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I swore he was looking at me in the way I always wanted him to look at me, his blue eyes heated and taking all of me in. He mentioned Lord of the Rings. He gave me that smile, the one that melted me into a useless pile of hormone-driven goo. Then the bastard went and pulled out the pinkie thing too. The goddamned, mother fucking pinkie thing.
That was playing dirty, and I didn’t appreciate it.
But I let him. And I even liked it.
I more than liked it.
He was looking at me. I was looking at him. I swear the air between us practically hummed. He had changed so much, but he was still my Adam. The boy I had loved most of my life. It was impossible to see him as anything else when he looked at me like that. But then Chelsea ‘bitchface’ Sloane showed up and reminded me all over again why staying far away from Adam ‘stab you in the back’ Ducate was the best thing for me.
So why did I feel like a mopey teenager all over again? That’s what Adam did to me. He made me feel vulnerable. Powerless. Rejected.
Damn him to hell.
“Hey, are you done for the day?” asked the man in question.
My hand stilled on the lid of the paint can I had just closed up. I thought long and hard about opening it back up and tipping it over the side, watching in satisfaction as it dumped all over his pressed trousers and shiny shoes.
Instead, I tapped the lid, securing it, before cranking the lever to take myself to the ground. I hadn’t really spoken to Adam since Monday and the “Chelsea Incident,’ but I thought about it more than I should. Seeing her kiss him had made me want to vomit. The worst part is they looked great together like they belonged. It made me want to break things. Why hadn’t I accepted this was the way things were going to be by now? Mom was right. It’s been ten years. Why in the heck haven’t I moved on yet?
Maybe a part of me was fueled by my righteous anger. Maybe, just maybe, if I stopped being angry at Adam, I would have to acknowledge my other feelings. And I was not going there.
Once I was back on firm ground, I started packing up my things. I chucked the brushes into the rugged toolbox I used to cart around my supplies.
“Here, let me take that.” Adam went to take the toolbox, but I immaturely swung it out of reach. I felt a little like a kid playing keep away.
“I’ve got it under control,” I grunted, setting the heavy box down at my feet. It was almost six o’clock, and most of the office had cleared out. It seemed that Adam was the last one there. I wondered if that was a usual thing. He seemed to work late most days.
Not that I was paying attention to his comings and goings.
Adam looked perturbed. “You’re angry at me. What else is new?” he muttered.
There were a hundred rage-filled retorts bubbling at the tip of my tongue, but I swallowed every single one. I was rather proud of myself. Instead, I walked around him, and picked up the rest of my stuff, shoving it quickly in my canvas backpack and swung it over my shoulder. I pulled out my keys and headed toward my car without another word.
Fuck Adam Ducate and his pinkie and his smile and his chipped front tooth that he never had fixed.
It was difficult not to stab him with a hundred hurtful words, but I knew saying anything would lead to an argument, and I was tired and sweaty and wanting a cold beer. Those needs trumped the desire to hurl insults at tall, blond, and obnoxious.
Of course, leaving wouldn’t be that easy. Not where Adam Ducate was concerned.
“Wait a minute,” he called out, but I didn’t slow down. I kept walking toward the street, my hands are laden down with my supplies.
I felt his hand on my arm, gently pulling. Against my better judgment, I stopped. But I sure as hell wouldn’t turn around. He stepped into my path, his hand still on my arm. “You know, I thought you doing this mural might—I don’t know—melt the ice a bit. But I feel like you’ve built all the new walls in the last couple of days. What gives?”
I was exhausted and wasn’t in the mood to have it out with Adam on a public street. I could see Mr. Johannsson, my old science teacher, walking down the sidewalk. I lifted my hand in greeting, and he waved back. Dana Miller, Mom’s coworker, was coming out of the drug store, dragging her two kids along behind her. Madeline Sheeney, a girl we went to high school with, was jogging down the road. I couldn’t walk two steps in this town without bumping into someone I knew, so screaming at Adam in view of all of Southport wasn’t the smartest idea.
