Chapter 14 Adam
ADAM
The board is on speaker, and they're furious.
"… three investor calls, Adam, three—"
"… completely unacceptable behavior for a man in your position—"
"… where the hell are you?"
I tighten a screw on the bracket and check the level again.
Still slightly off. The shelf has been crooked since the storm last week, rain damage warping the wood just enough to make the whole thing list to the left, and Nell mentioned it in passing the way people mention things they're too polite to ask for help with.
Daisy wouldn't have asked. Daisy would have fixed it herself at two in the morning rather than admit she needed anything from anyone.
I know that about her now. I'm learning all the things I should have known years ago.
"I'm at a bookstore," I tell the speaker on the counter below. "The romance section needed fixing. I've also been catching up on this month's reading."
The silence that follows is profound.
"What?" That's Henderson, the board's most annoying member, a man who thinks efficiency is a personality trait. "Adam, this is serious. The Hamburg situation alone—"
"Klaus understood my priorities. I ended the renewal discussions.
There is no replacement agreement." I shift my weight on the ladder, and the gray demon cat on the neighboring display hisses at me again.
I ignore him. "As for the investor calls, the quarterly projections are solid.
Anyone who needs hand-holding can wait until I'm available, which will be when I'm available and not before. "
"This is completely—"
"Jameson." I cut him off, keeping my voice pleasant.
"Reschedule the Taipei conference to next Wednesday.
Henderson, the Cortland acquisition requires three signatures; get me the documents by Thursday.
Patricia, there's a staffing issue in the Chicago office that you've been avoiding for eight weeks.
Fix it by Friday or I'll fix it myself." I set the screwdriver down and pick up the drill. "Anything else?"
More silence. Then, quietly, Jameson says, "No. That's all."
"Good. I'll be in touch."
I hang up.
Chaucer hisses again, one paw swiping at my sleeve as I reach for a bracket.
He's been following me around the store for three weeks now, this furious gray shadow with murder in his eyes and surprisingly sharp claws, and I can't tell if he hates me specifically or if he's just appointed himself Daisy's protector against all intruders. Either way, I respect it.
"Your opinion is noted," I tell him, drilling the final screw into place. "But the shelf needed fixing, and you don't have opposable thumbs."
He hisses. I check the level one more time (straight, finally) and I'm about to climb down when I hear footsteps on the stairs. My whole body goes still. It's been six weeks since she left. The footsteps reach the bottom of the stairs, and then she's there. She's wearing my hoodie.
It's the old Meridian one, charcoal gray with the logo faded from too many washes, the one she stole from my closet the first winter we were married and never gave back. I didn't know she took it when she left. I didn't know she kept anything of mine at all.
She doesn't see me at first. She's focused on her coffee, shuffling toward the counter in bare feet, her hair piled on top of her head in that messy knot she only does when she thinks no one's watching.
She looks soft. Rumpled. Beautiful in a way that has nothing to do with effort and everything to do with the specific shape of her, the way she takes up space in the world, the fact that I used to wake up next to her and take it for granted. I took everything for granted.
I keep quiet until she looks up. She catches sight of the ladder. "Morning," I say.
She steadies her coffee and looks from me to the drill. Her eyes go wide, then narrow, then settle into a careful blankness that hurts worse than anger would.
"What are you doing?"
"Fixing the shelf." I gesture with the drill. "Storm damage from last week. Nell mentioned it was leaning."
"Nell mentioned." She says it flat. "So you just... showed up with a ladder and decided to play handyman?"
"I asked first. She said yes." I start climbing down, careful of the cat's continued attempts to maim me. "I know the rules. I'm not trying to circumvent them."
"Just trying to make yourself useful."
"Is that a problem?"
She doesn't answer, which is an answer in itself. Instead she leans against the counter and watches me descend, her coffee held in both hands like a shield.
"You look tired," she says finally.
"So do you."
"I'm not the one rearranging my entire life to make a point."
