Chapter 7 EVE
Chapter seven
EVE
I need to shrug off his coat. I need to remember how to breathe. And I really need to stop checking Adam's broad shoulders, jawline, strong thighs.
Diagnosis: Acute onset of thirst complicated by almost a decade of regret.
Treatment plan: Maintain professional distance. Stop staring at his calloused fingers.
Group CCC Chat
I’m good. Everything fine. Actually. Not fine. Because. Really? Adam?
After letting Blanche back into the backseat, I slide into the passenger seat, trying to find another manual. There were two, I swear. Adam takes my spot in the driver’s seat, right when the robotic voice reads Claire’s answer out loud:
“Vibrator... Adam Pro... Most likely to... Orgasms... The one who got...”
My heart stops. I should probably check my pulse, but I’m too busy having an out-of-body experience as Adam shifts and I catch the flex of his muscular thigh. The way his gaze flicks down my body before settling back on my face.
“Adam Pro?” His fingers flex on the wheel. Once, twice. Then, slow as sin and all masculine, he rasps, “Interesting choice of name.”
Clinical note: Delete browser history. Find new best friend. Consider witness protection.
I clear my throat. “It’s a very good vibrator.” And I almost don’t sound like the squeaky chicken toy. “10 out of 10. Would recommend.” Because sometimes you need to take control of your own pleasure when life keeps trying to take control from you.
“When did you get it?” His voice drops to that dangerous register that used to make me squirm.
But that question is more efficient than a polar bear plunge.
“Right after I found out my ex was cheating on me with one of my nurses.” And before he can hit me with an, “Oh, Eve” like my mom did when she found out, I continue, “I should have gotten it earlier... that man was a doctor and couldn’t tell when I was faking it.
Which was a lot. Someone should revoke his observational skills certification. ”
This time his half smile has an edge that makes my thighs clench.
Like he’s imagining proving exactly how different he’d be.
Like I’ve been dropped in my favorite romance novel.
That’s why there’s an aching need in my chest that has me wanting to ask him if he could demonstrate that Chapter 12 from three lifetimes ago in person.
The one he wanted to show me before. The one I was too scared to meet him for.
A flicker of movement pulls my attention to the road, and I blink. Hard. Because what rolls up isn’t a rescue truck or even some pickup.
It’s a carriage. A real, honest-to-Santa, decked-out-like-a-TikTok fever-dream carriage, with enough twinkle lights to signal passing planes, sled runners and a sound system blasting “All I Want for Christmas Is You” like it’s the grand finale of a Hallmark movie.
The mules (or donkeys?) are wearing reindeer antlers, and even the reins are bedazzled.
Adam turns off the car that still sputters and slides back out with Dorothy back in his arms. I do the same, minus the dog because Blanche is staring at the carriage like it’s her own personal enemy.
“Is this… normal?” I whisper to Adam, who looks completely unfazed.
“This is Sally,” he says like it explains everything. “She rescues mules and those two love people and prancing around, so… there we are. Meet Naughty and Naughtier.”
Sally stops the carriage right near us. “I was finishing the Christmas stroll in the park,” she explains as she gives me a very obvious once-over. The music switches to “Last Christmas” and I swear the mules nod along.
Dorothy shifts, pressing her tiny traitorous body against his chest like she’s found her new home, and my stomach tightens, because wasn’t I supposed to be her home?
Adam’s arms instinctively curl around her, his thumb brushing absently over her side. Not like he’s thinking about it. Like it’s second nature.
As he gets closer to the carriage, Dorothy whines, reminding me that my usually fearless dachshund has been acting weird and won’t be climbing into that carriage. There are two mules after all.
“We could follow you by foot.”
Sally tilts her head. “The B&B is about a thirty-minute walk, and in this snow, you’ll freeze.”
Adam peeks his head back into the car, and I half expect Blanche to pee on him in protest. It’s her signature move with most men. But instead, she leans forward, sniffing him. And then? Her tail wags. At him. Like he’s not some guy invading her space, but someone she trusts.
The same dog who once growled at my ex for a solid week.
And this is too much. I need my suitcases before getting into that carriage. Or time. Or something.
“I’ll be right back.”
I sling my emergency tote over my shoulder—dogs' extra leashes, meds, charger, coping mechanisms shaped like holiday crochet and rechargeable silicone—and head for the trunk.
