“Because he’s an athlete.”
He sat up straighter, but cringed in pain as he did. “An athlete?”
“Yep.”
Then, in a voice so casual it was almost forced, he asked, “So, who’s the lucky guy?”
I hesitated. “Russell Clarke.”
The switch in his expression was nearly imperceptible. Nearly. If I hadn’t been friends with him for the first half of his life, even I would have missed it.
“You’re going on a date with Russell Clarke?”
“Yep.” I hated to admit it, but I liked seeing his jealously, even if it was only a tiny crumb.
His shoulder lifted in a shrug. “It could be Shaq, Cristiano Ronaldo, or Tom Brady next to you, and no one would notice.”
“Thanks.” I took in a shaky breath. “I shouldn’t be too late. Do you need anything before I go?”
“I’m fine.”
I turned and saw that the folder from his dad’s lawyer which had arrived priority mail, was still on the kitchen counter. Unopened. I knew he knew about it because he’d had to sign for it. I’d had to take it to him because the courier insisted it be his signature.
“Do you want me to—” I picked it up and turned back to ask him if he wanted me to bring it to him.
He lifted his hand and I saw anger, I thought, or maybe just annoyance. But it was gone in half a second. He shook his head, eyes softening. “Just leave it, Billie. Go. Seriously.”
“Okay.” I set it down and made my way to the door, trying not to trip on my own four-inch heels and grabbed my coat and scarf.As I put my hand on the doorknob I paused, for a split second, I almost didn’t leave. But I did, letting the door click softly behind me.
Outside, the air was crisp and cool, and the night seemed to shimmer with possibility. But on the walk to my car, I realized the only option I really cared about was sitting on the couch in sweatpants watching me go.
I pressed the key fob to unlock my car and took a moment to fix my lipstick in the side mirror, but all I could think about was Adam’s face, the way his eyes had darkened for just a second when he saw me in the dress. The way his eyes had scanned up and down my body.
This was supposed to be easy. A mutually beneficial roommate/nanny arrangement with a built-in expiration date. I was supposed to keep my head down, help out, and get out clean. No harm, no foul. But somewhere between grilled cheese nights, bedtime stories, and the way Adam said my name, I’d lost all sense of what I was supposed to want.
I drove to The Stag Lounge on autopilot, rehearsing my small talk when all I really wanted to do was go home and be withAdam whom I knew was sitting on the couch, waiting for me to come home.
26
ADAM
I kept waitingfor the pain to ease, but tonight it was a stubborn, needle-sharp presence in the muscle of my back, right at the spot where my lower spine pressed into the couch. No matter how many times I shifted, nothing made it better. I was supposed to be resting, supposed to be “letting my body heal,” or at least that’s what my physical therapist kept telling me with relentless optimism. But the house was too quiet, and the longer I sat there, the more my mind soured.
I’d been scrolling through my phone for the better part of an hour, my mind numb from the repetition. I scrolled past pictures of the girls, ten days’ worth of them, the twins mugging for the camera in stages of delight. My phone somehow kept coming back to one picture in particular, Billie in a rare moment of unguarded laughter, a lock of hair falling in her face. She was in the kitchen, flushed from the heat of the stove, up to her wrists in flour from the fried chicken she was making, and having no clue a photo was being taken of her. That was my favorite, she looked so alive, so damn present, so carefree, like maybe for a second she’d forgotten all the bullshit that kept us both knotted up in silence most of the time.
I pinched the screen and zoomed in, just to see the faint lines at the corner of her eyes. Then down to her lips. Her perfect fucking lips. I missed those lips. The way they tasted, so sweet and uniquely her. The way they felt, so soft and perfectly matched with my own.
“Fuck.”
I put my phone down and pulled up my laptop. Those lips were on a date with Russell Clarke. I needed to occupy myself and not think about those perfect fucking lips. I should get my head in the game and figure out how in the hell I was going to protest my father’s antiquated will.
I’d received word today from Watkins that nothing could be done. My father’s will was ironclad. No wiggle room. The language was dense and calcified with legalese, but the upshot was, if I wanted to get my hands on that money, I’d have to get married and remain married for ninety days.
Instead of trying to figure out how I was going to solve that problem, I found myself googling Russell Clarke.
The first three pages were either the result of the man having really good PR or him being a saint. He’d started a nonprofit for animals of the unhoused, he served meals at the V.A. every Thanksgiving, and there was a glowing profile in the local paper about how he’d grown out his hair in college and donated it to make wigs for cancer patients.
I stared at the screen as a knot twisted in my stomach. Was it possible for someone to be so aggressively wholesome? Surely there was a mug shot somewhere, a DUI, or a sex scandal. I dug through Google deeper than I’d ever admit to Billie or anyone else. I scrutinized every photo for signs of phoniness, but the man somehow looked even more earnest with each new search result.