"Neither am I." I set the drill down on the counter, careful to keep space between us.
The cat immediately jumps down and positions himself at her feet like a very small, very angry bodyguard.
"This isn't a point, Daisy. This is me trying to be useful to someone who matters to you because she let me, and because I'm no good at sitting still. "
"You used to be great at sitting still. You used to sit still through entire dinners while I talked to myself."
The words land exactly where she aimed them.
"I know," I say. "I'm working on that. Among other things."
She opens her mouth (to argue, probably, or to list the other things I should be working on) but before she can speak, the bell over the front door chimes. A man walks in.
He's average height, average build, carrying a bouquet of flowers that probably cost less than my tie clip.
His face is pleasant and forgettable, the kind of face you'd see in a crowd and never remember, except for the eyes.
The eyes are wrong, cold and calculating, and it makes me go still and pay attention.
He doesn't acknowledge me. He walks straight to the counter, straight to Daisy, and his smile when he sees her is wrong. That's the only word for it.
"Daisy." His voice is soft. Familiar. Too familiar. "I saw you online. You looked good. I've been thinking about you."
Daisy's shoulders go tight.
I watch her face close, watch the color drain from her cheeks, watch her hands tighten on the coffee cup until her knuckles go white. She's not surprised. She's not confused. She's scared, and the fear is so immediate, so total, that I'm moving before I consciously decide to.
Moving around the counter, I stand between them. All of me. Between them.
I'm not touching him, not threatening him. Just present. Taking up space the way I always do, except now I'm using it as a wall instead of a weapon.
"I'm Adam Smith," I say, and my voice is even, pleasant, the same tone I use with hostile investors and incompetent board members. "That's the last time you'll hear my name before a lawyer does. Leave."
The man's eyes finally flick to me. There's a flash of recognition, maybe, or reassessment, and then that wrong smile again, directed at Daisy over my shoulder.
"Well," he says softly. "You've moved up in the world, haven't you? Good for you."
"Leave," I repeat. "Now."
He holds up his hands in mock surrender, setting the flowers on the nearest shelf like a gift she didn't ask for. "I'm going, I'm going. No need for the attack dog routine." He backs toward the door, still smiling, and at the threshold he stops. Fixes his eyes on Daisy. The smile widens.
"See you soon," he says.
The bell chimes as the door closes behind him.
The silence is absolute. I can hear my own heartbeat, can hear Daisy's breathing behind me, shallow and fast. Chaucer has gone silent too, pressed against her ankles like he knows something bad just happened.
I don't turn around, not yet. I'm still watching the door, waiting to make sure the man is actually gone, that he's not coming back, that he's not waiting outside for…
"You didn't ask."
Daisy's voice is quiet. Controlled in a way that means she's anything but. I turn.
"You didn't ask if I wanted you to do that." Her jaw is tight. "You just... decided. Stepped in and handled it."
"He was scaring you."
"That's not the point." She sets her coffee down.
"Daisy—"
"The point is that you made a choice about my safety without asking me. You decided what I needed and then you did it, and maybe you were right, maybe he did need to leave, but I should have been the one to say so. Not you."
I want to argue. But that's the old way of thinking. The way that got us here.
"You're right," I say instead. "I'm sorry."
She blinks. Surprise, maybe, that I didn't fight her on it.
"Next time," she says slowly, "you ask."
I hold her gaze. I think about the fear I saw in her face, the way her shoulders went tight the moment that man said her name, the horrible familiarity of it all. There's so much I don't know: the gaps in her history, the years before me, the stories she never told because I never asked.
"Next time," I say, "I will."
"Is he the ex you tried to tell me about?" I ask. "The flowers?"
She nods once. "Cole. He hurt me. I'm not ready to tell you all of it."
"You don't have to. I should have listened the first time." I leave the choice with her. "Do you want me to stay while you call Nell?"
"Yes. And don't throw those flowers away. We're photographing them for the report."
Because there's going to be a next time.
I'm certain of it.