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“I know what I said and am aware of the risks, but I’m also confident that my listeners won’t jump ship and flee to listen to his podcast over mine. If they prefer his show over mine, they should choose him. However, I think my listeners would like both, and there’s enough business for everyone.” I rush past her and head into the kitchen to check on the chicken sitting in my crockpot for no less than twenty minutes. Typically, I have no problem with confrontation, especially with someone as close as Gisela, but I know she has a valid point. This is not a strictly altruistic move. I like Adam and jumped at the chance to spend time with him.
"What's going on here?" Gisela eyes the barely touched chicken I'm half-heartedly attempting to season, swiftly confiscating the spoon from my grasp. "This isn't like you. Why this strange behavior?"
Denial springs to my lips. "I'm acting perfectly normal," I insist, though even to my ears, it sounds unconvincing. "There's just a lot on my plate with the Bevins case study, and now helping Adam which may result in potentially bringing him onto an episode—it's a lot to juggle. Relying on someone else to deliver, especially when I like to have control over every detail, it's unnerving."
Understanding dawns on Gisela's face as she sifts through the spice rack, selecting a handful of jars. "I’ll admit that your need to micromanage is annoying, not to mention your habit of going too easy on the spice. How many times have I told you about the wonders of paprika? It's as if my culinary advice goes in one ear and out the other." With a seasoned hand, she liberally seasons the chicken with paprika and onion powder, stirring the pot with an expertise I have yet to match.
I retrieve a small bag of potatoes from the pantry and place several into the colander, scrubbing them vigorously under the tap. I reach for the peeler and feel Gisela's glare focused on me.
"Do you think helping him might make him see you differently? Are you helping him because you like him?" Her question slices through the kitchen's casual atmosphere, her voice tinged with concern and curiosity.
Surprise overtakes me, causing my hand to slip, sending the peeler clattering into the sink. The suggestion strikes a nerve, echoing louder in the silence that follows. "That’s absurd," I snap back, more to convince myself than her. "You know how I feel about him." My voice is steeped in defiance and all the righteous indignation I can muster. I narrow my gaze, obscuring my vision with the fake lashes I insisted on wearing to our meeting. If that wasn’t a telltale sign, for heaven’s sake. “You sound judgmental to me.”
Undeterred, Gisela gently lays peeled potatoes into the crockpot, her voice softer now. "It’s an observation, not a judgment, Fiona. It's hard not to notice your curiosity. His rugged appeal isn't lost on me either.”
Her words sting and her theory feels uncomfortably acute. I can’t believe I’m so transparent. If Adam suspects my feelings, I may send him back to New York and ghost him from here to eternity. My offer to meet for a second time now feels like a glaring declaration of my interest, rather than a mere professional courtesy.
"You're reading too much into it," I counter, even as my defense seems to crumble with each word.
With a knowing smile, Gisela continues to prepare the meal, her tone soothing yet firm. "I'm only looking out for you. Mixing personal feelings with professional decisions can be tricky. And while there's nothing wrong with attraction, I worry about the potential fallout for you and your career. He’s a man. You’re a woman. These things happen. I just don’t want you to help him, hurt the business and wind up with nothing more than a broken heart. Is it so wrong to be concerned about my best friend?”
Her logic is sound, irritatingly so. But she has a better perspective from the outside, looking in. I would never offer people help on a transactional basis. That’s not who I am. It’s not like I'll freeze him out if he tells me he has a girlfriend or doesn’t appear interested in anything more than a friendship. Friendship is enough. But he’s the first man I’ve been attracted to in ages and I’d hate to get my hopes up with a ridiculous romantic fantasy that has no chance of coming true.
"Your concern is noted, but let's not dwell on hypotheticals," I say, hoping to steer the conversation toward more neutral territory. "You're staying for dinner, right?"
As Gisela settles in, discarding her cardigan with a casualness that speaks volumes of our friendship, she nods. "Yes, and we've got a lot to discuss, especially your approach with Adam tomorrow. This is no ordinary challenge."
"I've navigated these waters before." I reach for a bottle of wine to ease the edge of the upcoming conversation.
Her laughter fills the kitchen. "High school sweethearts hardly count, Fiona. This is the real deal. Adam is a man, not an eighteen-year-old boy.”
