Chapter 2. The Errand
As I pull my boots back on in the hallway, I feel like a lamb being led to slaughter. Because, of course, Adam must have come to Millie’s birthday just to confront me about whatever happened four years ago—about whatever it is that I did.
I want so badly to tell Peter I’ll take a cab and pick up the cake on my own, or even suggest that Adam handle it himself. But Adam doesn’t leave for a second. He stays right there until Peter finishes giving me the instructions, and before I know it, Adam and I are stepping out of the house together, walking toward his black SUV parked in the driveway.
We trudge through the snow and climb into the car without a word. The tension between us hangs heavy in the air, as visible as the white puffs of breath escaping into the cold. I fumble with the seatbelt, pulling my jacket tighter around me, shivering from a mix of awkwardness and the biting chill. Adam starts the car, and while it warms up, we just sit there in silence.
God, I wish Sean were here. He has a car too, and then I wouldn’t be stuck with Adam freaking Payne, who clearly hates me and is probably plotting to ditch my lifeless body on the side of the road on our way back.
I really need to say something before he actually does kill me—maybe try to clear the air and finally ask him what happened.
I rub my hands together and glance at Adam. He’s staring straight ahead, his face blank, and the anxiety bubbling in my stomach is almost unbearable. I have to make the first move—if I don’t, I’ll spend the whole weekend feeling like I’m walking on pins and needles.
“Listen,” I start.
But at that exact moment, Adam turns to me and says, “I can turn on the heated seat if you’re cold.”
We both fall silent, just staring at each other.
“What?” he asks.
“What?” I echo, then quickly add, “That would be great, thanks.”
Adam presses a button on the dashboard, and almost immediately, the seat beneath me starts to warm up. He watches me—not with hostility, but as if he wants me to say whatever it was I was about to say.
“Thanks,” I mumble again, my pulse quickening. My face is hot, and my tongue feels heavy, like it’s not even mine, just something foreign weighing down my mouth. I pull out my phone, pretending to scroll through it, anything to avoid meeting his gaze, which I can still feel lingering on me.
Soon, the car rumbles to life, and we pull out of the driveway and onto the snowy street. Thank God for that, because I was definitely on the verge of a full-blown panic attack.
We sit in silence for a while, and since staring at my phone for five straight minutes feels painfully awkward, I switch to pretending I’m captivated by the snowy scenery outside. Houses roll past, their roofs blanketed in snow, looking like something out of a holiday card. I feel my breathing finally start to steady.
But then Adam’s gaze is on me again, and panic sets back in. To keep myself from completely unraveling, I start adding up random, complicated numbers in my head—I heard it makes you look smarter, like you’re lost in thought. Anything to distract him from noticing just how anxious and flustered I really am.
Thankfully, not long after, we pull into the town center, and I spot a small bakery with pink walls and a big sign out front that reads The Cinnamon Cat . Adam parks right in front and quickly unbuckles his seatbelt.
I scramble to do the same, but when I press the button on the lock, it just sinks in without releasing the belt. I tug at it, attempting to free myself, but it’s completely stuck.
Before I manage to say anything, Adam is already out of the car, shutting his door behind him while I’m still wrestling with the seatbelt. I need to start going to the gym—being defeated by a seatbelt buckle is not a great look, especially when I’m stuck in the car of a guy who probably wouldn’t mind if I died a slow, painful death.
“Shit,” I mutter, yanking at the seatbelt again. Frustrated, I glance up, expecting Adam to already be heading into the bakery. Except, he’s not. I see him through the window, watching my struggle, and a moment later, he’s walking around the car and opening my door.
“Ugh,” I say, my cheeks flushing as I let out an awkward laugh. “I think I’m stuck.”
“Here, let me,” Adam says, and before I can protest, his right hand is reaching across my body to the seatbelt buckle.
God, he’s so close, practically leaning over me as he tugs at the belt. The scent of him—clean, masculine, intoxicating—fills the small space, and I instinctively press myself back into the seat, giving him as much room as possible so he doesn’t accidentally touch me.
My heart is pounding like a war drum—I’m sure he can hear it, it’s so loud. But then, finally, I hear the click, and Adam pulls the seatbelt free, releasing me.
“It gets stuck sometimes,” he says, leaning back slightly, and I swear there’s a hint of humor in his voice, like he finds my panic amusing.
“Thanks,” I manage, exhaling a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. As he steps back to give me space, I quickly jump out of the car.
The moment my boots hit the ground, I realize—too late—it’s pure ice. My legs slip out from under me, and I’m already falling backward, instinctively grabbing the only thing within reach—Adam Payne’s T-shirt, peeking out from under his unzipped winter jacket.
I hear the unmistakable sound of fabric tearing as I grab at it, trying to steady myself. Adam reaches for my elbow, but I’m already going down, my back grazing the edge of the car seat behind me just before I hit the ground.
Pain jolts up my spine as my ass hits the icy pavement.
“Fuck…me,” I groan, wincing as I fumble for something to grab onto and get back up.
This time, Adam gets a firm grip on my elbow and, with one smooth motion, hauls me upright—because, of course, he’s just that strong.
