Chapter 10 EVE #2
I blink at his accuracy. “Blanche is four and a half, and Dorothy turned two last month. Veterinary witchcraft or lucky guess?”
“Professional deduction,” he says with a hint of pride. “Blanche has that specific pattern of gray around her muzzle that some Great Danes develop early, and Dorothy’s still got a bit of that puppy energy despite trying to act mature.”
He slowly guides LoverBoy closer to the bed watching body language. “Easy introductions are better than emergency stitches. Trust me.”
But LoverBoy, apparently not having read the manual on proper dog introductions, slips his collar and darts forward. I tense, but instead of chaos, he simply blinks at Dorothy, sniffs her tail, then flops across it.
Dorothy huffs. But doesn’t move.
“Okay,” Adam mutters. “So much for professional protocols. That’s weirdly fast.”
I shrug. “Apparently they’re emotionally complicated creatures.”
“Or maybe right for one another.”
He smiles. Quiet. But it lands somewhere deep.
Especially as when I let go of the leash a little, Blanche flips on her back, and waits for LoverBoy to sniff her before wagging her tail too like she’s made a new friend.
“No signs of aggression. Or fear.” I take away their leash slowly, but they continue. And Blanche licks the head of LoverBoy who snuggles next to her. Okay. Interesting.
Adam eyes the space. Then turns to me like he’s giving a tour of an Airbnb he regrets booking.
“So. You’ve got… the bathroom, the office and living area, the bed. And I’m sure we have more space here, too.“ He opens the drawer on the nightstand. “Cream. Condom. More condoms. Matches. Not suspicious at all.”
“Charming.” I pause. “I can sleep on the floor.”
“Definitely not. I’ll sleep on the floor. Or the couch.”
“That couch is only big enough for LoverBoy and Dorothy. Definitely not you.” I gesture and my hand brushes against skin. Warm skin. Retreat. Pivot. Breathe. “You. Shower. First?” There we go. Words. Words are good. “You look like someone who fought a pipe and lost.”
“I did lose,” he mutters, heading to his bag. “To ancient plumbing or a cursed one. You could take a shower first.”
“I need a moment to find clothes.”
“Okay.”
He looks at me for a few more seconds like he wants to make sure none of this is a dream. “Okay,” he repeats and heads to the bathroom.
The door shuts. The fan clicks on. I’m alone. Sort of.
The dogs are already dozing. LoverBoy twitches in his sleep like he’s dreaming about duck jerky. I sit on the edge of the bed, listening to the water run.
I unzip my suitcase, looking for something dry to sleep in. My fingers brush against something hard: the glass heart ornament. I lift it carefully, examining the seams where it was glued back together. Still intact. I set it on the desk, a small victory in the chaos of the day.
Then I see the drawer. Still open. Condoms. Five travel-sized lube packets sitting like it’s waiting for someone braver than me.
I close it slowly. Try not to think about what it means that this room was built for two people who actually wanted to be there.
Who knew where things were going. Who weren’t me.
Claire, my overly helpful, boundaryless friend, apparently thought packing sexy pajamas would be hilarious.
A Christmas teddy. Red plaid. Reindeer on the chest. Almost see-through.
Or a tiny short, top one that basically shows my ass.
Or the candy-cane flannel pajamas that say, “lick me.” Of course.
The other options? A hoodie I already soaked, or a shirt I shouldn’t still have. His shirt. I touch the hem. I also have my scrubs. And a few other shirts I need.
I grab the flannel pajama instead.
Then the bathroom door opens, and “fine” evaporates like steam.
Adam stands in the doorway, hair damp and curling at the edges, droplets still clinging to his neck.
Barefoot. In a clean blue shirt that hugs his shoulders in ways that make my mouth go dry.
Grey sweats hanging low on his hips - and doing absolutely nothing to hide what’s underneath.
Unlike the sad, festive dick pic from earlier, there’s nothing artificial or compensating about what I’m seeing now.
His collarbones catch shadows I suddenly want to trace with my fingertips.
His eyes flick to me, then away, then back again. I watch his throat work as he swallows. His fingers flex at his sides, opening and closing like he’s trying to hold onto something that isn’t there.
“Hi. Yes, you’re such a good girl,” he murmurs, voice rough as he looks directly at me before dropping his gaze to Dorothy. “You’re being so good. Yes, you are.”
He’s talking to the dog. Not to me. Of course.
And yet… the practiced distance I’ve been building all evening cracks like thin ice.
I’m going to need a cold shower.
And for Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer to guide me the hell back to seven years ago so I can tell myself that “getting over Adam” was going to be a spectacular failure that would eventually lead to me contemplating licking his neck in a honeymoon suite while Blanche judges me from across the room.