Chapter 22
Evie
“Adam?”
“Hi,” Adam chirps as Brandon and I scramble to end our embrace. His eyes dance between us as he attempts to make sense of the situation.
Brandon clears his throat, scratching the back of his neck as he looks anywhere but at Adam. I watch him curiously. He’s acting like he’s been caught stealing cookies from a cookie jar.
It’s weird. I’ve never seen him look so uncomfortable.
Or so . . . handsome. There’s something about his appearance that is particularly dreamy today.
Brandon always looks great, but it’s the little details that have caught my attention lately.
For example, he’s wearing gold cufflinks today.
There are crisp lines running down the length of his shirt sleeves, too, indicating he ironed it.
And he’s wearing that cologne that I told him I liked in another life—the one that smells like pine trees.
And is his hair shinier?
I can’t tell if he’s been putting more of an effort into his appearance lately or if I’m just ovulating right now.
Probably the latter.
Adam wipes his shoes on the rug. “Is now a bad time?” he wonders. Lamely, he lifts the tasteful, artfully arranged holiday bouquet. “I thought I’d try and surprise you . . .”
My heart sinks.
Memories of my wedding day come flooding back to me—like when I flirted with Brandon in the powder room just minutes before I was due to exchange vows with the very man trying to give me roses right now.
I’m officially the worst person who has ever lived.
“Should’ve gone for yellow daisies,” Brandon mutters under his breath.
I shoot him an incredulous look. Really?
Adam approaches the desk, smiling now that he’s recovered from his confusion. “I just wanted to see how you were doing after Friday. You weren’t answering my texts, and I didn’t see you at church on Sunday . . .”
“I’m sorry. I meant to get back to you, but the weekend got away from me.”
Adam shrugs. “It’s all good.” He extends the bouquet to me over the counter, and my heart melts a little. Sure, they’re not yellow daisies, but I appreciate the gesture.
Rounding the desk, I accept the flowers from him, hyperaware of Brandon’s presence.
“What are you doing for New Year’s Eve?” Adam wonders, glancing over at Brandon as if to include him in the conversation. But he’s rifling through his mail, pretending to be absorbed by a task he’d normally have me do, which tells me he’s only sticking around to eavesdrop on our conversation.
Doesn’t he have anything better to do right now?
“Um, nothing that I can think of. Why?”
Adam tucks his hands into his pockets and rounds his shoulders nervously. “You should come to my parents’ New Year’s party. I’d really love to have you there.”
“Oh . . .” Great. Just how I want to ring in the New Year—avoiding Yolanda. “Maybe. Jamie and Rebecka might be hosting New Year’s this year.”
“Jamie and Rebecka have already RSVP’d, so they’ll be there, too,” Adam replies cheerily. “That is, if they aren’t tending to a newborn by then.” He laughs good-naturedly.
“Oh.” Duh. I should have known. Rebecka is due any day now. “Okay. Well, then . . . yeah. I mean, maybe. Sure.”
Adam’s grin widens as I set the bouquet on the front counter, right in front of Brandon’s face, effectively blocking his view of us.
I fluff the petals, pretending to appreciate their crisp, vibrant beauty as one of Brandon’s eyeballs peeks voyeuristically through the mass from the other side of the desk.
These poor flowers, is what I’m really thinking as I stroke their petals. Plucked for someone else’s momentary pleasure. Just like me. I’ve been deflowered by a man standing in this room, and it won’t be long before my petals begin to wilt and fade, too. It already feels like I’ve lost a few.
How depressing.
When Adam’s gone, I carry the vase around the desk and place the sweet-smelling arrangement on top of the standing desk converter.
The bundle is so big that I have to move my monitor over so it fits.
There’s a card tied to the neck of the glass, and maybe it’s because I fell and hit my head on Friday, but I get a random flutter of excitement in my stomach when I sit down and open it.
Evie,
Have I ever told you how much I appreciate our friendship? I’m so glad we reconnected. I’d love for you to join me for Bible study this Thursday, too. Abi really wants to see you again, as well.
Text me any time.
Love, Adam
My cold black heart feels nothing when I read his words, but I can appreciate how sweet they are.
If anything, I feel . . . guilty. Sighing, I trace the loops of his neat penmanship, feeling deeply troubled.
Do I continue seeing him as a friend, potentially stringing him along in the process?
Or do I cut off communication with him completely because I know I’ll never return his feelings?
What would I rather Brandon had done, if things had been different? If he hadn’t been a selfish jerk? I swallow uneasily, even more troubled by my answer. Neither. I wouldn’t have wanted him to do either . . .
Opening the filing cabinet beneath the desk, I tuck the card inside, unable to bring myself to toss it in the trash.
Brandon grimaces. “You’re keeping that?” he asks, acting like I’m saving used toilet paper.
I frown up at him. “Why wouldn’t I keep it?”
