Chapter 25
BILLIE
As badly as I wanted to cancel on my date tonight, the reason I wasn’t going to was just as strong.
I’d been playing house for ten days and it was starting to get to me.
Also, I’d already postponed our date once.
I hadn’t felt right about leaving Adam alone three days after his slip on the stairs, so I’d put this date off for a week.
So tonight I was meeting Russell Clarke for drinks. Russell played for the San Jose Sharks. He was one of the Bay Area’s most eligible bachelors. He volunteered at animal rescues and raised money for domestic violence shelters. His mom was a single mom of four boys, and he seemed close to her.
He was thirty-six, so he was age appropriate.
He was what was referred to as a serial monogamist. From what Olivia and Trevor said he also didn’t want to have children and that had been an issue in his previous relationships.
He was also six foot six, had dark hair, light green eyes, chiseled jaw and a crooked smile that made my heart flutter.
On paper he was exactly what I was looking for. I had to admit, Olivia and Trevor knocked it out of the park. So, why wasn’t I looking forward to this date?
I was even wearing The Dress, capital T capital D.
The dress in question was a cherry-red cocktail number that looked like it had been sewn onto my body by a team of tiny, judgmental Italian tailors.
I tried it on at a vintage shop two years ago and knew I had to own it, despite not having any idea where I would wear it.
It had been hanging in the closet so long its plastic dry-cleaner sheath had fused to the hanger.
Tonight, though, it had made the cut for the simple strategic reason that it was both appropriate for the occasion and, if I were being honest, designed to be seen by a certain individual. Adam Knight.
For a week and a half I’d lived with the man who had not once mentioned the fact that we slept together or that, when he was high as a kite, he said I was the most beautiful woman in the world.
That the reason he’d stayed away all those years was because I had my own gravitational pull and he was scared he was going to get sucked in by me.
That he was scared of love. He realized the impact that losing such a deep love had on his father.
Then he started saying that I was the sun and he was the moon and he couldn’t be with the sun because of gravity.
That he had to stay at a safe distance from me, but he had always been orbiting around me and had loved me his entire life, it was always me.
Sure, he’d said that before he passed out cold, but he’d said it.
And then woken up the next day and acted like it never happened.
It’s not that I wanted to have a drawn-out conversation, but hey, it would be nice to see a spark of desire in his eyes.
I knew he was in pain, but he’d been treating me like…
like a friend. Which I was. He’d been thanking me like a friend.
Which I was. He’d been looking at me like a friend.
Which I was. But I had been more than that, too, and this dress was very friendly.
I spritzed myself with my favorite perfume, Yves Saint Laurent Black Opium, and checked my reflection in the mirror.
The effect was a little much for a Wednesday night at The Stag Lounge, a newish “elevated” cocktail place that tried too hard to look like an old man’s hunting den, but the dress did what it was made to do.
My hair, which Joey and Andi had braided earlier was now in loose beach waves, but was threatening to revert to anarchy.
I raked my fingers through it, accepting potential defeat and grabbed a ponytail in case I needed to pull it back later.
The shoes were four-inch heels, black and strappy, the kind of footwear that said, “Yes, I’m single, and I still have cartilage left in my knees.
” And I had on my matching pink lace bra and panty set from Flaur du Mal, because “on Wednesdays we wear pink.” It was a habit I’d started in middle school since my favorite movie was Mean Girls and I never stopped.
I grabbed my purse, smoothed the fabric over my hips, and tried not to look too closely at the woman in the mirror.
If I did, I might see feelings I wasn’t willing to address.
I took a deep breath, the kind that’s meant to settle your nerves but only ever makes you dizzy, and stepped quietly out the door.
I tiptoed down the hall, because the heels made a click-clack sound on the floor and I didn’t want to wake the twins.
I paused outside their door, listening for movement.
Nothing but the soft, metronomic whir of the sound machine I’d purchased when they’d arrived.
When I eased the door open just enough to peek inside, I found the twins sound asleep.
Joey was splayed across her mattress, Andi balled up like a roly-poly, her hand still curled around the corner of her book.
As I looked in on them, I felt a sharp, inexplicable ache in my chest. I’d been here less than two weeks and already couldn’t bear the thought of these evenings coming to an end.
We’d slipped into a rhythm so quickly it was like muscle memory.
I ran point on the morning chaos except breakfast, that was Adam’s zone—I was in charge of packing lunches, braiding hair, refereeing disagreements about who got to wear the blue tights.
I dropped them off at the school gate, after we rocked out to Snoop Dogg’s “Gratitude” on the way and we all fist bumped before they darted off to find their friends.
Well, Joey darted, Andi walked behind her at a measured pace.
At work, I ran Bridal Bliss, business as usual, until three-thirty, when I’d pick the girls up and bring them to Sarah next door.
Sarah was on disability and home, so she’d offered to let the girls hang out with the boys after school every day until I finished work.
She said it actually helped her out because they kept the boys busy, so it gave her a break.
Once I got home, it was dinner time. Sometimes it was real food—spaghetti or roasted chicken if I was feeling ambitious—or sometimes grilled cheese or pancakes, blueberry on Sunday.
While I cooked, the twins would crash around the kitchen, telling me about playground politics or singing along to Taylor Swift, Olivia Dean or Dua Lipa on the Bluetooth speaker.
