Chapter 21
‘WHY DON’T YOU like talking about your books?’ I say as I close the door to the cottage behind me.
Adam puts his phone on the dresser, his back stiff as he leans down to remove his rain-soaked shoes.
He places them neatly beside his runners and then thinks better of it and walks them over to the fire that Betty got burning in time for our return.
‘I do talk about my books.’ He holds his hand out for my shoes and then sets them next to his.
‘Not willingly.’
‘I answered Reese’s questions. And Natalia’s.’
My stomach jolts at the mention of Natalia. I try to ignore it, squash it. ‘When Reese asked me why you don’t like talking about your work, I told her you were shy. And humble. So be humble at dinner, okay?’
He pinches the bridge of his nose with a sigh. ‘And how would you like me to do that?’
I shrug. ‘You’re the writer. Write a humble version of yourself in your mind.’
‘That doesn’t make sense,’ he mutters before grabbing his notebook and laptop, and sitting on the sofa.
I flop down on the bed, my hand connecting with something on my pillow. A Mars Bar. The Mars Bar. The hard-fought-over-prize Adam won off Gabi last night that he must’ve put on my pillow before we left for the caves. Right after I was snippy with him. Way to go, Sabrina.
I open my messages, reading over the one Hattie sent through while we explored the caves. She’s spoken to Vik and let him know that if he’s late one more time then we’ll have no choice but to let him go.
Sabrina: I thought we were going to do some performance management
Hattie: I gave him a warning instead
Sabrina: Is he ok? Should I message him?
Hattie: He’s fine. He said he’d do better. The warning had to happen. Can you ask Adam if he’d do an event for us? A Q)
I almost choke on my own saliva when she sends a screenshot of the photo Natalia posted from the pub last night. I rub at my thigh, remembering the feel of his hand as it ran along my skin.
Hattie: You’re practically on his lap
Sabrina: Tommy forced me to move closer
Hattie: It doesn’t look like you were forced. And it doesn’t look like Adam’s unhappy about it
I zoom in on the photo. Sure, he’s smiling but I think that’s simply him playing his role of fake boyfriend.
Sabrina: You’re imagining things
Hattie: You’re ignoring things. Now while I’d love to continue proving my point, it’s late and I’m going to bed. Check your emails—I sent the latest figures. They’ll make you happy!
Jumping straight to my emails, I almost let out a squeal. A Cup of Joy has just had its biggest day on record, breaking what we made at our grand opening. And our opening was only successful because my entire family came to town for it.
I stare at Hattie’s email, poring over every detail with a hammering heart. We might actually do this. I might even be able to show Gabi that I am just as successful as she is. I press a finger to the screen and hold it over the day’s total figure. Just to let it sink in, have it feel tangible.
If I was home, we’d be dancing around the cafe, toasting our success and planning our next steps.
I’d probably even splurge and order takeout from that dumpling place on the corner that makes the most delicious chili wontons.
Instead, I am thousands of miles away fighting fits of jealousy over a man who isn’t even mine.
Right now, I’d trade this in for a celebratory dance with Hattie.
I read the email again and stop at the message below the figure. I was too excited by the number before that I didn’t read it. Now, I really wish I hadn’t seen it.
I guess influencers truly do influence. Thank Natalia for me—the uptick in business today was all because of her posts. Once you’re back, I want to chat to her about setting up a collaboration. Miss you xxxx
Jealousy flattens me in a crushing wave.
I almost want to laugh because of course this is how it goes.
It’s not my recipes or how good our coffees are or the vibe of the place that brings this uptick.
And it definitely isn’t the hours of blood, sweat and tears Hattie and I pour into the business.
It’s a freaking social-media post from someone who hasn’t even set foot in the cafe.
It doesn’t really feel like our success.
But a record day’s takings is a record day’s takings.
I decide that a mini celebration is in order, and I pour myself a big glass of merlot and head over to where Adam is working.
Or should I say not working since I haven’t heard the clicking of his keyboard at all.
I pivot and return to the bottle of wine, pouring a generous amount into a second glass.
Sitting down in the armchair opposite him, I slide one of the glasses across the coffee table. ‘In case you need a little liquid courage.’
He peers at me over his screen. ‘Liquid courage?’
‘For all I know you’re writing a scene that needs a little courage.’
‘And what type of scene might that be?’
I shrug and take a sip. ‘For me, that would be any scene. Just the thought of having to write anything other than a text makes me break into a sweat.’
I don’t know if it’s a trick of the light or something but I swear he almost smiles.
‘Now, for you, hmm, let me see.’ My fingers tap against the rim of my glass as I study him. He stares back at me, expectantly. ‘Anything that involves your characters not brooding,’ I say.
He laughs, deep and short, ending before he’s even truly begun. My heart pounds in response.
He reaches for the glass of wine with a shake of his head and raises it in salute. ‘Part of me wants to write a book with nothing but page upon page of brooding just so you’ll be miserable reading it.’
Now it’s my turn to laugh. ‘And what makes you think I’ll read it?’
His eyes hold mine. ‘You’ll read it.’ His voice is a low, sexy rumble.
