Chapter 28 ADAM #2
I turn her hand over in mine, brushing my thumb across her palm, feeling the slight roughness from years of medical work. "Not just the nurse who survived cancer, but the woman who color-codes her coffee pods, who makes alien pickles, who calms anxious Great Danes and puts antlers on Chihuahuas."
"You make me feel like a Hallmark heroine. Or a rom-com heroine," she says, her voice catching. "I never thought I could be."
"Why not?"
"Because of the history? The anxiety? The fact that I'm worried about more hospital hours as a patient?
And also hate that I worry when others are still in the midst of it all?
Some don't get to stop being patients…" Her words come faster now, like a dam breaking.
"Because I'm weird and awkward, cold? Because I haven't cried when I saw my own husband dick-deep into someone I considered a friend?
I haven't cried once since. Not when I signed the papers.
Not when my Chicago oncologist retired and I really trusted him.
Not when I got job rejections after rejections. I'm achieving Peak Ice Queen here."
"Eve," I say her name like something precious, because it is. "Some rom-com heroines have sadness in their past. Tragedy. Trauma. It doesn't make you less deserving of all the light and laughter."
"I swear if you tell me you need the rain to appreciate the sunshine or that it's meant to be..." She rolls her eyes, but there's no real bite to it
"I saw a card once," I say, deadpan. "Said, 'Sometimes life hands you lemons. Sometimes it hands you a flaming bag of dog shit.'"
A laugh bursts from her lips, genuine and surprised. "God, that's accurate." Then, more quietly: "I was sitting in Sally's conservatory earlier, watching the snow fall, trying to figure out what I actually wanted. Not what I should want, or what I'm supposed to want, but what I actually want."
"And what did you figure out?" My heart hammers in my chest, steady but fast.
She leans forward, close enough that I can count her eyelashes, close enough that I can see the tiny flecks of amber in her brown eyes. "I don't know what I want yet," she whispers, her breath warm against my face. "Chicago, Cape Cod. Any of it. But I know I want this. Right now."
She lifts her hand to my face, her fingers tracing the line of my jaw with a tenderness that makes my throat tight.
"I want to try, Adam. Not because I'm afraid of being alone, or because I need someone to rescue me.
But because when I'm with you, I feel like myself.
All of myself. The clinical and the messy parts.
The strong and the scared parts. And I've never had that before. "
My hand covers hers, turning to press a kiss to her palm. "I want that too," I tell her. "Not the perfect version of you, but all of you. The whole complicated, brilliant, stubborn mess."
Then she's kissing me, and it's different from last night. Slower, more deliberate. She tastes like chocolate and candy canes and Christmas, and I pull her onto my lap, her thighs straddling mine. This isn't desperate, frantic need. This is exploration. Recognition. Coming home.
"We should talk more," I murmur against her jaw.
"We will," she promises. "But right now, I need you to touch me."
"Yes, ma'am," I drawl, and she laughs. But there's something different in it this time. Less edge. Less armor.
I peel her hoodie off, slow. Reverent. The fabric catches on her nipples, and the soft gasp she makes shoots straight to my already-harder-than-concrete cock.
A sudden scuffling sound breaks through the moment. We both turn to see LoverBoy in full attack mode, wrestling with one of my socks. He growls dramatically, shaking it like he's subduing a dangerous predator.
"Taking lessons from Dorothy, I see," Eve mutters, hastily tugging the hoodie back down. "I should have asked Sally to take him, too."
LoverBoy pauses mid-stride, registering our attention. With deliberate eye contact, he trots directly to the bed and deposits the now-soggy sock right between us.
Eve snorts. "I think he's trying to tell us something."
"That my sock drawer is under attack? Between him and Dorothy, I'll be barefoot by Christmas."
LoverBoy leaps onto the small step by the bed, to the footrest and onto the bed and promptly settles himself on Eve's lap, the sock still clutched possessively in his jaws. His tiny body vibrates with pride.
“I believe that’s Chihuahua for ‘back off, buddy,” Eve says, scratching behind his ears as he melts into her touch.
“He’s got the wrong idea about who’s in charge here,” I mutter, but there’s no heat in it. How can there be, when Eve’s looking at me like that?
“How about you go play with your toy,” Eve whispers. “And I’ll play with your vet.”
“Yes, please.”
She stands up and grabs one of those small Kongs that occupies LoverBoy for at least an hour and closes the door to the living area behind her. So when she comes back, we’re all alone.
I peel her hoodie off again.
Her breath catches, just like last time—forever ago but it was less than a month ago.
But this isn’t last time.
Not because last time didn’t matter—fuck, it did. But that was heat crashing into history. The culmination of years of want and missed chances. It burned fast and bright, like it had been waiting to happen since the second we first typed each other’s usernames.
But this, right now, is different.
This time, she didn’t have to come back. She could’ve walked out and never looked back. And maybe she’s still not sure what this is or where it’s going. But she’s here.
And that changes everything.
And I’m going to show her.