might be tongue-tied from sensory overload. “What?”
“Are we going to finish our hypothetical anniversary date?” A lock of wet hair falls onto his forehead, and he combs it away with his fingers. “Because I had some ideas while I was in the shower—”
“My, my.” I make a show of fanning myself. “Adam Sandoval, what would Ruth say?”
“She'd be all over this.” He gestures back and forth between the two of us with his index finger. “Ruth’s always pressuring me to be more . . . social.”
I pick another strawberry and pop it in my mouth. “And you don't like being social?”
Adam finds a ripe strawberry, plucking it and dropping it into my palm like we've done this a hundred times. “I'm more comfortable by myself.”
“Do you ever get lonely, though?” I ask, tossing the berry into my mouth.
Oh, this one is extra sweet. I close my eyes to taste it better, tipping my face to the sky. This flavor is exactly what God intended when he created the strawberry. It’s perfect.
Adam makes a sound like he's stifling a groan. “Uh, no. I'm not lonely.” I sense movement and feel his warmth closer at my side. “Not lately.”
When I open my eyes, Adam is watching me.
It's dusky now, and a cricket has started chirping somewhere near the edge of the woods. While I listen, Adam sits quietly, which seems to be his default mode.
I've never been around anyone who was so fully present. Everyone's attention is divided in a dozen different ways—multitasking on screens in a variety of sizes, each feeding information to us in thirty-second snippets. I'm so guilty of this.
But Adam is different. His focus is long and steady. When he's engaged, the man is engaged. When he listens, he hears every word. Maybe there's something to be said for a person acclimating to solitude.
“What are you thinking about?” I ask, just to fill the silence. I'm not fully acclimated, I guess.
His dark gaze doesn't shift. “I'm thinking about something I should be ashamed of,” he says quietly.
Warmth spreads from my chest to my cheeks, and I snicker. “You have my full attention.” I swipe the last of the strawberry juice from the corner of my mouth.
Adam tracks it. “The first time I saw you, you were hiking, and I spotted you from across a deep ravine. Your red hair stands out in the forest—I don’t know if you know that.
” He smiles at my raised eyebrows. “I gave you a nickname.” He lifts a hand, fingering the ends of a lock of curls. “Is this okay?”
I nod, wrapping a hand around his forearm while he slides my hair through his fingers. Not many people stun me to silence, but this is Adam's gift. I'm holding onto him for dear life.
He clears his throat, and his gaze moves from my hair to my mouth, finally settling on my eyes. Then he murmurs so softly I'm not sure the words are for me, “I can’t believe I'm allowed to touch you.”
I can’t believe any of this is real. “What’s the nickname?”
My heart trips at his shy, crooked smile. “Carrot Cake.” His hand moves to the side of my neck, and he buries his fingers in the back of my hair. His thumb slides down my cheek.
Oh.
So, this is what it feels like to be swept off my feet. I’ve never understood the saying before, but I get it now. It feels like falling, flying, and screaming on the inside, all while sitting motionless and silent. I stare up into Adam’s eyes, begging him for relief. “That’s a terrible nickname.”
He tilts his head to the side, examining me. “Can I tell you something else?”
I pull in a ragged breath, tightening my hold on his arm. “Okay.”
There’s a wicked spark in his dark eyes now. “I’m glad your date ended early.” He moves closer.
“Why is that?”
“Because I’ve wanted to do this all day.” He doesn’t move, but his eyes skim over my mouth.