I gulp at my merlot to hide the colour I can feel creeping across my face, and he goes back to staring at his screen.
I settle back in my chair and wait for that awkwardness I usually feel when a conversation screeches to a halt.
Except this time, it doesn’t arrive and there’s a weird sort of comfort to the quiet.
Like sitting here with Adam isn’t the worst thing in the world.
I glance at him, the creases in his forehead deepening as he chews on his lower lip.
He’s frustrated. I shake my head slightly.
I know what frustration looks like on Adam Whittaker.
I also know when he’s uncomfortable. Annoyed.
Teasing. Somehow, we’ve moved from loathing one another and existing with the barest of acknowledgments to, well, to whatever this is.
What happens when we get home though? Do we return to what we were or has this trip, this almost friendly relationship, changed things?
The fire crackles and I breathe in deeply, savouring the warmth that fills the room.
Adam sighs and stabs at the keyboard.
‘It’s not going well?’
He removes his glasses, rubbing at his eyes with another sigh.
I take the non-answer as confirmation. He puts his glasses back on and takes a tiny sip of wine.
‘I just can’t…there’s so many people begging for this book and my editor is breathing down my neck for a finished draft. ’ He takes a much larger sip.
‘Do you have a deadline?’
‘It’s come and gone and the new deadline we set is right around the corner.
’ His fingers drum on the table. ‘I’ve planned this book meticulously and I know what needs to happen, what clues to plant, every detail.
And I’ve written the first half already but when I sit down to write the second half, I just…
I can’t. I thought coming here would help.
It’s where the book is set and this place is dripping with inspiration but it’s not working. ’
‘Is there anything else that would help?’
‘Running usually does and that’s failed me as well.
’ He looks at the fire as he rubs his thumb back and forth over his watch.
‘Painting, maybe. Except I didn’t bring any supplies.
Half a book. That’s all I need to write.
’ He shrugs and moves his laptop to the table, closing the screen with one last pained look at it.
‘It’s a lot of pressure living up to people’s expectations. ’
‘At least people expect results from you,’ I say and then shake my head as though it’ll erase the words.
‘Yeah, your family is intense.’
I turn my glass, staring into the deep red liquid.
Intense is a bit of an understatement. I love them fiercely, but they’re a lot and it takes a great deal of energy to survive them.
If Adam had his time over, knowing what he knows, I’d bet everything I own that he would’ve never agreed to come on this holiday.
The fact that he’s still here and still going along with the fake-boyfriend charade says a lot about his character.
Even if it pains me to admit that. And I don’t think I’ve actually thanked him for saving my arse here.
I sip my wine and level a look at him. ‘Thank you,’ I say.
‘For going along with all this,’ I add with a flourish of my arm around the room.
‘I appreciate it. Even though I don’t really understand why you’re doing it. ’
He shifts in his chair, looking slightly taken aback by the gratitude. Part of me expects a snarky response but he simply raises his glass and tips it towards me. ‘You have a good family, Sabrina.’
‘I think you might be their favourite of my boyfriends. I don’t know if that’s because they adore your books or because you’re not obnoxious.’
He taps his foot against mine, the move so playful it catches me off guard. ‘Favourite boyfriend.’ He nods slowly. ‘It seems fitting.’
‘The bar was pretty low.’
‘Were they really that bad?’
‘If you call unsupportive, belittling, lying and cheating bad then yes, they were really that bad. I don’t know what it is about me that attracts douchebags.
Anyway,’ I say and drain my glass, tired of feeling sorry for myself, ‘I’m happy to stay single until the right person comes along.
And when he does, he will make one Dianne Fogerty very happy. ’
Needing a refill, I get up to retrieve the bottle. I stop at his side on my way back and top up his glass. He tilts his head, meeting my eyes with a soft smile that makes me catch my breath. I stumble to my chair.
‘Look at us—we just had an entire conversation without a single snipe at each other,’ he says. ‘It feels strange.’
‘Very odd,’ I agree. ‘But I only snipe at you because you aggravate me. I’m actually a very nice person, but when I’m around you I just, I don’t know…I want to kick a chair.’
He laughs again. Unlike earlier, he lets it fill the space around us, and I relax into it as the sound, so deep and beautiful, seeps into my soul.
‘Would you believe that I’m actually a nice person too?’ he says.
‘Liar.’
‘It’s true. I have a five-star Uber rating and,’ he says, leaning forward, ‘I’ve been known to help old ladies carry their groceries to their cars.’
‘And leave chocolate on your fake girlfriend’s pillow,’ I add, a slight thrill running through me as his eyes travel to my mouth. ‘But, still, until I see further evidence, I don’t believe it.’
His lips twitch as he nestles back in his chair. ‘That won’t be anytime soon. You have this unique ability to aggravate me and when I’m around you I want to kick a chair,’ he says.
Our eyes meet for a moment and we laugh. Then I have to look away. Something is happening.
I finish my wine and get up, a slight buzz settling over me.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ I say with a nod at his laptop.
‘Look, it may not mean much coming from someone who knows absolutely nothing about writing a book, but maybe instead of forcing the story people want, you should write what you want.’
He blinks at me, his mouth slightly agape.