Chapter 1 #3
Adam finally—finally—releases my elbow and steps back. Just enough that I can breathe again. Just enough that I'm no longer in danger of doing something stupid like closing the distance between us.
He assesses the damage. He then wipes at his forearm absently, and I watch—frozen—as he licks the buttercream off his thumb without thinking.
My brain short-circuits.
Just completely stops functioning.
Because I'm standing here watching Adam Lane taste my buttercream, and his eyes widen slightly in surprise, and I'm having very inappropriate thoughts about my best friend's brother.
"That's really good," he says, and I cannot tell if there's a double meaning there or if I'm projecting because my brain has turned into mush.
Focus, June. Words. Use words.
"Thanks," I squeak. "It's only vanilla."
He's looking at me now—really looking—and I'm suddenly aware that I'm still covered in flour, my hair is a disaster, and I probably have buttercream somewhere on my face too.
Emma tugs on the edge of Adam's shirt. "Can we eat them? Please? They're so pretty!"
Adam glances down at his daughter, then back at the cake stand he's somehow still holding, then back to me.
And this time, the almost-smile reaches his eyes.
"These look incredible," he says, and the way his voice drops lower makes my skin tingle. "Though I'll need more than one cupcake to forgive you for this."
He gestures to his ruined shirt, and I can't tell—I honestly cannot tell—if he's flirting or if this is just how he talks and I'm reading everything through my flustered-colored glasses.
My mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
Nothing comes out.
Smooth, June. Very smooth.
Before I can formulate any kind of coherent response—before my brain can catch up to the fact that Adam Lane just teased me and possibly flirted with me and I'm standing here like a flour-covered statue—Emma grabs my hand.
"Do you want to come inside?" Her small fingers wrap around mine with complete confidence, like we're already friends. "Daddy says I can decorate my room! It has a window seat and everything!"
Her enthusiasm is infectious and terrifying in equal measure.
Because going inside means spending more time with Adam. More opportunities to make a fool of myself. More chances to stare at his arms or say something ridiculous or generally confirm that I have absolutely no game.
But Emma's looking up at me with those big hopeful eyes, and Adam's watching me with that unreadable expression, and my mouth is opening before my brain approves the decision.
"I'd love to," I hear myself say.
Emma cheers and immediately starts tugging me toward the house, chattering about paint colors and where her bed should go and whether unicorns or butterflies are better for curtains.
I glance back at Adam, half-expecting him to look annoyed at this development—unexpected guest, buttercream-related disaster, his daughter getting attached to the neighbor.
Instead, he's still watching me with that almost-smile, the cake stand balanced in one hand, buttercream still streaking his shirt.
Our eyes meet.
Something passes between us—a spark, a question, a possibility I don't quite dare to name.
My stomach does a complicated flip.
"Come on!" Emma pulls harder on my hand. "I want to show you Mr. Fluffkins' special corner!"
"Emma, let June breathe," Adam says, but his tone is gentle, indulgent. He shifts the cake stand to his other hand and wipes more buttercream off his forearm. "And maybe I should clean up first."
"But the cupcakes—" Emma protests.
"Will still be here in five minutes." He looks at me again, and this time there's definitely something warmer in his expression.
Something that makes my pulse kick up. "Unless you need to get back?
I'm sure you have better things to do than tour an empty house with a six-year-old interior designer. "
It's an out. A polite escape hatch if I want to take it.
I should take it. I should absolutely take it. Go home, finish my failed baking experiments, maintain a safe distance from the man who makes me forget how words work.
But Emma's still holding my hand, and Adam's still looking at me like maybe he wants me to stay, and I've never been good at making smart decisions when my heart gets involved.
"I've got time," I say, and it comes out softer than I intended.
Adam's almost-smile shifts into something fuller. Still not quite a complete smile, but close enough that I can see the hint of a dimple in his left cheek.
A dimple.
I'm in so much trouble.
"All right then." He gestures toward the open front door with the cake stand. "Welcome to the chaos. Fair warning, there are boxes everywhere and approximately zero furniture in the right places."
"I'm pretty familiar with chaos," I admit, gesturing to my flour-covered apron.
His eyes crinkle at the corners. "I noticed."
And as Emma pulls me toward the house and Adam follows behind us—still wearing my buttercream like some kind of absurd badge—I have one crystal-clear thought.
I'm going to fall for him.
No.
Scratch that.
I'm going to fall harder.