8. Chapter 8
Chapter 8
Katherine
Every time I see Dad's name flash on my phone, I dodge it like a live wire. Even when I run into him at the office, I can feel his eyes on me, sharp and persistent, but I pretend to be too busy to stop and chat. I thought I'd be better at this—better at avoiding the inevitable. Turns out, I’m not.
I left work early today and spent two hours hiking the Bull Hill Loop trail, hoping the physical exertion would clear my head. But it hasn’t worked. The sweat trickles down my spine, and my feet ache as I push myself harder up the trail, the rhythm of my breath matching the thud of my heart. I was supposed to clear my head, but with every step, I see Adam’s face—the way his expression crumpled when I snapped at him, the hurt in his eyes. I want to push it away, but it clings like the dampness on my skin.
And then there’s the fall. The tile was cold beneath me, but the warmth of Adam’s arms felt like fire. My heart pounded, not from the fall, but from the closeness, from the way he wrapped me up without hesitation. It wasn’t just safety; it was something deeper, like I was the most important thing in the world to him. The heat from his touch lingered long after he let go, and I couldn’t shake it. I didn’t want to.
The thought of Adam being in love with me hits like a punch to the chest—sharp, sudden, and almost suffocating. I can’t breathe for a moment, my heart racing at the idea. What if he does? What if I’m not ready for that? The uncertainty crawls under my skin, and I want to push it away, but it’s there, swirling in my stomach like a knot I can’t untangle. I don’t know if I’m ready to face that possibility. Not yet.
Before I headed out this morning, Mom called to remind me about dinner on Saturday. Her voice was a bit sharper than usual, like she’s been waiting to say this all week. “No more excuses,” she said, her words hitting me before I could even say hello. I can almost picture her standing in the kitchen, hands on her hips, frowning at the phone.
Saturday night dinners are a big deal at my parents’ house. No matter what any of us have going on, attendance is mandatory. The fact that I skipped out last week has landed me in hot water with Mom. With Loren and Justin’s wedding just around the corner, I’m crossing my fingers that it’ll dominate the conversation at dinner.
As Loren's maid of honor, the wedding checklist is always open on my phone—menu tastings, floral arrangements, seating charts. I don’t even have time to breathe before I’m onto the next thing. I wouldn’t trade it, though. There’s a kind of peace in the chaos—my mind filled with tasks, and nothing else. When I finally collapse into bed at night, my head’s buzzing with the thought of another dozen things I have to do tomorrow, and I can’t wait to get started. Adding Adam to the mix just doesn’t work for me or my schedule. I don’t have time for it.
"Speaking of," I mutter as my phone chirps, Loren’s name lighting up the screen. I swipe to answer. “Hello?” I say, already taking a mental tally of my to-do list, hoping I haven’t forgotten anything crucial.
“Hi, Katherine,” Loren says, her voice cautious, hesitant.
“What is it, Loren?” I ask, bracing myself for whatever she’s about to drop in my lap.
“Remember how I mentioned that Justin and I wanted Adam to be in the wedding?” she starts, her words deliberately slow, measured.
“Mmhmm,” I reply, raising an eyebrow, waiting for her to get to the point.
“Well,” she continues, “Clare and Rob want to walk down the aisle together.”
I mentally do the math. Clare and Rob. Laila and Bryan. My stomach sinks. “And that leaves… me and Adam,” I finish for her.
“Exactly,” Loren confirms. “You and Adam will be paired together.”
“Loren, you cannot do this to me,” I say, the plea practically tumbling out of my mouth as I scramble for a way to guilt her into changing the lineup.
“Katherine,” she begins, her tone edging into desperation, “please, please do this for me. It’ll be over before you know it.”
“That’s what they say at the dentist’s office,” I shoot back. “This isn’t a cleaning, Loren. This is more like a root canal.”
“Please,” she begs again. “Do it for me—and for Justin.”
“Why can’t Laila do it?” I counter, grasping at straws.
“Because Laila likes Bryan, and she’s been looking forward to it,” Loren says, as if that settles the matter.
“So, Laila gets what she wants,” I say, crossing my arms even though she can’t see me. “What about me?”
“Katherine, please,” Loren says, her tone firm enough to tell me there’s no point in arguing.
“Fine,” I relent, exhaling sharply. “I’ll do it. But you owe me!”
“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” she squeals, her excitement practically vibrating through the phone. “You’re the best sister, the best maid of honor on the planet !”
I roll my eyes, even though a small smirk tugs at my lips. “Yeah, you're right, and don't you forget it.”
