Chapter 21 ADAM
Chapter twenty-one
ADAM
I take one last bite of the gingerbread man Eve left me yesterday as I enter the B&B.
After a particularly challenging night with Mama Bear and her kittens followed by an emergency at the Marshall farm, I drag myself up the stairs to our room early morning.
Dr. Chen’s finalizing her move to Pine Creek, which means double shifts and emergencies fall to me.
Three more weeks of this, then the clinic is fully hers.
I’m muddy, bloody, and operating on fumes. My body aches in places I didn’t realize could ache. The kind of exhaustion that makes your vision blur at the edges.
When I open the door, the scene in front of me hits like a shot of pure adrenaline straight to my chest.
Eve Foster, swaying her hips as she sings (terribly) to Taylor Swift’s latest album while playing with the dogs.
Then she stops singing and starts telling them a story.
A fairytale? LoverBoy prances around her feet like he’s performing for the queen herself, Dorothy joins in with a series of yips that almost sound in tune, and even Blanche watches from her bed with what can only be described as canine adoration.
Eve stops dancing and spins, addressing the dogs with complete seriousness. “And this is when the princess said...” She whirls around, jumping and letting out a startled screech when she notices me leaning against the doorframe.
“I’m sorry... I... I...” Her hands flutter nervously, like she’s been caught doing something inappropriate instead of... being herself.
I stride toward her, muddy boots and all, unable to stop myself. My hand tilts her chin up, and I should be more careful, more measured, but twenty hours without sleep has demolished my filters.
“Sorry for what, Foster?” My voice comes out low, rough with exhaustion and something darker. “For being the only damn good thing I’ve seen all day? For looking so good in that sweater I can’t remember why we agreed to one night? For making me forget I’m dead on my feet?”
Her lips part, eyes widening as she registers my state. The hunger in her gaze shifts instantly to professional concern.
“You’re bleeding,” she says, all traces of embarrassment gone as she steps closer, fingers already reaching for my torn sleeve. “What happened?”
“Mama Bear expressed her artistic opinion about my stitching technique.” I try for humor, but it falls flat as the adrenaline that carried me home starts to fade. “Got my arm between her and one of her kittens at the wrong moment. My hands are clean though. Disinfected at the clinic.”
She guides me toward the chair by the window with that efficient nurse’s touch that somehow manages to be both clinical and gentle. “Sit. Let me look at that.”
I do as I’m told, too tired to argue, watching as she transforms from the woman dancing with dogs into Nurse Foster: competent, focused, all business. Except... there’s a softness around her eyes, a carefulness to her touch that reads far from professional concern.
“How long have you been awake?” she asks, carefully easing my jacket off my shoulders.
“What day is it?” I attempt another joke, but she gives me that look. The one that says she’s cataloging my symptoms and doesn’t like what she’s finding.
“Twenty hours, give or take,” I admit.
Her fingers pause on my arm, eyes meeting mine with a mixture of exasperation and something that might be tenderness. “Really? That’s not great,” she murmurs, but there’s no heat in it.
“So,” I say, my filter completely dismantled by exhaustion, “what was the princess going to say? Before I interrupted your royal court?”
The blush that spreads across her cheeks has me captivated. “You saw that?”
“You telling stories to the dogs? Yeah.” I can’t help the smile that tugs at my lips despite the bone-deep fatigue. “Highlight of the week.”
Across the room, Dorothy barks as if agreeing, prancing around with her stolen sock, while Blanche hesitates between getting up and getting comfier. LoverBoy, meanwhile, has already claimed a spot on my pillow, looking entirely too comfortable.
“It’s so embarrassing.” She busies herself examining my arm. “Julie, my writer friend? She creates actual books with plots and character development. I ramble whatever pops into my head to animals.”
“I liked it,” I tell her, watching her eyes dart up to mine before focusing back on my wound. “Same way I liked your dancing.”
“My dancing?” She snorts, dabbing antiseptic that stings less than it should. “You mean my full-body spasm? I have zero grace, zero rhythm. Chuck used to say I looked like I was having a seizure.”
The casual way she says it makes something fierce and protective rear up in me. “Chuck was a special kind of asshole, wasn’t he?”
She doesn’t respond, but her shoulders loosen slightly, like she’s let go of something heavy.
“You hungry?” She asks.
I stare at her. “Famished. I’m fucking famished.” And when she doesn’t answer, I lean closer on the couch where we’re sitting, my knee brushing against hers.
She shifts slightly, the cushion dipping between us. Her finger traces an invisible pattern on the armrest, her eyes briefly flicking to my mouth before darting away, reminding me of that look she gave me almost a week ago, right before she pulled me down to her.
