Chapter 10 EVE
Chapter ten
EVE
That text may be professional but I still set down my phone like it’s radioactive.
Dorothy whines again and flops onto my foot. Blanche makes a disgusted noise and rolls away from both of us, creating a valley in the mattress.
I sit on the edge of the bed. And wait.
Ten seconds. I count them in my head.
Fifteen.
A minute. The digital clock on the nightstand glows red, mocking me.
Pipes creak again. Louder. Closer. The sudden noise makes my pulse spike.
Maybe he’s not up. Maybe I shouldn’t have sent that. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe he’ll think I’m just inventing an excuse to see him. Which I’m not. I’m really not (I should stop arguing with myself).
I’m genuinely concerned.
Mostly.
Buzz.
My phone vibrates against the nightstand, the sound almost violent in the quiet room:
On my way. —Adam
My lungs finally remember how to work. I inhale like I’ve been underwater.
Dorothy perks up the moment she hears the knock. Three short raps, too soft to be casual, too firm to be hesitant.
Of course she does.
I hesitate before opening the door. I’m not even sure why. I’ve seen him today. Tonight. In a kitchen with pancakes and unresolved feelings.
But this feels like something else. Something that could tip the balance. Like opening this door is agreeing to something I’m not ready to name.
Maybe because there’s a bed in the room? Or more likely because it’s him and he’s leaving tomorrow and it feels like a moment in time.
I open the door anyway.
Adam’s standing there, hoodie zipped up, carrying his vet bag like it’s normal to be summoned at 11:30 p.m. for an emotionally fragile dachshund.
“Hey,” he says, soft. One word, but it wraps around me like a physical thing.
I step back, letting him in. The air shifts as he passes, carrying his scent with him. “Sorry. Again.”
He waves it off. “Where is she?”
“Here.” I gesture. Dorothy immediately limps three steps, then whines dramatically and flops back down like she’s auditioning for the new Pets movie. An Academy Award-worthy performance.
He crouches beside her. She licks his hand like she’s never known suffering in her life. Traitor.
“She’s okay,” he murmurs, checking her joints with gentle fingers. I watch those hands move, clinical and precise. “Maybe a little sore, maybe tweaked something. But this”—he glances up at me, eyes catching mine—”this is mostly anxiety.”
“I figured,” I mutter. “But then I started spiraling and the carrier was giving her side-eye and—”
A pipe groans even louder.
We both freeze.
“Was that—?” Adam’s eyes widen, fixed on the ceiling where a hairline crack has appeared.
Crack!
Water bursts from the ceiling in the bathroom with violent enthusiasm. The sound is immediate and overwhelming, like someone dumped a bathtub from the attic. Cold droplets hit my face, my neck. A frigid warning shot.
“Seriously?” I yell. “Is this building cursed?”
I rush toward the bathroom just as water starts pouring into the hallway. My socks are soaked instantly, my hoodie is drenched within seconds. Cold. Icy. Winter pipe cold. It takes my breath away, shock radiating up from my feet.
“Where’s the valve?” Adam yells, slipping in behind me. His shoulder brushes mine as we both lunge for the sink.
“I don’t know! I’m a nurse, not a plumber!” Water sprays across my face, into my eyes. I blink it away, tasting rust and minerals.
We both dive under the sink.
Our arms bump. Then our shoulders. Then everything.
My breath catches. His is warm against my cheek, a stark contrast to the icy water soaking us both. We’re crouched in freezing water, way too close, struggling with a rusted pipe like it’s trying to make us confess our feelings. His body radiates heat even through his wet clothes.
He twists something. I brace the edge. Our hands tangle, slip, find purchase. His knuckles scrape against mine.
And the water stops.
But the room is already soaked. So are we.
I’m dripping. Every inch of fabric clings to me, cold and heavy.
He stands, pushing his wet hair out of his face. Water tracks down his neck, disappears beneath his collar.
His hoodie clings to him like self-stick bandage wrap, outlining every muscle I’ve been trying not to think about. And mine… Well, mine’s a mess. Soaked and freezing, plastered to my skin like a second layer.
I peel it off fast, without thinking. “I need to get this off—” The words die in my throat as I register his expression.
Too late.
My T-shirt is white. And it’s wet. And it’s hiding exactly nothing.
I realize this exactly as his hoodie hits the ground and he steps out of it.
No shirt underneath.
“Why, why would you not wear a shirt under that?” I demand, voice high. But my eyes betray me, falling to his chest, to the definition I felt against me earlier but couldn’t see.
“I was finishing packing when you texted. I was hot. No shirt. Just grabbed a hoodie!” he says, definitely trying not to look at me and definitely failing. “It’s implied insulation!”
