“He’s a handy one too,” I added, keeping it light.
“And so outgoing. He’s like the sun. You can’t tell me you don’t feel chemistry with him.” She arched a brow in question.
Her skepticism pierced me, and I looked away, my eyes landing on her tabby cat lounging in a streak of early evening sun cast through the window.
The cat stretched elegantly, looking like Evangeline, at ease in her body.
Something I was not, so I asked myself the questions Miss Sheridan was hinting at.
Did I feel chemistry with Adam? Smart, charming, easygoing Adam?
Friendly chemistry, for sure.
We were pals, birds of a feather.
And empirically, Adam was attractive. There were no two ways about that. With honey-brown hair, warm hazel eyes, a square jaw, and just the right amount of scruff, the man radiated magazine-quality looks. Like Scott Eastwood, with the same touch of rugged exterior.
But Adam was good.
And even though I was a virgin, I knew what I wanted.
A dark and dirty man to work through my wish list, the one that had been percolating in my head for years, fueled by the books I read, the videos I watched, the Tumblr feeds I devoured.
A rough man, a commanding man who’d help me cross off item after unholy item.
And all I needed from that unnamed man was to shed my virginity. To fulfill these rampant fantasies and eject them out of my head.
Adam was a straight-up kind of guy. I doubted he’d pin me down, shove my face into the pillow, and tell me to suck his—
I stopped the lust train, slapping on a smile for the older lady. “We are just friends,” I told her, and that was the other reason I couldn’t entertain romantic thoughts of Adam.
We’d become close friends over the last two years. He’d helped me grow my business, offering feedback on marketing and my online presence. His wisdom was so spot-on I’d become the most sought-after boudoir photographer in Sin City at age twenty-four.
As for him, I’d become his go-to friend, the one he played trivia games and shared podcasts with. That role had been easy to fill, especially after his last relationship turned sour, and he found his girlfriend not only using, but selling opiates near college campuses. She’d stolen money from him to fund her drug empire. To say Adam was jaded on romance was a euphemism.
He was turned all the way off love.
I headed for the door. “I’m glad your video is working now, and I can’t wait to see your triangle pose,” I told Miss Sheridan, and I left, walking down the hallway to my condo at the end.
When I opened the door, Adam stood in the kitchen slicing peppers for dinner. He shot me his winning grin, the kind where his dimples shone.
That was my Adam. He was a good man, and seeing him here in my home warmed my heart.
I set down the fork, heaved a satisfied sigh, and gestured to the empty plates. “Fine, you win. My taste buds are definitely singing a rock anthem,” I said, conceding.
“Excellent,” he said, his hazel eyes twinkling. “Are we talking ‘Don’t Stop Believin’’ or a ‘For Those about to Rock, We Salute You’ kind of anthem?”
“Please. This is ‘We Are the Champions’ level.”
He rubbed his fingers on his shirt then blew on them. “Damn. That’s tops. I impress myself.”
I patted his shoulder. “Don’t rest on your laurels though. One must always guard against complacency,” I said, then lowered my voice to a whisper. “Or else—”
He held up a hand, shaking his head. “Don’t say ‘pumpkin.’ Don’t even say ‘pumpkin.’”
“Pumpkin? What pumpkin? I was simply going to say you don’t want to slip to only a pop song level of success for your dishes.”
“Can’t stoop to pop. I’m a rock-anthems-or-bust kind of man,” he said.
“Don’t I know it,” I said as I picked up the dishes and brought them to the sink.
As we rinsed the plates and set them in the dishwasher, we caught up more on our workday. He told me about his two deals, and how excited he was for the shows to launch.
“I’m stoked about this new slate of shows. They’re edgy and clever. The perfect dark comedies that today’s viewers love.”
“I can’t wait to tune in when they’re on,” I said.
I loved his enthusiasm for his business. It matched my own for mine, and we’d always had that in common.
“And what about you? Did you capture some fantastic photos from your shoot?”
“I did,” I said as we finished cleaning. “The couple that was in today—Marco and Evangeline—were great subjects. The camera loved them, and they seemed to enjoy their shoot too,” I said.
“Of course they did. You’re ‘We Are the Champions’ level good at your job.”
“And on that high note, want to play a round of our favorite trivia questions game?” I asked as I folded the dish towel and set it back on the counter.
“With wine, of course?” he asked.
“Everything is better with wine,” I answered, and we settled into the couch, glasses in hand. With each question, I was reminded once more of why I’d said to Miss Sheridan that we were just friends.
Because we were the kind of pals who teased and laughed, who poked fun and played games.
But then he grew quiet as we volleyed questions about new science facts at each other. Normally he’d make a joke about some impossible-to-answer question, pretend it was a trick by the game maker.
Only he didn’t. He seemed lost in thought.
“Excuse me for a second,” he said, and rose, heading for the guest room.
That’s odd.
But ten seconds later, he returned, a determined look on his face as he sat next to me, closer than he had been.
I parted my lips to speak. “What’s—?”
“Nina,” he said, his voice rougher, deeper than I’d heard it before. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
Tension darted down my spine. Those words never preceded anything good.
What was he going to tell me? Was he leaving Vegas? I worried about that from time to time. He worked in the entertainment business, and his job could easily be moved to Georgia or Canada or Hollywood. While he traveled to those places a lot, Vegas was his home and his company’s home. I hoped it would remain so, but you never knew. “Are you moving to Atlanta?” I blurted out.
He furrowed his brow. “What? No.”
“Oh good. I was worried,” I said, relaxing. But then, something else was bugging him. “What’s going on?”
He scrubbed a hand across his jaw, exhaling, then meeting my gaze, his hazel eyes shining darker than usual, like there were secrets in them he was going to reveal. “I’m going to be blunt because I believe that’s what you want. When I came home today, I needed to write a phone number down, and I flipped open your notebook. To grab a sheet of paper,” he said, and my heart raced rabbit fast. My pulse sped off the charts.
“I wasn’t prying, Nina, but I saw a list you’d written,” he said, like he was laying out the facts he desperately wanted me to believe.
A white sheet of shame descended over me. Mortification took on a new meaning.