He pauses, then nods. “Right. Of course you’d keep it.”
“Of course,” I repeat, arching a brow.
Curious now, I watch as he slides a hand down his tie, straightening it a little. His nervous tick. Why is he acting so weird? “It’s, uh, been a long morning. I’m just going to . . .” He gestures toward his office, then hurries off.
The wheels of my mind spin around and around as I watch his retreating form. They’re still spinning while I’m making coffee in the kitchenette a few minutes later, pondering his strange reaction to Adam’s flowers.
A thought occurs to me as I’m pouring the milk into my mug.
Brandon was flirting with me on Friday night—when he was grilling me about my fake date with Adam over the phone.
He said he was going to file the mini golf date idea away for us.
Then he asked me if I’d let Adam kiss me goodnight, knowing full well the whole thing was a lie.
At the time, I thought nothing of it. Brandon would flirt with a brick wall if it could talk back.
But . . .
I hadn’t made the connection earlier, but could Brandon have feelings for me?
Like, romantic feelings? I mean, he’s obviously attracted to me.
I see him checking me out all the time—even when he thinks he’s being discreet about it.
But . . . as far as genuine feelings go, no.
Brandon has never been interested in real relationships.
And, sure, one could argue that he’s always loved me as a friend, but could he have feelings for me beyond that?
My heart lights up with pleasure over the idea as I sip on my coffee. It makes perfect sense. Why else would he be acting so jealous about the flowers?
No. I shake the thought from my brain as I return the milk to the fridge.
That’s the type of wishful thinking that got you into hot water before, Genevieve.
The hope for more always leads to heartbreak with men like him.
He doesn’t want you the way you want him.
He made that perfectly clear the morning after you slept with him, remember?
I almost drop my mug as the emotional impact of the memory slams into me with the force of a wrecking ball. Must avoid falling into that trap at all costs. Even if it means I have to quit my job and move across the country.
As I’m heading back to the front desk, another memory flits through my mind.
I must have been sixteen . . . maybe seventeen at the time.
It was Memorial Day weekend, and Brandon had brought a date to a grill out at Jamie’s place.
When his date got up to get a drink, I asked him if she was “the one.” I was infatuated with him at the time (let’s be real, I’ve always been infatuated with him), so I needed to know if they were serious or not.
He got a real kick out of my question. When he was done laughing, he winked at me and confided that there wasn’t “one” woman for him.
How had I been so blind?
Then, I made an off-hand comment about how he looked nicer than usual—way too nice for a casual grill out.
His response has apparently stuck with me—even after all this time.
He said, “It’s the little details that women notice, Spitfire.
Being clean-shaven, wearing a nice-smelling cologne.
A crisply ironed shirt.” He leaned toward me with a smile.
“And they want to feel pursued. Adored. If you can look nice and chase them a little, they’re putty in your hands.
” He patted my shoulder affectionately. “Don’t date until you’re at least thirty, okay, kid?
You’d be doing yourself a massive favor. Guys are pigs.”
Back then, I had no idea he was referring to himself as a pig. Now, the memory makes my blood boil. How had I let him fool me? How could he do it? My stomach rolls with sudden nausea. Did I ever know him, really? Or did I only see who he wanted me to see?
Unsurprisingly, I never saw his grill out date again.
I’m still stewing in my anger as I organize the ornaments into piles, trying to decide how I want to decorate the tree, when Brandon and Gladys meet in the hallway to discuss something. Brandon leans against the door frame as he talks to her, crossing his arms as he laughs.
I glare at him from my vantage point at the front desk.
He’s got his readers on, and his attention is focused on Gladys as he scratches his jaw, listening intently to whatever she’s saying, totally clueless about how infatuated I still am.
My eyes drag down his tall, lean form without my permission, appreciating him against my will.
He is glorious. If I were the female version of him, maybe I’d love and leave my fair share of the opposite sex, too. Why not?
But I’m not.
And I’ve only ever had eyes for him.
Said eyes catch on his gold cufflinks as they glint in the overhead light.
It’s the little details that women notice, Spitfire. Being clean-shaven, wearing a nice-smelling cologne. A crisply ironed shirt.
His delicious cologne.
His freshly ironed shirt.
The cufflinks.
And they want to feel pursued. Adored. If you can look nice and chase them a little, they’re putty in your hands.
Asking me to be his assistant.
Driving me to and from work.
The stationery.
Letting me decorate the office.
Our flirty phone call on Friday night.
Offering to come with me to the doctor.
No way. No. Way. This man has his sights set on me. Again. Why?
I should be infuriated. Disgusted. Angry. And I am. But I would be lying if I said there wasn’t also a significant part of me that feels . . .
Satisfied. Flattered. And . . . elated.
Because for as long as I have known Brandon, I have never known him to chase after the same woman twice.