I get it open just as Sally’s voice goes breathy with delighted scandal:
“Is that… a…?”
I follow her gaze to the tote hanging from my arm, where my vibrator has slid halfway out of its velvet pouch, glowing with the confidence of a woman who has seen my search history.
My soul exits my body. “A vibrator,” I blurt. “Not a neck massager. A—”
Sally brightens. “Oh! The Pro3000. Solid motor. Bit loud when you get enthusiastic, but it'll take you where you need to go.”
Adam makes a strangled sound that could be a cough or the beginning of XXX
Sally leans in, conspiratorially:
“I upgraded to the Pro5000 last year. Glow-in-the-dark. Charges faster than my patience.”
Adam chokes.
I consider lying face-down in the snow and dissolving back into the earth.
Then Sally’s gaze slides a few inches to the left to Dickle, dangling from the tote by his yarn tail, like he’s trying to escape this narrative and failing.
“And that,” Sally announces warmly, pointing at him, “is the Santa Pickle pattern. Middle stitches are a bit flabby, but it gives him character. And honestly? Relatable.”
Adam drags his hand slowly down his face, like he’s rebooting his entire nervous system.
My dogs are looking at me like I’ve left my mind back in Chicago as I cling to the car.
Focus. Professional. I am an almost full-time ER nurse who can handle trauma cases without flinching. Who clawed her way back to almost full-time after three years part-time because my body needed more naps after transplant.
Adam’s gone completely still. His lips part slightly, eyes darkening as they track from the damning evidence in my tote, to my mouth, then back to my eyes.
That look should come with a warning label.
The air between us crackles with something dangerous, something intimate.
Something that pulls me back to late-night confessions, whispered “would you rather,” and Adam’s voice rumbling about showers and walls, and how he wanted to trace the freckles on my shoulders he saw once.
When I was living my truth while telling him a lie.
I need to say something. Anything.
“Well, it’s…” My throat tightens. “It’s Dickle.”
“Dickle?”
“Hmm-hmm. Emotional Support Pickle.”
“Well, Dickle’s middle stitches need tightening to be harder.” Sally beams. “I’ll show you at the B&B. Though Adam here might have some tips.” She pauses. “Did Adam tell you he tried crochet once?”
Adam’s jaw ticks, softer now, but he doesn’t deny it.
My mouth goes dry. Those big, rough hands stitched farm dogs, splinted kitten legs... and crocheted?
Adam grabs my suitcase. “I’ll help you get in. I’ll wait for Mike...”
“Papalap!” Sally waves her hand dismissively.
“Mike doesn’t need a welcome committee. And he might not be here for another hour since you did miss Wes’s birthday.
” She lowers her voice and I swear it sounded like “your own goodbye party.” Or was it “your old roommate party?” Sally continues, louder.
“Plus, Eve here might need help with those dogs. And who better than our resident animal whisperer?”
Adam crouches down to Blanche’s level, his voice dropping into that soft tone that does things to my insides. “Hey there, beautiful. This looks scary. But you’re doing so good already. You’re such a good girl.”
Okay. The man can still read lines like this out loud and have me wanting to lean in for more. Or fan myself. But that’s not the only reason butterflies fluttering back to my life in my chest, my stomach, everywhere.
It’s the difference between him and a memory that stings like a crochet to the heart. My ex’s voice, sharp with derision: “A Great Dane with anxiety? Really, Eve? You barely have time for me between shifts. How are you going to handle a special needs dog?”
You. Not “We.” When he had told all his friends how committed he was to fostering dogs with me. How we had a system in place since I wasn’t working full-time. How #WeGotThis.
Adam keeps talking to Blanche, patient and steady. “That’s it. You’ve got this. Your mom’s right here.” He glances up at me, those blue eyes warm with understanding. “She’s not going anywhere. And neither are you, right beautiful?”
It takes ten minutes, but eventually we manage to get my giant scaredy-cat to settle on the carriage floor, while LoverBoy is in the carrier on Adam’s left and Dorothy is tucked in between us.
“I can’t believe this is happening.” I try not to notice how his thigh presses against mine, warm even through our layers.
“First time in a carriage?” Sally asks.
“Yep,” I reply.
“It’s okay, girl.” Adam’s hand drops to scratch behind Blanche’s ears, and she actually sighs. “The horse is more scared of you than you are of him.”