I already want to implode from embarrassment, but as I straighten, my stomach drops.
Oh. My. God.
I stare at Adam’s T-shirt, my eyes widening in horror. The neckline and right shoulder are completely torn, leaving a jagged rip that exposes way more of Adam’s very shredded chest than I ever wanted—or hoped—to see.
“Oh no,” I whisper, panic creeping in as I slap a hand over my mouth.
“Are you okay?” Adam asks, his brow furrowing. His hand is still on my elbow, like he’s not entirely convinced I can stay upright on my own. “You look really pale.”
“Yes,” I manage to say, my voice shaky. “Sorry, it’s just…your shirt.” I point at it like a terrified child pointing out a ghost in the closet. Adam looks down at his chest, as if only now realizing the winter wind is breezing right across his pecs.
“Oh,” he says with a hint of surprise. He looks back at me, his lips tugging slightly at the corners, and finally lets go of my arm. “It’s fine.”
“Sorry,” I say again. “I get really clumsy when I’m nervous.”
The words come out unbidden, and Adam’s eyebrows quirk up at the confession.
“Why are you nervous?” he asks, his tone genuinely puzzled.
“It’s just…” I say, my breathing uneven, unsure where I’m even going with this. But then I think, screw it —I need to confront this now, nip it in the bud before I literally die from being the awkward, clumsy mess that I am.
“I need to talk to you,” I blurt out, the words sounding way too loaded—like we’re not just two acquaintances who had one weird, mysterious encounter in the past.
Adam’s brows lift slightly, and he replies slowly, “Alright.” He looks a bit suspicious, but there’s a hint of curiosity, too. “Let’s get inside first. It’s freezing out here.”
“Yes, right,” I mumble, awkwardly shuffling off the icy patch with small, hesitant steps. Adam notices my wobbly attempt, sighs, and grabs my elbow again, steadying me before shutting and locking the car door.
He keeps his grip steady as he leads me toward the bakery. Under any other circumstances, I’d probably assume I was having a heart attack—no normal heartbeat should be racing this fast.
To my not-so-subtle disappointment, the moment we reach the bakery entrance, Adam lets go of my elbow and pulls the door open for me. I try not to limp, but my ass and tailbone hurt so much I silently pray I didn’t break anything.
The sweet smell of vanilla and pastry envelops us as we step inside, but despite how much I usually love cake, the humiliation of the last five minutes completely kills my appetite.
I start to shuffle toward the counter when Adam’s hand brushes my shoulder, stopping me.
“Come sit over there,” he says, nodding toward one of the booths near the entrance. “I’ll be right back.”
And God, maybe I’m reading too much into it, but I swear he sounds worried.
“Okay,” I say, nodding, too defeated and humiliated to argue. I shuffle over to the booth, and the moment I sit down on the plastic seat, a sharp pain shoots up my tailbone, making me wince.
I look around, trying to distract myself from the overwhelming embarrassment still heating my cheeks. The bakery is tiny but ridiculously charming—the tabletops are shaped like chocolate chip cookies, and the counter is designed to look like it’s dripping with chocolate. Behind it stands a woman in her early sixties with a round face and slicked-back blonde hair, wearing a pink chef’s hat.
As Adam approaches her, I suddenly remember that I have the order number and cash from Peter. I try to stand again but give up almost immediately, calling out instead, “Adam.”
His name feels strange on my lips—like I’ve never actually said it before—and when he turns around, effortlessly handsome, my heart skips a beat.
“I have Peter’s cash,” I say carefully, mouthing each word to make sure he hears me as I reach into my pocket. But he waves me off like it’s nothing. Apparently, he doesn’t need the order number either, which is weird, considering I thought that was the whole reason I came along.
I sigh and pull out my phone, hoping for a distraction. I think about texting Emilia but quickly decide against it—she’s probably busy getting ready for the big day. With another sigh, I set my phone down and eye my jeans and jacket, now streaked with dirt from my fall. I try patting them clean, but it doesn’t help much. Thank God I brought spare clothes.
I’m in the middle of letting out yet another sigh when Adam suddenly slides into the seat across from me, startling me.
“They need about ten minutes to pack the cake,” he says.
“Great,” I mumble, too embarrassed to look at him.
“How’s your, erm…back?” he asks, clearly meaning my butt. And oh, he’s watching me again with that steady, unwavering gaze.
“Hurts,” I mutter, fiddling with a sugar packet. “A little.”
“We can drop the cake at the house, and I can take you to urgent care, just to make sure you didn’t break anything,” Adam says. I frown at him, unsure if he’s joking. But he’s not—those deep green eyes fixed on mine.
“My ego, maybe,” I say with a nervous laugh. And—oh God—Adam laughs too. I’m pretty sure it’s the first time I’ve ever heard him laugh.
“I ordered coffee,” Adam says a moment later, and I naturally assume he means for himself. But then the woman from behind the counter approaches our table, a small tray in hand and a warm smile on her lips—and there are definitely two cups on it.
I freeze, watching Adam, who looks completely unfazed.
“Your coffee,” the woman says, setting the tray down between us. Then, with a playful twinkle in her eye, she adds, “And a little something on the house for you both. Happy Valentine’s Day.”