***
I’m pulling into the driveway when my phone rings again. It’s Meredith Sanders, a fellow agent I often work with. I answer the call, and after exchanging pleasantries, she gets down to the reason for her call.
"I see you're the listing agent for the Peterson condo," she says.
"Yes," I confirm. "I'm working on the listing this weekend and should have it done by Monday."
"You might not have to list it," she says. "Adam is interested and would like to submit an all-cash offer with a two-week closing."
Adam? The sweat from my hike still glistening on my skin suddenly turns cold, like a heavy wet blanket draped around my soul. She said Adam, not Adam Morgan, or Mr. Morgan. Just Adam, like they’re the best of friends.
I clear my throat and ask, “Adam Morgan?”
“Yes, Adam. You know Adam.” She replies. Her tone indicates that I should be fully aware of who Adam is for Pete’s sake. Without missing a beat, she continues, “He mentioned he had hoped to work with your father’s firm to find a place, but for whatever reason that didn’t work out, so he called me.” She lets out a nervous little chuckle that tells me Adam must be standing right next to her.
“Is Adam with you right now?” I ask.
“Yes, he’s right here,” she answers, her words sounding more like a confession than a simple confirmation.
"E-mail me the offer," I say. "I'll present it to the Petersons today."
We say our goodbyes, and I immediately dial Adam. It rings several times, and I realize he’s not going to answer.
I’m fuming.
I take a deep breath, pick up my water bottle and towel, and walk up my driveway. I'm certain his offer for the condo will be waiting in my inbox, but I choose to ignore it for a while. I wonder if I should change my password to something more appropriate, like AdamRuinsMyMoodAgain .
In the shower, I stand under the hot water, wishing it could penetrate more than just my cold skin. I want it to seep into my brain and wash away the cobwebs because I’m clearly not thinking logically. If Adam buys the condo, I get a commission, and he stops being my problem. It’s a win-win. So why am I hesitating? Is it guilt because this is his house, or is it something deeper? Do I dislike him so much that I’d rather see him homeless than close a sale that would put a roof over his head? I refuse to believe my sister was right when she said I’ve been mean to him. Keeping him homeless would be cruel—even for me.
He can’t keep living in a hotel when this is his house. But I signed a one-year lease. I still have six months left, so technically, it’s my house now. And I love living here. But he’s the rightful owner, and I’m sure he loves it too. Why is he willing to walk away and let me stay without a fight?
The question gnaws at me, refusing to let go. I need to talk to Adam before I submit this offer. I slip on some comfy trousers and a soft sweater, then pick up the phone and call him again.
This time, he answers after the first ring. "Hi, Katie," he says, his voice stirring something deep inside me. It’s unfamiliar, foreign, but strangely exciting.
"Katie?" he repeats, pulling me from my thoughts.
"Hi, Adam," I reply. "Are you busy right now?"
"I was about to make something for dinner," he says.
"Do you think you could come over?" I ask, hoping he doesn't turn me down.
"I'll be right there."
***
"Hi," I say as I open the door. He’s standing there in a simple white T-shirt, jeans, and work boots, somehow looking effortlessly perfect—like he just stepped off the cover of People as the sexiest man alive.
"Hi, Katie," he says, stepping past me into the house. Sheri’s words echo in my mind as the faint scent of his cologne surrounds me, warm and intoxicating. It wraps around me—magnetic, all-consuming. For a moment, I can’t help but think that something so alluring couldn’t possibly come from a bottle.
"Are you hungry?" I ask, aware he probably didn’t have time to eat before coming over.
"I'll just grab something when I leave," he says, his tone making it clear he doesn’t plan to stay long.
"Do you like spaghetti?" I ask. "I was about to make some for dinner, if you'd like to join me."
The look he gives me is a mix of disbelief and suspicion.
"Don't worry, Adam," I smile. "I'm not going to poison you."
"You're a mind reader now?" he jokes, throwing me a side-eye.
"I bet you're starved for a home-cooked meal," I say. "I would imagine you've been eating out every day since you moved back."
"I have a kitchenette in my suite," he replies. "I normally make something there."
"You enjoy cooking?" I ask, my curiosity piqued.
"I wouldn't go that far," he laughs. "I can make a mean sandwich, but that's about it."
"I'm going to teach you how to make spaghetti," I offer with a playful grin. "In fact, I'm going to sit right here and instruct you on exactly what to do."
I pull myself onto the center island and cross my legs, settling in as though I'm about to watch a live cooking show.
When he steps closer, coming within inches of me, my heart literally skips a beat.
"What am I doing here, Katie?" he asks, his voice stripped of any humor.