The same thing he’d said about the board exam I was freaking out about during one of our video calls.
Adam pats his pockets, searching for something.
“Looking for your phone?” The bitterness in my voice surprises even me. “You didn’t use to be all about the perfect rescue moment.”
He glances up, confused. “I still don’t have social media.”
I tuck that information away for later.
“I’ve got this DAP-infused bandana somewhere at the B&B. Works wonders with anxiety cases.” His hands keep moving, gentle and sure. “Had good results with it at the clinic. I thought I had one on me for LoverBoy when I found him.”
Chuck would’ve already had his phone out, staging the perfect rescue-dad moment for his followers—#BestLifeWithMyRescues—right before telling me, “We should board them at your parents. Indefinitely.”
A shiver wrecks through me.
“Your gloves are wet,” he whispers. Yes, my gloves. Of course, my gloves.
“LoverBoy… The chihuahua.” When I went to get him, I must have gotten those gloves in the snow.
Adam tugs them out. Slowly. Deliberately.
Each finger unfolded with the kind of care that makes something clinical feel suddenly intimate.
And my mouth? Gaping open like a fish. Closing mouth now.
There. That’s better. Professional. Composed. Until Adam gives me his full attention.
And having Adam’s full attention? Oh. Someone page help now.
He takes my frozen hands in his, and I inhale sharply at the touch.
His calloused thumbs trace slow circles against my palms, and electricity shoots straight up my arms. His touch has my chest both expanding and narrowing at once, like my lungs can’t decide whether to breathe him in or hold perfectly still.
His skin is furnace-warm against mine, the heat seeping into my bones, bringing pins-and-needles sensation back to my fingertips.
I make a mental note to get better winter gloves.
Focus on that. Not on the way his eyes darken to midnight blue, not on how his jaw tightens as if he’s fighting the same losing battle I am.
I should know the neuropathy always flares in cold weather, but the shiver racing down my spine has nothing to do with the temperature.
“You’re still cold?” The low rumble of his voice makes my pulse skip, and also race a little too fast. I take a deep breath, counting silently until it steadies.
“Nope. Good.” But his hands don’t drop. And I still don’t move, until the carriage hits a bump and I need to hold on to something.
My hands scramble for balance, finding his thigh. Then... higher.
Oh. Oh. Even through layers of winter clothing, there’s no mistaking that particular anatomy.
I jerk my hand back like I’ve touched a hot stove, my face burning enough to melt snow.
But before I can spiral into full mortification, his hand covers mine again where it’s now death-gripping the seat between us.
His thumb finds that small strip of exposed skin between his gloves and my coat sleeve, the contact sending electricity straight through me. And is calming me like one of the dogs?
“Oh, you’ll love the town,” Sally says, steering Naughty and Naughtier around a bend where I swear it looks like a Christmas Tree Farm in the distance.
“Especially with the Christmas market. Oh, and the tree lighting. And the skating. The waffles. Everything.” She pauses, too casual.
“Does that make you want to stay longer, Adam? Such a shame you’re leaving tomorrow. ”
The warmth from his touch vanishes and my entire body goes numb.
Leaving. Tomorrow.
The words slam into me like a code blue announcement. My heart stutters. The absolute, perfect irony doesn’t escape me—I ghosted him years ago and now he’s leaving right as I arrive. The universe has a twisted sense of humor that not even my darkest jokes can match.
“Tomorrow?” My voice comes out embarrassingly small, betraying every attempt at nonchalance.
I force myself to breathe normally, like I do when I’ve been on my feet for too long and I’m worried about my tachycardia.
Like I’m not calculating how many hours that leaves us.
Like I’m not wondering if seven years of regret could be undone in less than twenty-four.
Adam nods, giving a look to Sally that has her narrowing her eyes and smiling way too big.
“Yep.” That’s the answer I get.
And that makes no sense.
Because Adam Harrison was the one who argued about going back to his no-name small-town while I babbled on about big city medicine, how one day I’d work for the NIH, helping them with the research they fund because no one else will. Not telling him it was because that research saved my life.
I was the one who left my small-town to escape ghosts I didn’t even realize cling to you no matter where you go.
And I never even worked for the NIH.
He’s leaving for bigger, better things.
Or he knew I was coming and decided skipping town was for the best.
That’d track.