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"Daylight savings?" A surge of realization and embarrassment mix as I physically react to my blunder, slapping my forehead in disbelief. In a bid for redemption, I hurriedly retrieve my phone, the black screen serving as a silent witness to my dilemma. "Look, my phone died just before I was supposed to head out, and I didn't get the chance to charge it." The urgency in my voice mirrors the panic in my chest. "I can't apologize enough, Fiona. Truly, from the depths of my heart. It was an honest mistake, not negligence. How about we forget the show? I genuinely like you and would like to get to know you better," I continue, my earnest plea hanging between us. I extend my hand towards her, no longer hiding behind pretenses of indifference. If faced with rejection, I'm prepared to persist. A girl like Fiona comes around once in a lifetime, and I'm not about to let a mistake, however foolish, cost me a chance to be with her.
Laughing softly at my apparent confusion, Fiona clarifies the situation with a playful smirk, her amusement on display. "Actually, I grabbed lunch already. After waiting twenty minutes, I decided to check out that spot across the street. Did you really think I'd just be sitting in my car this whole time, waiting?" Her words, light and teasing, cut through the tension I’m feeling. With a casual flick of her wrist, she activates the remote, unlocking a nearby car with a beep that echoes the unexpected turn our day has taken.
Desperate for redemption, I rush to block her path and stand before her car door, humbly seeking a moment of grace. "How about we switch gears? Maybe dessert, or we could find a cozy spot for a drink. Just give me a chance to make this right," I implore, my hands clasped in prayer, my appeal laced with sincerity.
To my surprise and relief, Fiona's demeanor softens, and there’s a spark of amusement as she considers my pleas. Her lips curve into a smile, bridging the gap of tension that hangs heavily between us. She gestures towards the passenger seat of her car and offers an unexpected olive branch. "Hop in. I know the perfect place by the water. It's peaceful, and we can watch the waves roll in as we delve into the world of crime." She laughs, and my heavy heart floats with hope. This could be the beginning of something big.
CHAPTER 8
"Ugh, I can't stand the sound of my own voice. Every time I listen to my playbacks, it’s like nails on a chalkboard," I confess, my hands instinctively flying to my cheeks in a mock attempt to shield myself from embarrassment. As much as I strive to hide my flirtation, it's a challenging act to maintain. Whenever he drops even a mildly amusing comment, I find myself responding with uncontrollable, hyena-like laughter that makes me appear drunk or insane. I just hope he's into that kind of thing because I can't seem to tone it down.
"Actually, you have a fantastic voice." Adam’s intense gaze holds mine until my laughter fades, and I dial it back completely with a sip of beer. "Seriously, you've got this podcasting thing down. Your research? Spot on. Your storytelling? Killer. Bet you've got fans who tune in just for your voice. It's that good," he says, looking away like he's suddenly developed a case of shyness. Deep in thought, he gazes out at the waves, then continues. "I hope that didn't sound too weird, but I mean every word. I could spend years listening to you and never grow tired.”
Adam's compliment throws me for a loop, and my mind scrambles to figure out what to say next. I put my glass down, running my finger around the edge because it gives me something to do while an awkward silence hangs between us. I can’t stop turning his words over in my mind, quietly freaking out with worst-case scenarios. Does he truly like me, or is he being nice because we're talking shop? I really wish Gisela could magically appear right now. She's got this knack for figuring out what guys mean. Me? Not so much.
"That's really kind of you to say." I try to sound chill, but inside, I’m flustered. "You've got an incredible voice yourself. And I’m not just saying that because you complimented me. It's seriously radio-worthy." With a heavy sigh, I try to cool down my nerves, which seem to have a mind of their own right now.
"Thanks." Adam cracks a shy grin as a noticeable redness dusts his cheeks. He takes another sip of his beer, and I can't help but get caught up in the moment, imagining… well, better not go there.
Quickly, I snap out of it and drop my gaze to the Mexican tile beneath our feet, pretending they're the most exciting thing I've seen all day. What do girls do in these situations? Touch his thigh? Invite him over? I think I’m getting ahead of myself.
"No problem," I squeak out, suddenly feeling my stomach do flips. I wrap my arms around my belly, hoping I don't look as queasy as I feel.
