He hasn’t dropped my hand. I had forgotten how it feels to have my hand engulfed by his. I swallow, dazed by the warm contact. “Y-yeah.”
He leads me back toward the diner, opening the door for me. His hair is dripping with rain, and he looks deliciously at ease in a damp, clinging T-shirt. “I’ll be at your place tonight at seven. Does that work?”
I freeze under the awning that covers the entrance to the diner.
Stop looking at his chest in that T-shirt, I remind myself.He’s a human being with thoughts and feelings.
And pecs.
“Stevie?”
“Yes.”Say my name again.
“Yes, I can come over tonight?”
I nod.
He chuckles. “Okay.” He nudges me inside. “See you then.”
The glass door closes behind me, and I watch Adam climb into his truck.
Lola comes to stand next to me, letting out a cross between a groan and a sigh as we stare out the window.
“What’s wrong?” I ask. What could possibly be wrong with a view like this?
“I put my money on the wrong horse.” Her voice is dreamy now as we watch Adam back out of his parking spot. “I bet on Bigfoot.”
“Ha.” When Adam’s truck is out of sight, I rub the raindrops off my arms with a shiver. I need to shake off the Adam hypnosis. The guy isn’t fighting fair. “You made the right call, Lo. Trust me.”
“You sure about that?” Lola asks, turning back for the kitchen. “Because you’re soaking wet and staring out the window with drool on your chin.”
I rub the back of my hand across my mouth out of reflex, but it reminds me of Adam running his thumb down my cheek, and I have to start the process of un-hypnotizing myself all over again.
I turn to check Marlow’s DIY tote board. There are nearly twice as many names scribbled under “Boyfriend” as there are under “Bigfoot.” The whole town is confident that Marlow and Diana are going to find someone for me, and I can feel five-year-old Stevie’s pigtails sprouting on my head again.
Adam doesn’t wear a shirt, I remind myself. He carried me through the woods without my consent. He ruined lupines for me. He ...
I don’t have anything else.
“I want to eat my pot stickers, I want to eat mypot stickersssss,” I sing to the tune of “Bicycle Race” by Queen, dropping onto my yellow couch with a plate full of hot, air fried pot stickers.
I fold my legs under myself, grinning at my dinner. I have exactly six minutes to wolf these down before Adam is supposed to get here. I took way too long showering the stink of fried food out of my hair after work and coming up with an outfit that sends the message that my only ambition in life is to find evidence of Bigfoot. I’m holding my first pot sticker halfway to my mouth when there’s a heavy knock on the door.
Plunk.
The pot sticker lands on my plate. My mouth is still hanging open, waiting for food. My heart thumps erratically.
Adam is early. I slide my plate onto my coffee table, scramble to my feet, and double-check myself in the mirror before I answer the door.
Just friends-esque T-shirt? Check.
Sasquatch-centric jeans? Check.
Fresh blowout that will send the wrong message, but it’s hair-wash day and what can a girl do? Check.
Peachy lip gloss? Untouched in the pocket of my purse because I’m a woman on a mission.
I swing open the door. “Hi, A—” I choke instead of saying his name.