“That’s code for ‘I really want to eat you,’ Foster.”
“I got that, Harrison.” She chuckles and the sound has me grinning at her like an idiot.
There’s a knock at the door, but we don’t inch away from each other.
“Everyone visible?” Sally waits only three seconds before bustling in with food that looks like it belongs on a Christmas card, pancakes with cranberry syrup, a bowl of clementines, bacon arranged in a star pattern.
“Thought you both could use something hearty,” she says with a wink, before slipping out.
Dorothy immediately abandons her sock to investigate the food, while Blanche lifts her head, alert at the prospect of bacon.
“No, you three have already eaten,” Eve says firmly, setting the tray on the small table out of canine reach. She glances at her watch and frowns. “I have to leave for work in twenty minutes. And get these troublemakers to daycare.”
“I can take them,” I offer automatically, despite barely being able to keep my eyes open.
“You’re basically sleepwalking,” she says, moving behind me. “Turn around.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
“Your shoulders are practically touching your ears.” Her hands hesitate like she’s not sure I want her to touch me in any way that’s not professional. Or like she’s been rejected one too many times.
I see that shadow cross her face—that momentary doubt that shows she’s been taught to question her natural instincts. Without a word, I gently reach back and guide her hands to my shoulders, then look at her over my shoulder with a smile meant just for her.
“Eve,” I say softly, her name like a permission, an invitation. “Please.”
“I wasn’t trained to give massages,” she says quietly. “But I learned online when, um, when I couldn’t sleep. The nurses said it might help with the neuropathy in my hands.” She pauses. “Plus, my ex didn’t want me touching him unless I took actual classes. Said my touch was too... mechanical.”
Something hot and fierce rises in my chest at her words. I turn to face her, catching her eyes before she can look away.
“Foster,” I say, my voice rougher than intended.
“There has never been a single mechanical thing about the way you touch.” I stand up and step closer, close enough that she has to tilt her head to maintain eye contact.
“Not when you check your dogs’ water. Not when you bandage wounds.
And definitely not when your hands were on me. ”
Her breath catches, a flush spreading up her neck. But when she meets my eyes again, there’s something new there—a flicker of belief cutting through years of doubt.
“So yes,” I continue, sitting back down and turning to give her access to my shoulders. “I want your hands on me. Only yours.”
Her touch, when it comes, is anything but mechanical. Her thumbs press into knots that have been there so long I’ve forgotten what it feels like without them.
“When was the last time someone took care of you?” she asks, her voice soft but steady.
“That’s not how it works in small towns,” I manage, as her fingers work magic along my spine.
“That’s not an answer.” Her voice is quiet but firm.
I close my eyes, surrendering to her touch. “I don’t remember.”
Her fingers pause for a moment before continuing their path across my shoulders. “That’s what I thought.”
We stay like that for several minutes, her hands gradually coaxing the tension from my body until I start to drift.
“You need to eat, then sleep,” she says finally, moving around to face me. She grabs a plate and loads it with food. “I’ll take the dogs to daycare on my way to work.”
I reach for her hand, tugging her closer. “At least sit with me for a minute.” My voice sounds rougher than I intended, and I clear my throat. “Before you go.”
She studies me for a moment, then nods, glancing at her watch again. “Five minutes. Then I have to run.”
I reach for a clementine, peeling it with careful fingers.
I break off a segment and offer it to her. “Sweet,” I say, placing it in her palm. “Like you.”
Her eyes widen, a small furrow appearing between her brows. “I’m not—”
“You are.” I brush my thumb across her lower lip, catching a drop of juice. “Sweet, but with more bite.”
She laughs then, the sound warming something in my chest I thought had gone cold years ago. “No one’s ever called me sweet before.”
“You’re sweet, fierce, smart, sexy, funny, clinical when it’s needed and when you’re trying to hide your feelings.”
For a moment, we’re sitting there, sharing a clementine as snow falls outside the window, and I think…this. This is what I’ve been missing.
She sighs. “I have to go. Eat, then sleep. Nurse’s orders.”
“Worried about me, Foster?”
“Professional concern,” she claims, but her fingers tell a different story, lingering on my pulse point, caressing rather than assessing.
Her touch betrays what her words deny. When I stare down at it, she drops my hand like it burned her, stands, gathering her bag and the dogs’ leashes, with heat blooming across her cheeks.
“Hmm-hmm. Yep. Definitely professional.”
“Right.” I smile, catching the hitch in her breath when our eyes meet. “Professional.”