Chapter 8
ADAM PULLS HIS arm away when I try to take it and creates a distance between us as vast as Bass Strait as we walk into the restaurant.
The old industrial building is cosy with its hanging pendant lights, olive walls and gorgeous marble bar.
Combine that with the mouthwatering smells coming from the kitchen and the low hum of chatter, and it truly is heaven on earth.
‘We’re madly in love, remember?’ I say.
He looks like he’s marching to his own death instead of a free meal at a nice restaurant.
With a gorgeous date by his side. Okay, gorgeous might be a stretch but I’m not hideous.
One ex once said my auburn hair reminded him of the autumn leaves crunching under our boots, which on reflection maybe doesn’t sound overly romantic.
And another ex said that with my pale skin and upturned nose I was like an ethereal pixie except I was too tall to be a pixie and then he fell into a fit of hysterics because he was as high as a kite.
The point is, I’m not hideous. And my personality is quite pleasant.
Some would go so far as to call me a catch.
‘Geez, I’m only touching your arm. Not sticking my tongue down your throat,’ I say.
His flinch is so sharp he almost bumps into a table.
Is the thought of kissing me that horrible?
I don’t want to kiss him either, but I’m not about to upend a table to get away from him.
Swallowing my injured pride, I reach for his arm again and loop my hand around his bicep, trying not to release a dreamy sigh.
How is it humanly possible for someone to smell that good?
Like he’s walked through a meadow of blooming geraniums and brushed against a bunch of citrus trees before rolling around in mint leaves.
My parents are already seated at the table. Mum flies from her chair and gathers Adam’s face between her palms.
‘The famous Adam.’ She squeezes his cheeks. ‘Paul, look, it’s Adam.’
Dad approaches Adam calmly, his hand outstretched. ‘Adam, it’s nice to finally meet you.’
They’re making it sound like I talk about him all the time.
Adam shakes Dad’s hand as he tries to extract himself from Mum’s grip. Feeling a sliver of sympathy for him and terrified that Mum’s enthusiasm will make him run, I steer her back to the table.
‘Your dress is beautiful,’ I tell her.
She beams. ‘We found it at a little shop near your cafe. Lovely place. You should go there and get some new outfits for work.’
I nod and choose not to react to her subtle dig at my wardrobe. She thinks I should be decked out head to toe in full-on corporate attire—pencil skirts, blazers, buttoned shirts, heels that pinch my feet.
Dad presses a kiss to my forehead, his whiskers scratching my skin. ‘Hello sweetheart,’ he says to me and holds Mum’s chair out for her.
I look to Adam expectantly. He ignores me and sits down.
My perfect fake boyfriend Adam always holds my chair out.
I remove my black trench coat and purposefully bump Adam’s shoulder as I drape it over the back of my chair.
He looks up, scowling. But then his eyes brush over my dark-green dress, lingering at my waist and the curve of my hip before he abruptly turns away.
I sit beside him, unfurl my napkin with a little more vigour than is necessary, and drape it over my legs.
Adam’s brows are pulled together and the tips of his ears are red. He looks at the menu.
‘The gnocchi is amazing,’ I say, because girlfriends are supposed to be helpful.
‘I don’t eat carbs during the week, remember?’ he mutters.
Is he some kind of monster? Who can resist carbs? Especially when they come in the form of little pillows of heavenly goodness.
I smooth my napkin on my lap and catch Mum watching us. ‘He’s so health conscious,’ I say with a mock roll of my eyes that makes Dad laugh.
‘I’ll get the gnocchi,’ Dad says and he closes his menu.
Adam ends up ordering salmon and asks for all traces of carbs to be removed from the dish. He’s the type of diner I loathe. The type who sets the chef swearing in the kitchen.
‘So, Adam,’ Mum says the second the waiter leaves with our orders. She leans forward with eager eyes, the cutlery clinking as her elbows connect with the table. ‘Tell us everything.’
