Chapter 16
Stevie
The problem is that I have to win this bet.
I also think I might like Adam. I can’t say that to him in the diner, though.
“Give me just a sec.” I hold up a finger and head for the kitchen where Lola is prepping for the lunch crowd.
I poke my head through the turquoise swinging doors. “Could you cover out here for a minute?”
“Sure thing.” She drops her knife, wiping her hands on her apron.
I make my way back to Adam and gesture for him to follow me out the front door. “I’ll be back in ten minutes max,” I call over my shoulder to Lola. “But I’ll be out front if you need me.”
Adam follows me outside to a park bench on the wet sidewalk in front of the diner.
Thankfully, there’s a break in the rain.
My backside is going to get wet, but I don’t care.
We have important business to handle. I plop down, patting the worn wooden slats next to me. He sits but doesn’t say anything.
“Well?” I ask.
“Uh, you called this meeting.” He runs his hands down his jeans. “Why don’t you start?” He holds up a hand like the floor is mine.
I smooth my ponytail and gather my thoughts. “You like me.” I don’t know why I’m making him clarify this repeatedly. Maybe it’s because I still don’t believe anything about it—that he feels it or that he admitted it. I want to hear him say it again. I might need to hear it a hundred times.
He clears his throat. “Yeah, I do.”
Ominous thunder cracks at his words, rumbling in the distance.
Adam releases a puff of air that might be a laugh.
A different woman would consider this storm a bad sign, like the heavens are protesting what we’re doing.
Not me. To me, this thunder sounds like God is up there moving His giant chess pieces around, and He’s helping me win.
I don’t know what I’m doing. It doesn’t make sense.
But it feels right, so I’m leaning into it.
“Here’s the thing.” I clutch my hands in my lap, wringing them together. I look up at him.
He looks down at me expectantly.
I frown. “I like you, too.”
A spark lights in his dark eyes, and his chest expands with a long inhale.
“But . . .” I twist my fingers over and over. “I have to win this thing.” I nod back toward the diner.
His eyebrows pull together. “Okay.” He doesn’t look okay. He looks confused, and maybe a little frustrated.
I sigh. This should be obvious. “I can’t like you. You can’t be the perfect man, or even a good enough man, or I will lose this bet with my friends.”
He crosses his arms over his chest. “Why do you care about the bet so much?”
My jaw tightens, and I jut my chin when an old, familiar feeling rushes through me.
Suddenly I’m an obstinate five-year-old girl again, proving to her brothers that she can ride a two-wheeler.
I only wanted to go with them on their adventures, but I crashed so many times—over and over—before Conor climbed down from his bike.
He ran behind me, holding my seat until I got it.
I knew that I could ride a bike back then, and I’m right this time, too.
It’s also starting to sprinkle again, and we might need to wrap this up fast. “Because I know what I saw, Adam.”
But as soon as the words leave my mouth, a tiny niggling feeling gives me pause.
Is that really it? If I’m honest with myself, is this really about proving to my friends that Bigfoot exists?
Or am I more interested in proving that the perfect man doesn’t exist for me?
If that’s the case, I’ve gotten myself into a pickle.
No. It’s the Bigfoot thing. I’m sure of it. I can almost feel the red Dutch braids I wore as a five-year-old sprouting from my stubborn head.
I smooth my hand down my ponytail again, twisting my mouth to the side. Adam’s eyes follow the movement. A fat raindrop plops on the skirt of my yellow dress, and another one plinks against the arm of the bench.
“Just making sure I understand you.” He clears his throat. “You can’t like me?”
I shake my head. “No, I can’t like you.” A cold raindrop pats on my cheek, like the sky is crying on my behalf.
He nods like this makes perfect sense, then lowers his voice. “And I can’t be the, uh, perfect man”—he reaches over, dragging his warm thumb down my cheek and drying the trail left by the raindrop—“or even a good enough man.” He pulls his hand away from my face.
I might faint.
I pull in a shuddering breath. A drop of rain runs down the lock of dark hair on Adam’s forehead, and I’m fully focused on it. I can’t look at Adam, but I feel his eyes on me. “It would be helpful if you were less . . .” I wave over him with my hands.
He raises both eyebrows. “Less?”
I huff. “Like this.”
His jaw tightens, and his eyes follow the path of another raindrop down my chin. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
I roll my eyes and shift away from him, an act that requires Herculean effort. “If you’re going to join me on my tours or come around the diner or whatever, you’ve gotta tone it down.” I wave my fingers between us. “This isn’t happening, capisce?”
“Okay.” He removes the space I created between us, proving that he doesn’t get it. His brown eyes peer down into mine, and his voice is husky and barely audible. “But I’m going on any tours you schedule.”