I look at the small dish between the cups. It’s a heart-shaped tiramisu, complete with two long spoons on either side. I blink, realizing she thinks we’re a couple. I open my mouth to correct her, but Adam beats me to it.
“Thank you so much,” he says, flashing her a charming smile.
I feel heat rising to my ears as I watch the woman walk away, then turn back to Adam. He’s completely unbothered, already picking up a spoon and digging into the tiramisu.
“Thanks for the coffee,” I say, wrapping my hands around the cup and taking a slow sip. The warmth spreads through my body, but it does nothing to calm my nerves. “How much do I owe you?”
“It’s on me,” Adam says, his voice soft. When I look up, he’s watching me with a small smile. “The tiramisu is great,” he adds casually. “You should try it.”
“Thanks,” I mumble, fully aware that I’ve now said “thanks” to him more times in the last fifteen minutes than I’ve probably said to anyone this entire week. My mind scrambles for something else to say, and somehow the worst possible thing comes tumbling out. “She…uh…thought we were a couple.”
The second the words leave my mouth, heat rushes to my face. OH HEAVENS AND ANGELS, WHY DID I HAVE TO SAY THAT OUT LOUD?
I take another sip of coffee, as if that’ll stop me from spiraling, but no such luck. I’m dizzy—like I might actually pass out. I swear, I’m usually a pretty chill guy, but when I get flustered, I turn into one of those awkward rom-com leads from the early 2000s—the kind of guy who knocks over an urn with the ashes of his love interest’s grandma.
Before I can completely dissolve into self-loathing, Adam runs a hand through his curls, his expression surprisingly calm. “Yeah,” he says after a beat. “She asked if we were a couple because they have a special Valentine’s deal. I said yes.” His lips twitch slightly. “Sorry about that.”
Wait, what?
“It’s okay,” I manage, still processing. The guy must really love tiramisu. I take another sip of my coffee, trying to figure out how I’m supposed to react to that. The words hang in the air between us, and I feel like I’ve stepped into some alternate reality where Adam Payne casually pretends we’re a couple and doesn’t think it’s a big deal.
“So,” he says after a moment, leaning back and sipping his coffee as he looks at me from under his long lashes. “What did you want to talk about?”
Right. The talk.
I glance down at my cup, my fingers tracing the rim. I’m already second-guessing bringing it up, but honestly, this day couldn’t get any more awkward or humiliating, so…screw it. Let’s just do this.
“I…um.” The words stick in my throat as I clutch the coffee cup tighter, steadying my trembling hands. My palms feel clammy against the ceramic, and my mouth is so dry it feels like I’ve swallowed a handful of dust. For a second, I seriously wonder if I can even get the sentence out.
Finally, I meet Adam’s eyes. “Remember Peter’s birthday four years ago?”
As soon as the words leave my mouth, I regret them.
Adam’s expression changes in an instant—his face hardens, losing any trace of warmth.
“Yes. I do,” he says. He’s calm—too calm—and it sends a chill down my spine. He knows exactly what I’m talking about. He wouldn’t sound so sure if he didn’t.
The silence between us stretches. He’s waiting for me to continue.
I swallow hard. “Then…you probably remember how drunk I was that night?” I ask, my cheeks burning as my stomach twists into a painful knot.
Adam takes a slow sip of his coffee, his gaze unwavering, locked on mine—but he still doesn’t say anything.
My pulse is hammering in my ears as I take a shallow breath and try again. “So…” I pause, hoping—praying—he’ll say something, meet me halfway, make this even a fraction easier. But he doesn’t.
“What exactly did I do?” I finally ask, the words so small they barely make it past my lips.
Adam blinks, and for a split second, something flickers across his face. “What?” he asks, his tone detached, edged with something sharp.
I exhale, the tension in my chest tightening as the words slip out on their own. “Did I offend you? I mean, I was really, really drunk, and it was probably so embarrassing… I’ve felt awful about it ever since, but I was too ashamed to bring it up—”
“You didn’t.” Adam’s voice cuts through my ramble, firm and final, like he doesn’t want to hear any of it. “Offend me,” he adds, and I can tell he’s lying—his jaw is tight, his whole demeanor withdrawn and cold.
I freeze, caught off guard. “I…didn’t?”
“No,” Adam repeats, his tone almost too casual—as though he’s trying to sound indifferent but failing miserably.
“Are you sure?” I ask, my voice edged with desperation. “Because I’m really sorry if I—”
“I’m sure,” he interrupts again, his expression cold and distant, nothing like the guy who just bought me coffee and suggested we share tiramisu like the dogs in Lady and the Tramp . And just like that, I know—it’s over. Whatever happened, he’s not going to tell me.
Feeling horribly out of place, I grab a spoon and take an overly ambitious bite of the dessert. The cocoa dusting hits the back of my throat, and I start coughing like a maniac. Panicking, I grab my coffee and take a huge gulp to clear it. When I look up, Adam is leaning forward in his seat, looking like he’s about to leap over the table and perform the Heimlich maneuver.
I manage to clear my throat, wave him off, and take another, smaller bite before croaking out, “The tiramisu is really good.”