I try to cross my arms. Realize that just highlights everything. Drop them awkwardly to my sides. My skin pebbles with goosebumps from the cold or his gaze, I’m not sure.
And he’s just… there. Bare-chested. Gray sweatpants. Wet. Dripping. Looking very much like a mistake I want to make or the only right thing I never did. His eyes darken as they track over me, leaving heat in their wake.
I fumble back toward the bed. “I need dry clothes—”
I fling my emergency tote open. Too hard.
Something falls out.
Something pink.
Something buzzing.
“Oh my God—” Horror floods through me, hot and immediate.
The vibrator. Adam Pro. Betrayed by my own electronic backup plan.
I lunge for it like it’s going to explode and try to zip the tote back like I’m burying my soul in it. Like I can pretend this isn’t happening. Adam’s hands are flexing and why am I staring?
My heart is pounding. My face is on fire. I could spontaneously combust right here in this freezing room.
I grab the first shirt I find from the smaller suitcase. Turn around. Yank off the soaked T-shirt. Pull it on with shaking fingers. The fabric settles against my damp skin.
It’s his shirt.
The old UPenn one. With the frayed hem and the faded zombie doodle on the sleeve. I’ve kept it all these years, buried in my drawer like a secret I couldn’t quite let go of.
And now I’m wearing it. In front of him. Seven years of pretending I’d moved on, undone by laundry.
Boom!
Another pipe gives way. A wall panel pops loose, hanging by a single nail. Water pours into the closet, creating a miniature waterfall over my carefully hung clothes.
“Oh, for the love of—”
Dorothy yips, high and panicked. Blanche barks, the deep sound vibrating through the floorboards.
Adam grabs the vet bag, my suitcase and Dorothy, scooping her up in one smooth motion.
I lunge for Blanche and the tote, with the vibrator definitely still vibrating against my dry shampoo, a persistent mechanical hum that seems to get louder with every second.
We burst into the hallway, water pooling around our feet, spreading across the hardwood.
And waiting for us?
Sally.
In slippers. Holding a mop. Looking entirely too calm.
“Well,” she says, eyes twinkling as they move from me to Adam to the shirt I’m wearing, “looks like the Christmas pipes have done it again. And you know what that means?”
Adam shakes his head. Like he knows.
Sally continues, “There’s only one solution. One dry room left.”
Oh, okay one-bed trope, here we come. Absolutely not.
“No,” we both say. Instantly. The word comes out in perfect unison, which somehow makes it worse.
Because her eyes are twinkling. Yes, twinkling. I didn’t even know eyes could really do that.
“Oh, you don’t have a choice,” she says cheerfully. “Every other room is booked. Your parents are above the clinic, Adam because their house is being renovated and they have no room. Your friends have kids who need their sleep and bunk beds. The only dry room left?”
Pause.
Dramatic mop lean.
“The honeymoon suite, where you’re staying, Adam.”
I stare at her. My pulse pounds in my throat.
Adam makes a sound that sounds a lot like his chicken co, co, co from earlier.
Sally smiles like someone who’s made cocoa for her favorite rom-com movie moment. Like she’s orchestrated this entire disaster.
“I’ll bring extra towels,” she says, and walks away humming “Silent Night.”
And I’m left standing there, dripping wet in Adam’s shirt, my vibrator still humming inside my tote, staring at the bare-chested man I told myself I was over. The one who’s now apparently my one-night-only roommate.
Where’s the GoPro? If this is reality TV (or Julie’s next spicy rom-com) I want veto rights, and a lawyer before they air the part with the pickle.
Although, credit where it’s due: the casting for the shirtless vet is flawless.
The honeymoon suite is cozy warm. And weirdly romantic.
Too romantic.
Sally’s idea of “neutral” decorating clearly includes rose-tinted lamps, candles that smell like cinnamon-drenched yearning, and the largest bed I’ve ever seen outside a mattress commercial.
I hold Blanche and Dorothy back with their harness and leashes.
while LoverBoy shivers in the middle of the room like the air offends him.
Adam crouches beside him, holding out a hand. “Hey, little man. Welcome to the disaster zone.” He glances up at me. “Wait, let’s make sure they get introduced properly. Shelter dogs can be a bit unpredictable with new animals. And while he was okay with them in the car. This is a new environment.”
He put LoverBoy on his leash, too. “Dogs can react different when one is on a leash and the other one isn’t.
Let’s even the playing field.” He lets him sniff the air while maintaining a safe distance from my dogs.
“Nice crew you’ve got here. Blanche. Great Dane, right?
Three or four? And Dorothy looks like a dachshund mix, probably around two. ”