I nod over and over, momentarily stunned by the intensity in his eyes.
I want to bicker with him about the authority in his tone, but I can’t find it in me.
Who can argue with the concern all over that boyishly handsome face?
He’s turning me to mush, and raindrops are pelting my shoulders steadily now.
I should get inside where I’m safe from the weather and those hot chocolate eyes.
“Good.” Adam stands, taking my hand and pulling me to my feet. “I’m going over the trail-camera photos. Do you still want to take a look?”
He hasn’t dropped my hand. I had forgotten how it feels to have my hand engulfed by his. I swallow, dazed by the warm contact. “Y-yeah.”
He leads me back toward the diner, opening the door for me. His hair is dripping with rain, and he looks deliciously at ease in a damp, clinging T-shirt. “I’ll be at your place tonight at seven. Does that work?”
I freeze under the awning that covers the entrance to the diner.
Stop looking at his chest in that T-shirt, I remind myself. He’s a human being with thoughts and feelings.
And pecs.
“Stevie?”
“Yes.” Say my name again.
“Yes, I can come over tonight?”
I nod.
He chuckles. “Okay.” He nudges me inside. “See you then.”
The glass door closes behind me, and I watch Adam climb into his truck.
Lola comes to stand next to me, letting out a cross between a groan and a sigh as we stare out the window.
“What’s wrong?” I ask. What could possibly be wrong with a view like this?
“I put my money on the wrong horse.” Her voice is dreamy now as we watch Adam back out of his parking spot. “I bet on Bigfoot.”
“Ha.” When Adam’s truck is out of sight, I rub the raindrops off my arms with a shiver. I need to shake off the Adam hypnosis. The guy isn’t fighting fair. “You made the right call, Lo. Trust me.”
“You sure about that?” Lola asks, turning back for the kitchen. “Because you’re soaking wet and staring out the window with drool on your chin.”
I rub the back of my hand across my mouth out of reflex, but it reminds me of Adam running his thumb down my cheek, and I have to start the process of un-hypnotizing myself all over again.
I turn to check Marlow’s DIY tote board. There are nearly twice as many names scribbled under “Boyfriend” as there are under “Bigfoot.” The whole town is confident that Marlow and Diana are going to find someone for me, and I can feel five-year-old Stevie’s pigtails sprouting on my head again.
Adam doesn’t wear a shirt, I remind myself. He carried me through the woods without my consent. He ruined lupines for me. He . . .
I don’t have anything else.
“I want to eat my pot stickers, I want to eat my pot stickersssss,” I sing to the tune of “Bicycle Race” by Queen, dropping onto my yellow couch with a plate full of hot, air fried pot stickers.
I fold my legs under myself, grinning at my dinner.
I have exactly six minutes to wolf these down before Adam is supposed to get here.
I took way too long showering the stink of fried food out of my hair after work and coming up with an outfit that sends the message that my only ambition in life is to find evidence of Bigfoot.
I’m holding my first pot sticker halfway to my mouth when there’s a heavy knock on the door.
Plunk.
The pot sticker lands on my plate. My mouth is still hanging open, waiting for food. My heart thumps erratically.
Adam is early. I slide my plate onto my coffee table, scramble to my feet, and double-check myself in the mirror before I answer the door.
Just friends-esque T-shirt? Check.
Sasquatch-centric jeans? Check.
Fresh blowout that will send the wrong message, but it’s hair-wash day and what can a girl do? Check.
Peachy lip gloss? Untouched in the pocket of my purse because I’m a woman on a mission.
I swing open the door. “Hi, A—” I choke instead of saying his name.
“Hi.” He holds up a hand in a small wave.
The storm clouds from this morning have parted, and the last rays of sunlight burst around him. If my heart wasn’t drumming in my ears, I’d probably hear Barry White murmuring the seductive opening lines of “Can’t Get Enough of Your Love” while Adam stands there with the sunset glowing behind him.
“A—” I try to say his name again, but the word catches in my throat. I frown, swallowing his name and trying again. “Ad . . .”
Why does he have to look like that? His dark hair is doing that long, flipping thing over his tan neck. He’s wearing a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms. There are two perfect lines between his dark eyebrows, and there’s worry in his eyes.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
There’s a record scratch, and Barry stops singing.
I shake my head. “I’m good,” I say too loudly, holding the door open wide. “Come in.”
Adam pulls a leather messenger bag over his head. I didn’t notice it before, engrossed in his Barry White entrance as I was. “You still up for this?”
His cedarwood scent is in my living room. My head fills with daisy crowns, raindrops on cheeks, and the feeling of being carried against his chest. Shirtless Adam, the mythical being, is standing on my worn-out carpet.
“Uh . . .” I can’t get my mouth to work. “Yes.”