"So, have you ever caught my show?" Adam asks, leaning back and looking at me with an expression that's hard to read.
I lift my head and meet his gaze, now full of genuine curiosity.
Leaning in, I go full-on flirt mode, elbows and breasts on the table, wondering what his reaction would be if I decided to make a move. It's a bold play, fueled by curiosity more than anything.
“I used to listen religiously, and now I catch it when possible. Honestly, you pushed me to up my game,” I say, curling an errant strand of hair behind my ear as I offer a hint of my competitive spirit. “Now, I tune in when I can. A few tweaks and your podcast could easily reclaim its top spot. Of course, then I'll have to step up my game again." I give a playful laugh, noticing his gaze drifting with a newfound boldness—or perhaps it's the liquid courage—freely admiring my cleavage. When I spot him quickly licking his lips, reality hits me, and I reflexively cover up.
Adam counters with casual confidence. "I hardly see myself as competition, sweetheart. If some of your die-hard fans decide to listen to my podcast, I will count myself lucky. Your audience is intense. Didn't you almost cause a stampede at that one event?" He edges closer, his hand almost touching mine, like he's ready to make a move.
Caught between the urge to scratch an itch and not wanting to send the wrong signal, I'm painfully reminded of my awkwardness in these situations. "Oh, that crowd wasn't there for me. The event was packed with big names," I deflect, suddenly aware of how out of practice I am with talking to men.
“You’re far too humble, Fiona. With your looks and talent, you should be accustomed to constant praise,” Adam says, taking a leisurely sip of his beer but keeping his eyes on me, a playful glint shining through. He’s flirting.
I may not be a pro like Gisela, but his advances are no longer subtle.
“How about dinner tonight? Lunch didn't happen, and these beers don't make up for it. I plan to return to New York after this weekend, and honestly, I just want the chance to dive deeper into conversation with you." He pauses, a grin playing on his lips, then slowly inches his hand closer to mine, finally resting it there.
“How about I make dinner for us tonight? My chicken piccata has received rave reviews from friends and family,” I suggest, nervously biting down on my lower lip, hoping the slight sting keeps me from blurting out anything else. Having him over seems so forward and seedy—much too bold for my sensible shoes.
Adam stifles a grin and clasps my hand, threading his fingers through mine. “You're in luck because I've also been told I make a killer chicken piccata. If we're not teaming up professionally, I'm all in for a bit of personal collaboration. It just so happens that I learned from the best—my Italian grandma," he says, his eyes sparkling with challenge. “For once, maybe I’ll have a chance to outshine you.”
I let out a genuine laugh, the kind that makes you forget where you are for a moment, then quickly finish off my beer. Setting the empty glass down with a definitive clink, I shoot him a playful glance. "I wouldn't get your hopes up," I tease. “I have more than one talent.”
CHAPTER 9
"So, what's the story? How did a nice girl from a quaint little town become so engrossed in the world of true crime?" I ask while meticulously slicing two chicken breasts into slender cutlets. I can't help but be struck by the contrast between Fiona's gentle demeanor and her intriguing passion for crime. I glance up to find her across the kitchen island, effortlessly mincing garlic with the precision of a seasoned chef. It dawns on me that I might be out of my league.
Her kitchen, a culinary dream, could easily grace the cover of any high-end home-design magazine. And Fiona herself, dressed in a white sundress and bathed in the warm glow of her impeccably styled home, looks like a fantasy brought to life.
"Why does anyone get pulled into it, really?" Fiona responds, her actions seamless as she transfers the freshly minced garlic from the board to the pan before setting it in the sink. “To be honest, 'fascination' might be too intense of a word. It's more like a morbid curiosity for me. It's not about entertainment—it's about the lessons hidden within. I think it strikes a chord, particularly with women, because, let's face it, we navigate our lives being constantly vigilant about our safety. There's this perpetual state of alertness—being mindful of our surroundings, preparing to defend ourselves, checking the backseat of our cars, or holding our keys defensively as we hurry through dimly lit parking lots. My goal with each episode isn’t just to tell a story but to impart some wisdom, something actionable that might save someone's life someday.”
“I like your perspective,” I say with a hint of admiration as I carefully lay the cutlets in the pan.
Fiona lingers close, her presence a blend of curiosity and perhaps a silent evaluation of my culinary skills.