The muscle in Adam’s jaw twitches as he unrolls his napkin. He pushes up the sleeves of his white shirt, his fingers brushing slowly over his gold watch.
‘How old are you?’ Mum asks and I try not to show how eager I am to hear his answer because this fact has eluded all my googling of him. This guy has no social-media presence and his website has very limited personal info.
‘Thirty-seven.’
Huh, I’d guessed thirty-three. So not only does he smell amazing, he’s also somehow unlocked the secret to slowing down the aging process. If I didn’t already loathe this man, that alone would be grounds for dislike.
‘Have you always lived around here?’
‘No.’
I wait for him to expand on that. He sips his water instead.
‘Where were you before?’ Mum asks, undeterred by his one-word response.
‘New York.’
‘Oh, New York,’ she breathes like he’s just told her he’s royalty. ‘Is that where you grew up?’ Her blue eyes sparkle in the flickering candlelight as she cradles her cocktail.
‘I grew up here,’ he replies.
Could he not have told her that instead of his no to her earlier question? A simple, no, but I grew up here before moving to New York would have been sufficient and polite.
‘When did you move to New York?’
‘After I quit teaching.’ The muscle in his jaw twitches again and his eyes dart to mine briefly.
‘You were a teacher?’ Mum keeps the questions coming, ignoring Dad’s gentle tap on her arm. ‘Primary or high school?’
‘I was a high-school English teacher. For two years.’
My mouth pops open. This man of so few spoken words taught teenagers? Consider me flabbergasted.
‘That’s wonderful,’ Mum says. ‘You know, Carol was a teacher too. It was primary school, but I’m sure you two will be able to swap stories. It’s a shame you won’t get to meet her on our holiday. Are you sure you can’t make it?’
‘I’ve already told you, he can’t,’ I jump in before he says anything, like maybe asking who Carol is and blow this whole thing because he should know who my aunt is.
‘He has deadlines and author talks,’ I say.
I shoot him a look that promises real harm if he contradicts me.
I know for a fact that he does talks. They’re mentioned on his website.
He watches me, amusement flickering in his eyes. ‘They were postponed,’ he says, lips twitching at my obvious discomfort.
‘Oh!’ Mum practically dances in her chair. ‘So you could come? You should, it’s going to be wonderful. We’re doing a Clovedale tour and the whole family is going to be there. You can bring your computer with you and I’ll make sure you have plenty of time to write your book.’
‘Clovedale? I don’t think I’ve heard of it,’ Adam says.
‘It only ran for two seasons, and never got the attention it deserved. It’s got a lot of fans though, and I was the winner of a family trip to tour the filming locations,’ Mum says proudly.
‘And, while I don’t want to get your hopes up, I’m almost certain one of the cast members is going to pop in at some point.
’ She reaches into her bag and pulls out a red folder.
‘This has our itinerary and some additional information on the show, locations, and some interesting facts that my brother-in-law has discovered.’ She hands it to him and beams when he flicks through the papers.
‘That’s your copy,’ she says when he tries to pass it back to her.
‘Just in case Sabrina hasn’t shown you her folder. ’
The folder that is still sitting in its Express Post envelope on my kitchen bench.
Adam runs his thumb over his watchband as he looks at the folder again. ‘It does sound interesting.’
‘Are you sure it wasn’t next month’s events that were postponed?
’ I ask, narrowing my eyes at him, desperate to quash this.
While he might find it amusing to give my mum false hope that he’ll come along, I do not.
I will be the one who has to bear the brunt of her disappointment when he doesn’t join us.
‘And weren’t you just saying the other day that you have a major deadline coming up? ’
‘Did I?’
‘You did,’ I bite out through gritted teeth.
‘Deadlines can be changed,’ Mum says. ‘I’m always saying that life is short and we should make the most of every moment.’
Always is an exaggeration. She only introduced this life motto of hers when I dared to say I was nervous about leaving the cafe for this holiday.
I clench my fists under the table. ‘He needs to check with his people before committing to anything,’ I say.
