by Noelle Adams
He made a choked sound that might have been a suppressed laugh. “Thank you. I like you too.”
She kept patting him. His chest felt nice—hard beneath the softness of his shirt. And the warmth in his eyes was like a caress. “There’s something I need to tell you,” she admitted, leaning closer as this wasn’t something to share with the world at large.
“What is it?” His voice changed slightly, but she couldn’t possible interpret what the change meant.
She leaned even closer, almost whispering in his ear. “I need to go to the bathroom.”
He made another choked sound, and this one ended in a dry chuckle. “Well, then you should certainly do so.” He helped her stand up and walked with her to the bathroom.
When she passed the bedroom door, which was open just a crack, she gasped. “Logan!”
“He’s asleep. He did fine tonight.”
She nodded and allowed her mind to return to the most pressing concern of the moment—going to the bathroom.
“I think,” she said seriously when she stepped inside, “that I should try to go by myself.”
“Yes. I think that’s an excellent idea,” Adam agreed, his face sober except for the warmth of his eyes.
She nodded in satisfaction, this question having been resolved. Then she shut the door.
After she’d finished, she washed her hands for a long time and stared at herself in the mirror. Her cheeks were deeply red and her hair was tousled messily around her face. She smoothed it down with her hands until it hung in a shiny fall to her waist again.
Her arms were bare, and her fair skin stood out starkly against the dark wine color of her top.
Her cleavage was dramatically visible from the deep plunge of the neckline.
She liked how she looked. It seemed to suit her mood. And, if Adam didn’t like it, then that was just his problem.
He was waiting outside the door when she opened it.
“Are you still here?” she asked.
“Yes. I thought I might wait to make sure you were settled before I left.”
She couldn’t really follow his line of thought and decided it didn’t really matter. She glided back into the living room, tripping once on her heels. Annoyed, she kicked them off.
“Did I tell you I danced?” she asked, feeling the music swell up inside her and compel her into dancing again. She swung her hips rhythmically—her hair swung with them—and she waved her arms as she turned a few circles.
“You did tell me that.” Adam took her by the upper arms and effectively prevented her from dancing. “Why don’t you sit down again? You must be tired.”
“I’m not,” she argued, trying to shake out of his grip. Then she realized that wasn’t the right approach. “Did you want to dance too?” She twined her arms around his neck and kept moving her hips. “I bet you’re a good dancer for such a stuffy man.”
“Stuffy, am I?” Adam asked, something warm rippling in his voice. He tried to dislodge her arms, but she didn’t let him.
She liked his rippling voice, and she liked the dark warmth of his eyes. And she liked the way he kept trying not to look at her cleavage. And she liked how hard and masculine he felt against her.
“Yes, stuffy. Always holding things back.”
“Some things need to be held back.”
“Why?” She didn’t like the idea of his holding so much beneath the layers of who he was. It bothered her a lot.
“Because sometimes it’s the only way to do the right thing.”
“The right thing is boring.” She pressed up against him more fully, still trying to keep up the rhythm of her dancing. “Why won’t you dance with me?” she demanded, frustrated by his continued attempts to pull away.
“Zoe,” Adam began, his voice finally sounding a little frustrated, “I’ll dance with you some other time. I’m not sure this is the best time for it.”
“Why not?” She stuck out her lower lip, pressing her breasts against his chest. She liked how it felt, so she rubbed against him. “I’m a good dancer.”
“I’m sure you are.” His voice was more stretched than it had been before. “But I don’t really think you want to dance with me right now.”
He succeeded in unhooking one of her arms, but she clung resiliently with the other. He felt like a man. Like a lean, hard, hot man. And she hadn’t felt a man in a really long time. “I do too,” she insisted, yanking her arm out of his grip and wrapping it around his neck again. All she wanted to do was dance, and he was stubbornly refusing.
“I know you want to at the moment, but I don’t think you would if you were thinking clearly.” Adam sounded strained, and his body was strangely tense. He wasn’t cooperating at all.
She whimpered. It wasn’t fair that he was right here—irresistibly masculine—and he kept refusing to let her get close.
“Zoe, please,” Adam tried one more time, grabbing both of her arms and pulling them down from his neck. “Why don’t you sit down and think it over first?”
She gave a dramatic huff of resentment, but then she deflated like a balloon. Her energy and enthusiasm deserted her, and her knees almost buckled.
Adam helped her back over to the couch. He was tense and moved kind of awkwardly, which made her wonder if he was really upset with her.
The thought made her want to cry. Then she realized she was crying.
“It’s all right, Zoe,” Adam murmured, helping her sit down. “It’s just the alcohol. You’ll feel better soon.”
For some reason, his words reassured her. So the most natural thing to do was curl up on the couch and going to sleep.
So she did.
She woke up an hour later with a bone-dry mouth and a pounding headache.
With a groan, she stretched out her legs and then very slowly sat up.
“It will help if you drink some water,” Adam said, his voice startling her so much she jerked painfully.
She managed to turn her head and saw him sitting in the leather chair.
“I didn’t think you’d still be here,” she croaked, taking the water he offered her and sipping it slowly. “What time is it?”