They’d set the table, and after we all ate, we’d all four clean up together, then maybe watch a movie, play Uno, or just hang out until it was time for baths and bed, where I’d read stories and tuck them in.
Every night, after they’d finally quieted, I’d head straight to my room, not daring to go back downstairs.
Alone time with Adam was a bad idea. Alone time with me hadn’t been much better.
It gave me time to wonder when I’d started wanting this.
The routines, the noise, the way they’d clung to me when they were scared or sad or just needed someone to listen—it reminded me so much of raising my own sisters, I sometimes worried I was borrowing someone else’s life.
But I liked it. Liked it too much, maybe.
There was a comfort in the repetition, in being wanted and needed, even if it was only temporary.
But that was the deal I’d made with myself: this was Adam’s life, not mine. I was just a placeholder until he got his feet under him. I’d told myself that enough times to almost believe it.
I closed the twins’ door softly, clutching my purse in both hands.
My shoes weren’t designed for stealth, making my descent down the staircase less than stealth.
The old stairs creaked with every step, each sound amplified by the silence in the house.
I paused on the last landing, clutching my purse like a lifeline, and steeled myself for whatever version of Adam Knight I was going to find tonight.
I’d been in close quarters with him for ten days, and every evening felt like rolling a die—maybe I’d get stoic, closed-off Adam, or maybe slightly guard-down friend Adam.
Or, the rarest and most dangerous, warm, open Adam, the guy who used to read my mind and make me laugh so hard I once even peed my pants.
I found him seated on the couch, precisely the way he’d been every night since the fall, but he’d outdone himself in the art of looking casually devastating.
Dark hair in disarray, gray sweats with a t-shirt so soft and thin it might have been illegal in some jurisdictions.
He looked up, eyes narrowing slightly as he took in the dress.
He didn’t say anything at first, just blinked, then did a kind of slow double-take, like his brain had to reboot to process the visual input.
“Wow,” he said, not even attempting to mask his surprise. “That’s… a dress.”
No one ever made me, Billie Bliss, feel self-conscious in a good way, in the best way, yet I found myself fighting the urge to fidget. “No shit, Sherlock.” I tried to make it sound offhand, but my voice wobbled.
His lips curled at the corner in a cocky grin as he shook his head slowly, his gaze traveling up and down, lingering in ways that made my stomach do somersaults. “I meant it’s a Jennifer Lopez at the Grammy’s dress.”
I tilted my head to the side.
“The green dress that she wore that created Google images when David Duchovny was presenting with her and said for the first time in years he knew no one was looking at him. No one will be looking at your date tonight.”
“Right.” I grinned as I sighed.
His brows lifted. “Don’t believe me?”
“You don’t know who my date is.”
“I thought you said this was a date through the matchmaking service.”
“It is.”
“So how do you know who your date is? I thought it was supposed to be a blind date.”
“Because he’s an athlete.”
He sat up straighter, but cringed in pain as he did. “An athlete?”
“Yep.”
Then, in a voice so casual it was almost forced, he asked, “So, who’s the lucky guy?”
I hesitated. “Russell Clarke.”
The switch in his expression was nearly imperceptible. Nearly. If I hadn’t been friends with him for the first half of his life, even I would have missed it.
“You’re going on a date with Russell Clarke?”
“Yep.” I hated to admit it, but I liked seeing his jealously, even if it was only a tiny crumb.
His shoulder lifted in a shrug. “It could be Shaq, Cristiano Ronaldo, or Tom Brady next to you, and no one would notice.”
“Thanks.” I took in a shaky breath. “I shouldn’t be too late. Do you need anything before I go?”
“I’m fine.”
I turned and saw that the folder from his dad’s lawyer which had arrived priority mail, was still on the kitchen counter. Unopened. I knew he knew about it because he’d had to sign for it. I’d had to take it to him because the courier insisted it be his signature.
“Do you want me to—” I picked it up and turned back to ask him if he wanted me to bring it to him.
He lifted his hand and I saw anger, I thought, or maybe just annoyance. But it was gone in half a second. He shook his head, eyes softening. “Just leave it, Billie. Go. Seriously.”
“Okay.” I set it down and made my way to the door, trying not to trip on my own four-inch heels and grabbed my coat and scarf. As I put my hand on the doorknob I paused, for a split second, I almost didn’t leave. But I did, letting the door click softly behind me.
Outside, the air was crisp and cool, and the night seemed to shimmer with possibility. But on the walk to my car, I realized the only option I really cared about was sitting on the couch in sweatpants watching me go.
I pressed the key fob to unlock my car and took a moment to fix my lipstick in the side mirror, but all I could think about was Adam’s face, the way his eyes had darkened for just a second when he saw me in the dress. The way his eyes had scanned up and down my body.
This was supposed to be easy. A mutually beneficial roommate/nanny arrangement with a built-in expiration date.
I was supposed to keep my head down, help out, and get out clean.
No harm, no foul. But somewhere between grilled cheese nights, bedtime stories, and the way Adam said my name, I’d lost all sense of what I was supposed to want.
I drove to The Stag Lounge on autopilot, rehearsing my small talk when all I really wanted to do was go home and be with Adam whom I knew was sitting on the couch, waiting for me to come home.