And they will tell him that he has too many events to cancel, and I’ll pass his apologies along to Mum, suffer through her complaining about it for the entire trip and curse this man from afar.
The conversation is interrupted by the arrival of the food. I order another round of drinks for everyone, cocktails for me and my parents and sparkling water for Adam.
‘Do you want to send them an email now, Adam, so we can sort it all out?’ Mum asks. I should’ve known that the meals wouldn’t deter her from her mission to get Adam on this holiday.
I shuffle closer to him and he stills as my arm brushes against his. If he wants to mess with me, I sure as hell can fire back.
‘It’s a bit late now,’ I say, ‘but he’ll do it first thing tomorrow, won’t you, babe?’ I rest my hand over his like it’s the most natural thing in the world and squeeze his fingers.
‘Wonderful.’ Mum beams, her cheeks now a rosy hue. That second cocktail may not have been the best idea. She raises her glass in celebration and takes a loud slurp.
I lean into Adam and he shifts slightly.
His thigh presses against mine under the table.
I tilt my head, my eyes finding his. They’re blazing, a raging fire threatening to explode, and I hope with every fibre of my being that he keeps it contained until after my parents leave.
Maybe calling him babe was a step too far.
I notice some freckles across the bridge of his nose, so faint that they’re almost impossible to see unless you’re close enough to touch them.
I am. And my fingers itch to map them out like constellations in the sky.
I tear my hand away from his and bury it in my lap.
I drag my gaze from the freckles and down to the stubble on his cheeks and his tense jawline.
There’s a flicker of heat under my skin.
His throat bobs as he swallows hard, his lips parting ever so slightly, a short breath escaping. He shifts again, leaving a chasm of frosty air between us. I reach for my glass and, in my desperation to rid myself of his scent and the feel of his leg against mine, I gulp down my espresso martini.
Dad calls an end to the meal when Mum yawns, and he helps her to her feet. I trail behind them to their car as Mum talks about how excited she is for our holiday.
Adam and I wave, smiles on our faces, as they drive away. And then I turn on him. ‘You shouldn’t have given her false hope.’
He shrugs and heads towards our apartment building, the red folder tucked firmly under his arm.
I tug my coat tight around my waist and follow him. ‘Adam.’
His phone beeps and he reads the message with a loud sigh. ‘Your mum loved me.’
‘When did you give her your number?’
‘You went to the bathroom and left me alone with them.’
‘So you gave her your number?’ I groan loudly. ‘Do you have any idea what you’ve done? You’ll get messages, phone calls, GIFs. Just random GIFs throughout the day that have no context because that is what she does.’
He stops walking and stares at his phone like it’s a ticking bomb. ‘But she barely knows me.’
I stop as well and turn back to face him.
‘You’re my boyfriend, which automatically makes you part of the family.
’ I throw my head back and laugh. ‘Do you know how many times she tried to get your number from me? And I never gave it to her. But then I leave you alone for two minutes and you just hand it over.’
Adam starts walking again. ‘She never got it from you because you don’t have it.’
I hurry after him. ‘But if I did, I wouldn’t have given it to her.’
‘But you don’t so you couldn’t have.’
I never knew it was possible to be so irritated by someone. ‘Can you slow down?’
He glances over his shoulder. ‘Why?’
‘Because fake boyfriends are nice to their fake girlfriends.’
‘I’m two feet ahead of you.’
‘But if I slow down then you’ll be further ahead of me. And I plan to slow down.’ Or crawl. These heels are pinching my toes.
He slows his pace.
We don’t speak again until we step out of the elevator and reach our respective doors.
I take a deep breath and square my shoulders, preparing for battle. Okay, not battle per se but preparing myself to say two words I don’t want to speak into existence around him. ‘Thank you,’ I mumble.
‘You’re welcome,’ he says. He backs into his apartment, his eyes falling on mine. His brows pull together and I wait, thinking he’s about to say something. Instead, his door closes.