“It’s after three. But I thought I might stay to make sure you and Logan were all right.”
Zoe closed her eyes and groaned again, starting to remember the events of the evening. “Oh, Adam. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. You had a little too much to drink. I do too, occasionally.”
She felt horrible, and she wanted to berate herself for acting so foolishly when little Logan was relying on her to be a good mother. Then she cringed in mortification as she remember how she’d acted earlier, trying to dance, saying ridiculous things, and then—she recalled with a hot flash of humiliation—groping and rubbing up against Adam. “Oh no.” She bent her head and covered her eyes.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said mildly. “There’s no use taking anything you might have said or done earlier seriously.”
Zoe opened her mouth and tried to apologize again, tried to explain…anything, but Adam cut her off. “You need to get to bed. We can talk later if you want. But, as far as I’m concerned, it’s forgotten.”
She just wasn’t up to thinking this through, although she greatly appreciated his understanding. So she managed to stand up and hold her water at the same time. “I’ll go to bed,” she said. “But I’m so sorry, Adam. I should have done better.”
She should have done better about a lot of things. With her head pounding and her body weak, she couldn’t help but feel like a huge failure as a mother, a wife, and a friend.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Zoe,” Adam said as he helped her toward the bedroom. His voice was bland, nothing significant or dramatic in his tone. “I can’t imagine anyone dealing with all of this better than you.”
Eight
Zoe was starting to get worried.
She woke up on Sunday morning feeling heavy, headachy, and mortified. Logan was still sleeping, so she took advantage of the rare opp
ortunity to take a long shower, during which she gave herself a long talking-to.
When she thought about her drunken performance the night before, she wanted to crawl under her bed and never come out, but it would be ridiculous to beat herself up about it. She’d always hated feeling like a fool, but Adam was the only other person who’d witnessed it. And he’d been very calm, kind, and understanding about the whole thing.
Zoe just wasn’t willing to let this get in the way of her friendship with him.
So, when she’d finished her shower and drank a cup of coffee in her robe and wet hair, she felt better. She was a grown-up. Everyone acted like a fool occasionally, and she knew far too well that there were much more serious things to get upset about than simply embarrassing herself while intoxicated.
When Logan woke up, she got him ready and then met a friend for a late breakfast. She then decided it was late enough to call Adam. He didn’t pick up, but she left him a friendly message, thanking him for being so great the previous night and asking him to give her a call when he got the chance.
She spent a good part of the day at the zoo with her friend, her friend’s toddler, and Logan. Then they all went for an early dinner.
It had been a good day, Zoe decided as she and Logan headed back home around seven. But she was starting to worry a little that Adam still hadn’t called her back.
She called him again and, after his voice mail picked up, she said, “Hey, just me again. Checking in. Hope you’ve had a good day. Call me when you can.”
She was pleased that her voice sounded light and natural, but her belly was churning with anxiety. Adam always called her back. Usually within the hour. And it had been more than eight hours since she’d left her first message.
Thinking it through, she decided he could be wrapped up in some sort of business crisis. Sometimes they happened on Sundays. Or—and this thought came with a rush of relief—he might have gone sailing for the day and not be checking his phone.
She felt a lot better once she’d realized that possibility, so she played with Logan and put him to bed without too much brooding. She only had a week left before she started her new job, and she took some time after Logan went to sleep to figure out how she’d like to use her last week of freedom.
But as the evening went on and Adam still didn’t return her call, her worry started to grow again. She tried to read but kept getting distracted by imagining various reasons why Adam wouldn’t have yet called.
By ten at night, she was running out of excuses for him. The most likely scenario was that he’d gotten her messages but had chosen not to call back.
Maybe he was feeling awkward over her behavior the night before. He’d seemed fine with it at the time, but maybe things felt more awkward for him today. She was his cousin’s wife, and she’d been coming onto him like a tramp. Maybe he was mortified. Maybe he was appalled.
Maybe he was afraid she was nursing inappropriate feelings for him.
Zoe did her best not to overreact. She’d try again tomorrow, and they’d be able to work it out as they always had. She was able to get to sleep around midnight.
When she woke up the next morning, she checked her phone. No messages from Adam.
Her gut dropped heavily. Something was definitely wrong.
Instead of calling again, she texted him. Is everything all right?
No reply came within five minutes of sending the text, so Zoe got up, showered and dressed, and then got Logan up. She took him for a walk. Did some errands. Then took him to a park he liked to play in.
By lunchtime, there was still no word from Adam. Her imagination was now working overtime. She stopped worrying that he was pulling back because of what happened and started visualizing his having been in a car accident or attacked by a crazed mugger. What if he was hurt? In the hospital? Dead?
So, on the verge of panic, she texted him again. Adam, please. I’m getting worried.
Ten minutes later, she finally got a text back. I’m fine. Talk later.
Zoe stared at the screen of her smart phone, her eyes blurring with a flood of immense relief, frustration, concern, mortification, and annoyance.
At least he was alive, but why was he acting this way? Yes, Saturday night’s debacle was entirely her fault, but she’d apologized. Adam had said it was entirely forgotten, and yet he was clearly now trying to shut her out.
