Now, does Adam seem a touch too proud of himself for something that should be common sense to anyone who respects women? Yes. Do I find myself feeling incredibly fondof him regardless? Also yes. It’s possible I just fell the tiniest bit in love with him. Which is a testament to my untapped acting skills. I’ve committed to the role of Besotted Newlywed, and am, frankly, impressed with myself.
Jonathan seems less impressed.
“Is that what your wife wanted to hear, or are you as like-minded as your answer suggests?”
Adam shrugs and casts his answer card aside. “Both.”
He shoots me another wink, and I bite down on my grin. The idea that Iris would approve of Adam comes to me unbidden. His answers don’t seem like ones a person who has said disparaging things behind your back would give. I want to believe that. I want to believe I’ve been projecting onto Adam all this time, and that he never spread any of the gossip about me, never listened to a word of it. I want that to be true so badly.
I’ve lost track of everyone’s score. I’m pretty sure we’re neck and neck with Chris and Harvey, who are responding now. And of course their answers match up as well. My foottap-tap-taps against the stage and I sit ramrod straight on the edge of my seat as Jonathan wraps things up and turns back to the audience.
“All right, let’s give all our contestants a round of applause!” Jonathan says. I give a few half-hearted claps, my body moving on autopilot. A hand finds mine, Adam finally giving in to the urge to touch, or maybe the instinct to soothe my nerves. I lace our fingers together and grip hard. “They all did a fantastic job, but let’s see what the final tally looks like.”
Someone from the front row of the audience stands up and passes Jonathan a piece of paper. He stares at it for a moment and then folds the paper back up. “With a total of eight correctanswers, our top scoring team—and grand prize winners—are…”
Jonathan has proven he has a flair for the dramatic, but it feels like he draws the pause out for an eternity, and I am about three seconds away from launching at him and screaming,FUCKING TELL US ALREADY.
The longer Jonathan unnecessarily drags this out, the harder I squeeze the life out of Adam’s hand.
“Adam and Eleanor!” He turns toward us and claps some more, his hand meeting his bedazzled microphone. “Let’s hear it for our winners!”
“Holy shit,” Adam says beside me.
The sentiment echoes in my head, and then I’m moving. On my feet, then jumping into Adam’s arms. He straightens to his full height and my toes lift off the ground. His astonished laughter fills my ear and his warm breath huffs down my neck. I loosen my hold on him enough to lean back and look him in the eye.
His smile slips into something more serious, hazel eyes growing heated as his gaze flickers down to my mouth. Jonathan’s mic’d voice and the smattering of applause filter away, until all that remains is Adam. His strong arms holding me up and his soft hair brushing against the back of my wrist and his lips—full and slightly chapped—meeting mine in an adrenaline-fueled, celebratory kiss.
CHAPTER TWELVEADAM
Eleanor seems to process what we’re doing first. I’m still wrapped up in the moment, one hand lifting to thread my fingers through her hair, to tilt her head and deepen the kiss. She tastes like honey somehow, though I haven’t seen her consume any today. I want that flavor on my tongue, always. My hand tightens around a fistful of hair and my other arm is securely wrapped around her middle as I gently lower her back down. Her feet touch the floor and just like that, the moment’s over. Eleanor breaks the kiss as abruptly as she started it.
She shuffles backward a step, her fingertips tracing her lips briefly before dropping back to her side in a loose fist. I’m left off-kilter, like those few seconds were all it took to get used to her weight against me, and now I have to relearn how to stand without it.
“Wow, so—yeah. Cool. We won. Cool, cool, cool.” All of this is said without Eleanor making eye contact. She seemsrestless, looking out at the audience, crossing her arms only to uncross them a beat later.
It’s surreal, remembering that we are in a public place. Standing outside, some twenty stories up, surrounded by swimsuit-clad strangers sipping cocktails. Sharp laughter carries across the nearby pool, but I can’t look away from the woman in front of me.
“Yeah.” I lick my lips. My brain isn’t fully back online yet. All I can think is that I want to still be kissing her. I have a caveman urge to drag her offstage and into one of the private cabanas lining the pool so we can continue this without an audience.
It wasn’t intentional, the way I memorized every detail of that kiss, but they’re etched in my brain now, right alongside the image of Eleanor wearing only a loose shirt and lacy black underwear this morning.
The other contestants come up to congratulate us and I barely manage to acknowledge them. Jonathan tells us Mae will be over with the prize, and Eleanor nods her understanding, and I stare at the side of Eleanor’s face.
I know how to act casual, I swear I do, so I force myself to look elsewhere while I try to figure out some super-chill way to ask whether Eleanor would like to do that again sometime.
“Do we need to clear the air at all?” she asks. “After that kiss, I mean.”
On the one hand, I suppose it’s reassuring that Eleanor also felt compelled to say something. Maybe I’m not the only one who still feels the ghost of it on their lips. Only,clear the airseems like a very deliberate choice of words. That’s the phrasing you use when something is one-sided, when you feel obligated to let someone down gently.
I’m convinced that’s what’s happening here, right up until she catches her bottom lip between her teeth and eyes my biceps like she’d rather be biting me. It’s only for a second, and then her eyes snap back up to mine, but it’s long enough to bolster my confidence.
“No, I think we’re on the same page,” I say, unable to suppress my smile as color floods her cheeks. “We were both keyed up from the game.”
Eleanor nods along with a tight purse to her lips. This could be wishful thinking. I could be reading the signals all wrong. But if I am—if Eleanor already regrets the kiss, if she never wants it to happen again—then I have nothing to lose. Perfect time to take a gamble.
“Plus, you’ve been thinking about it for so long, it was bound to happen eventually,” I add.
She nods once more, then frowns. “Wait, what?”
