Chapter 6
Stevie
I need Adam to silence his phone before my head splits open. This post-concussion headache is no joke, and the run-in with that bully turkey only made it worse.
“Are you gonna get that?” I nod to the sound, kneading my temples with my fingertips.
“Oh . . . uh. I think it’s yours, actually.” He leans back, fishing in his pocket to pull it out. That is indeed my phone. I can’t believe the battery survived the night. “I found it this morning. I was going to bring it back—”
I reach over, taking it and squeezing the button on the side to shut it up. I don’t know why he has my phone or who was calling me. I don’t care about anything but quiet right now. When the woods are peaceful again, I moan with relief and squeeze my eyes shut.
I can’t see him, and he doesn’t make any noise, but I can feel Shirtless Adam beside me. A woman doesn’t forget she’s sitting next to that particular torso. I’m trying hard not to think about how it felt to be carried against that bare chest. And he’s just sitting there, still as a mountain.
At some point I’ll have to open my eyes and thank him for finding my phone. I should go home and rest. But I didn’t come here only to find my phone.
When I woke up this morning and found that the dizziness had subsided, I grabbed my backpack, a few apples, and got in my car.
If August asks why I’m not resting, I’ll use my missing phone as an excuse, but I want to find more sasquatch evidence before my friends send me on even one date.
I’d like to stop that before it starts. And I have to win this bet.
“What are you doing out here?” His voice is rough, like I’m the first person he’s spoken to today.
“Finding my phone.” And hunting for a sasquatch, I don’t add. I’m anxious to look at my photos and send them to my brothers. It’s the first thing on my list once this headache goes away.
Adam doesn’t respond. He isn’t chatty, which makes me fidgety and nervous. I enjoy peace and quiet as much as the next high school teacher, but when I’m alone with a bare-chested man?
I wonder why he’s still hanging around. I’m not dying. It’s only a minor concussion. I can hear his soft breathing, it’s so quiet out here.
Must. Fill. The silence.
“I saw something in these woods last night,” I say.
“It’s not safe to be in the forest alone,” he says at the same time.
I take a breath and remind myself not to get snippy with him.
He’s trying to help. He’s doing his job, but it’s a sure bet that I know these woods better than he does.
He doesn’t need to worry about me. I turn, blinking my eyes open.
“I’ve been hiking out here since I was three—” My eyes go wide when I realize I’m face to chest with him. “Geez,” I mutter.
Adam straightens, hurrying to tug a gray T-shirt over his head and down his torso.
I am transfixed. I’ve never seen abs do that.
It’s not like they’re chiseled or anything.
He doesn’t have a six-pack or the look of someone who weighs his food portions.
But he’s so tan and solid and . . . Well, I’ve never considered myself a prude, but Adam needs to keep those things covered up.
They’re indecent. No woman should be allowed to see those, especially up close.
Now he’s smoothing his hands down his shirt, and I’m getting annoyed. How is he sexier with the shirt on? It makes no sense. Then he drags his hand through his wavy brown hair, and I want to scream. What were we even talking about?
“What did you see last night?” His dark brows furrow, and his eyes are intense, staring down at me.
Okay.
Driving past Shirtless Adam on the highway at fifty miles per hour is one thing.
It’s like getting a whiff of chocolate chip cookies in the oven.
Sitting next to him with those intense eyes and that enveloping cedarwood scent?
With that T-shirt? It’s like diving into a pool of warm, melted chocolate, and I am drowning in it.
That’s what his eyes remind me of. Dark chocolate. I lick my lips, staring at his eyes.
“Are you good?” He frowns. “Should I call someone, or—”
I cough. What is wrong with me? I am not good. I need August to order another CT scan. I’ve never blatantly ogled a man like this before. I need to change the subject—not that Adam has any idea that he’s been the subject.
I groan. “I saw a sasquatch,” I blurt, then immediately bite my lip. Of all the things to say . . .
He tilts his head to the side, taking me in. “What exactly did you see?” He’s not instantly shutting me down, which I appreciate.
I grin. “I’ll show you.” I swipe the screen on my phone, dying to see my photos for the first time. I’m grateful this thing has some battery left, but it’s at seven percent. We need to do this quickly. I find my photo app and tap.
Adam leans in.
I swallow. The shaky, low-resolution photos aren’t great, but they’re good enough.
I want to laugh when I notice that they’re eerily similar to famous still shots of Bigfoot from the Patterson-Gimlin film—the photo everyone thinks of when they picture a sasquatch.
He’s mid-stride, his head turned toward the camera as though he’s spotted it.
I hold my free hand over my mouth, covering a laugh.
The similarity to the iconic sasquatch shot is actually hilarious.
Maybe this is Bigfoot's go-to pose? They know their angles.
And my brothers are going to die over this. They might even come home. There’s a tiny pang in my chest at the thought. I’m itching to find more to show them. There have to be tracks around here—some other evidence.
“Um . . .” Adam shifts closer. “This was last night?”
“Uh-huh.” My brain melts in the warmth radiating from his arm. I'm so thirsty. I can’t believe I forgot to bring my water bottle.