She’d been sitting on the couch while Logan played on the floor with his big plastic dump trucks. Suddenly propelled into action, Zoe stood up. “Do you want to go see Uncle Adam, Logan?”
“Cla Lala?” Logan asked, beaming up at her with a dump truck on his lap. He babbled out some more sounds, the only recognizable word being “Tuks.”
“I know you were playing with your trucks, but we’re going to see Uncle Lala now. Then you can play with your trucks some more.”
Logan thought about this with impressive sobriety and finally heaved himself up onto his feet.
Zoe and Logan took a cab over to Adam’s office building. The security guards knew her and let her onto the elevator with a friendly greeting. When she got off on the top floor, carrying Logan, she headed to his reception area.
The woman gave her a warm smile.
“Can I see him?” Zoe asked, looking over at Adam’s closed office door.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Peterson. He’s not here.”
Zoe frowned. Maybe she’d overreacted like a fool after all, and he really was completely wrapped up in work. “Oh. Is he at a meeting or something? When will he be back?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t come in today at all. He just left me a message and said to cancel all his appointments.”
The heavy feeling in Zoe’s belly twisted anxiously. “Is he all right? Is he sick?”
“I don’t know.” The receptionist’s face reflected worry as well. “It’s really unlike him. I would have thought maybe you would know. But since you don’t either…” Her voice trailed off.
“Do you think he’s at home?”
The receptionist gave a graceful shrug. “Maybe.”
“I’m going to head over there and see if I can figure out what’s going on. I’ll let you know if something’s wrong.”
The receptionist thanked her, and Zoe took Logan back down. Then she took a cab over to Adam’s place. He lived in the penthouse apartment of a historic downtown building—a property that had been in his family for over eighty years. She’d never been over to his place before. He’d never actually invited her.
She was stopped, of course, by the doorman who called up before letting her through to the elevator.
After a brief conversation on the phone, the doorman said, “He says for you to go home.”
Zoe gasped in outrage. “You tell him that I’m not going home until I know what’s going on. Logan and I are going to camp out here in the lobby, and—if you throw us out of the building—we’re going to camp out on the sidewalk until he lets us up. You tell him that.”
The doorman reported her response, almost word for word. After a pause during which Adam must have given instructions, the doorman said, “He says you can come up, but he doesn’t sound happy about it.”
Zoe was pretty sure the last comment hadn’t been part of Adam’s instructions to the man. But Zoe didn’t care if Adam was happy about her arrival or not. Something was obviously wrong, and she wasn’t going to let him shut her out, any more than he’d let her shut him out a few months ago.
Her heart was beating very quickly as she went up the elevator and was let into the entry hall by a man she didn’t know.
The apartment was gorgeous, of course, featuring historic oil paintings, aged Asian rugs, and solid, masculine antique furniture.
Logan was getting heavy, so she put him down in the hallway. She grabbed his hand before he could start running, since the ancient pottery on the entry table probably cost more than a year’s wages at her new job.
“We’re here to see Adam,” Zoe announced, somewhat unnecessarily
, to the quiet gentleman who’d let her in.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know who you are.”
“I’m Carson. I work for Mr. Peterson.”
“Oh. I didn’t realize he had any staff.” She’d never asked, of course, and he’d never mentioned it. She’d never envisioned Adam as having full-time domestic staff.
“I worked for his grandfather for many years before he died. Mr. Peterson was kind enough to keep me on.”
That sounded exactly like Adam.
“It’s nice to meet you. I’m Zoe Peterson. This is my son, Logan.”
“I know, ma’am. It’s very nice to finally meet you too. If you’ll come this way.”
“Is he all right?” she asked, holding Logan up by the arm when he stumbled.
“I’ll let you see for yourself, ma’am.”
Zoe didn’t find the discreet words at all promising, and she grew increasingly nervous as she followed Carson down a long hall.
He showed her into a large, darkened room that was set up as a den or office. There was a large desk in one corner, bookcases lining the walls, a couple of wingback chairs in a seating group near the windows, and a large leather sofa along the wall—on which Adam was lying flat out.
Zoe jerked to a stop. He wore a black t-shirt, sweat pants, and socks but no shoes. His face was too pale, and he appeared to be perspiring, although the light in the room was too dim to see clearly.
But she could definitely see his expression. He wasn’t happy to see her.
“Lala!” Logan cried happily, starting to run over to the sofa. Zoe caught him before he could barrel into Adam.
“Are you all right?” she asked, studying him anxiously and keeping her hands on her son’s shoulders. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing is going on,” Adam gritted out, his voice textured with obvious annoyance. “I told you to go home.”
“I was worried about you. Now tell me what’s going on!”
“My back went out.”
Her lips parted. “What?”
“My back went out. So I’m stuck here for the time being.”
For a moment, the wave of comprehension and relief that washed over Zoe almost pushed her into giggling. It wasn’t the end of the world. It wasn’t anything life-threatening, and Adam wasn’t appalled and mortified by her embarrassing performance on Saturday night.