Her teasing lightens the weight of the situation. As we pour wine and lay out our plans, the complexity of my feelings for Adam and the fear of the unknown, somehow feels more manageable. Maybe he’s not such a bad guy after all.
CHAPTER 7
Iknew this would happen. It was a premonition I couldn’t shake. Last night, as I hashed out the day’s plans with Harry, he wagered fifty dollars that Fiona would stand me up. And he said he couldn’t blame her.
Fiona immerses herself in criminal cases daily and has undoubtedly developed a suspicious and discerning mindset. I arrived unannounced at her doorstep with a proposition for coffee and was not only forward, but alarmingly aggressive. My approach, in hindsight, could have been smoother. As I sit here, sipping cold coffee, I imagine a line of police cars encircling the area, their sights potentially trained on me. The thought is ludicrous, yet in my heightened state of anxiety, it feels all too plausible.
Why did I have to mess things up so badly?
The server approaches again, her patience evident as she offers a gentle smile to ease the situation's growing unease. "Would you like to order something else?" she asks, marking her fifth visit to my table. Glancing down at my watch, I note Fiona's delay has now extended to thirty minutes—a stark deviation from what I expected. Given her reputation for reliability and professionalism, her absence feels more like a deliberate decision than a simple oversight. It's becoming increasingly clear that she might not plan to join me.
Overwhelmed by defeat and rejection, I pass the server a ten-dollar bill to settle my check. As I make my way to the exit, a nearby table of girls can't help but snicker, their amusement adding salt to the wound. An elderly couple observing the ordeal unfolding offer sympathy and curiosity, attempting to console me with well-meaning but ultimately disheartening words of encouragement. Their kindness, though genuine, only serves to amplify my embarrassment.
The moment I step outside, Fiona's unmistakable voice cuts through the air, a blend of accusation and disbelief. "Adam Kelly! I should've known better than to trust you. Did you really come all the way from New York just to make a fool out of me?"
I whirl around, my eyes locking in on her as she approaches. The dread of potentially losing the chance to see her again vanishes, swiftly overtaken by a surge of panic at the realization that she's furious with me. Her words, sharp and loaded with disappointment, send a jolt of urgency through me. I need to explain, to rectify whatever misunderstanding has painted me as the villain in her eyes.
"Make a fool of you? Fiona, I'm at a loss here—what's going wrong?" I lean in, reducing the distance between us to ensure we're on equal footing, my heart racing as I catch sight of the moisture clouding Fiona’s eyes. "Did I get our meeting spot wrong? I've been waiting inside for over thirty minutes. The server inside can vouch for me," I offer hurriedly, a desperate attempt to clear up any misunderstanding.
But her expression—a mix of frustration and hurt—signals that my words fail to move her.
"You arrived thirty minutes ago? We agreed on 2:00 p.m. It’s 3:30 now!" Fiona's voice escalates, her frustration palpable in the air between us, and then she visibly recoils, embarrassed by the attention her outburst has attracted. With a swift motion, she tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear, disappointment evident on her face. "Forget the lunch and the help. Clearly, you believe I'm not important enough to deserve courtesy and professionalism. I have no interest in knowing someone who doesn’t respect me. Safe travels back to the city," she declares, leaving no room for rebuttal.
Bewildered, I glance down at my wristwatch, the hands indicating it's merely 2:35. "I’m baffled." I show Fiona my watch as if it could somehow vindicate me. I tap the glass face, pondering whether a lagging battery is to blame or if I’ve completely lost track of reality. I prepared for today—early to bed, no drinks, alarms set. "Are we in a different time zone?" I ask, grasping at straws, unwilling to accept that a simple misreading of time could unravel the opportunity to connect with Fiona.
"Time zone?" Fiona's reaction morphs from irritation to bewilderment as she processes my apparent oversight. "You do realize we moved the clocks forward last night for daylight savings, right? Most electronic devices adjust automatically. Didn't you check your phone all morning?" She dives into her purse, emerges with her smartphone, and presents it to me. The screen clearly displays the current time, offering tangible proof of my mistake and the hour discrepancy that has gone unnoticed until now.