He frowns at the screen. “Did you get anything else?”
“Uh-huh,” I repeat, swiping to the video and pressing play numbly. He smells too good for a guy who spends all of his time in nature.
Then Adam reaches over, placing his hand on the back of mine to steady the phone and move it closer.
I gulp.
His hand is big and calloused. How can I focus on anything else?
The only thing that could possibly divide my attention is the evidence playing on my screen. This video is dim, and the only audio is my heavy breathing and fumbling with the phone. Lovely.
The figure is unmistakable, though. It is to me, anyway. He’s just a little far away, it’s dim, and it’s only four seconds of footage. I let it play another time, and Adam doesn’t say anything. He drops his hand, running it down the leg of his jeans nervously, like my insanity might be contagious.
He coughs. “Well—”
“The thing is,” I cut in. “It’s still out here. I know what I saw. My friends and I have a bet going, actually. I’m going to find more evidence of sasquatch before they—” I snap my mouth shut, shifting on the rock. Oh, why does my mouth run when I’m uncomfortable?
Adam smiles with his dark chocolate eyes. “Before they what?”
I sigh. I might as well tell the unicorn all of my weirdest secrets. “Before they find a Good Enough man for me,” I say, high pitched and in a rush. I shrug, like the whole thing isn’t ridiculous.
The smile finally reaches Adam’s lips—just a flash—but it quickly turns into a frown. “You’re trying to find evidence of Bigfoot . . . before your friends can find a man who is good enough for you.” His eyes search my face.
I want to run away. I know how it sounds. I’m open-minded about mythical creatures, but not about the supply of decent men in this world. I get that it makes me sound like a judgmental nutcase, but I can’t deny it. I’m more likely to find Bigfoot than I am to find a good man.
“I should go.” I stand, and my head throbs.
Adam follows me. “Are you going to keep looking for it alone?”
“I usually do.”
“You’re not safe out here by yourself.”
I need to remind him who he’s talking to. I was practically raised in these woods. I spin to face him, which is a huge mistake. Even after I stop the forest keeps moving around me, and I stumble. I hold my hand to my head with a moan.
“Okay.” Adam sounds almost exasperated. He puts his hands on my shoulders to steady me. “You drove here?”
“Yeah.” I press my fingers to my temples. The pain in my head is cruel. “I felt okay before—”
“Before you got in a fight with a turkey.”
Yeah. That. I just need a second to get my bearings. I prop my butt against the nearest tree trunk and take a deep breath.
“I’ll take you home.”
“I don’t—”
“Please let me take you home.”
My gaze darts to Adam. He looks genuinely worried.
How can I say no to that face? I can tell him later that I can take care of myself in this preserve.
I’ve hiked alone here hundreds of times, and the biggest threat to my safety is Butterballsy.
The fact that he thinks I can’t handle it is sitting in my head like a crooked picture frame.
I’m itching to correct it. But for now, the thought of sitting in the passenger seat and closing my eyes outweighs my need to correct him.
“That would be nice.”
He doesn’t hide his surprise that I’ve agreed so quickly. “Are you ready?”
I lick my lips. I'm dreaming about a tall glass of ice water, among other things. “I think so.”
I need to take it easy, and Adam seems to sense that. He keeps a slow pace beside me, and he quietly scans the ground and the woods as we make our way to the parking area.
“My truck is over here,” he says with a nod to the back of the gravel lot.
I don’t see his white truck, and I didn’t see it when I got here, I realize. But I follow him to the back tree line, and sure enough Adam’s truck is in a secluded spot, surrounded by trees and totally hidden from the rest of the lot.
He pulls out his keys and unlocks the passenger door. “The shade keeps my truck from turning into an oven in the summer.”
“A brave move, showing me your secret spot,” I murmur.
Yikes. That came out all wrong, but it’s honest. If I saw this spot, I would’ve stolen it from him. Usually I crack my windows, which isn’t totally safe, but it’s better than suffocating in a hot car after a hike. This is primo parking.
Adam swings the door open and waits for me to climb inside and buckle up. “You good?” he asks once I’ve settled in.
I’m getting a ride home and a peek into his mysterious world. I’m doing fine. “Yep.” I smile.
He nods, closes my door, and his footsteps crunch around the bed behind me.
I take in my surroundings while I have the chance.
It’s a standard work truck. The dashboard is dusty, and there’s a pair of worn leather gloves on the console.
But the smell. The whole cab is full of his cedarwood scent that ties my stomach in knots.
Do all unicorns smell so masculine? Just Adam?
Time’s up. He climbs inside, reaching past me to drop his toolbox on the floorboard behind my seat. His arm brushes mine. “Sorry,” he murmurs.
Meanwhile, I’m wide-eyed in the passenger seat, wondering if this whole ride home is a concussion hallucination. Are those a thing?
Then Adam hands me his phone. I look at it, then him, in confusion.
“Plug in your address.” He cranks the engine and it roars to life.
“Oh. Right,” I mutter under the rumble of the diesel engine.
He throws his truck into reverse. “And send yourself a text, while you’re at it. I need your number.”