Page 36 of Second Tide's the Charm
“You don’t need to—” the man starts, but Adrian waves him off.
“Happy to.” He stoops to rummage in the bag I noticed him carrying in and comes up with a ballpoint pen, the brand he always liked for notes. “Who should I make it out to?”
“Patrick,” the kid says, then adds, “actually, could you make it out to Curt, too? I watch your stuff sometimes.”
Hunched over the table, Adrian smiles up at him. “Of course.” He hands over the napkin, and the boy holds it flat, careful not to wrinkle it.
“Cool. Thanks.”
The woman has been watching with a smile. When Adrian glances over, she tells him, “That’s really kind of you.” She beckons the others. “Now you two, get back here and let him enjoy his meal before it gets cold.”
They thank Adrian, but once they’re seated again, I notice them huddled around the kid’s phone.
I lean forward and ask Adrian, “Did they take a video?”
He finishes chewing his bite of crab cake, then swallows. “Probably.”
“And that’s a normal occurrence?”
The food on my plate, so appetizing a moment ago, seems unappealing. Adrian handled the interaction like a pro, but I don’t know if I could do the same. What if someone had filmed me talking to the woman on the beach the day Zuri fired me? Instead of autographs, I’d be meme-ified.
“It doesn’t happen that often, and it took me a while to get used to,” Adrian says, picking up on my mood. “But now I just think of them like students who come up to me after class. Makes it less weird.”
“You get a lot of students asking for your autograph?”
He laughs. “Sadly, no. Most of them are immune to my coolness, I think.”
“That tracks,” I say, grinning. But part of me is still concerned whether this is a smart move for my career. This is a far cry from my usual behind-the-scenes research. On the flip side, three years out of the field is a long hiatus, and appearing on his channel would be tangible proof of my ability to do the job with competence.
“I guess I should be more concerned with our video than theirs.” Without giving myself the chance to delay, I pull my phone out of my purse. While I’m scrolling for the email, a loud screech reaches my ears and I look up to find Adrian pushing away from the table. He rises and carries the heavy wrought iron chair around the table.
Transfixed, I watch him—solid and strong as ever, but now his muscles pop in a distracting way I’m not used to—and only jolt out of the daze when he sets the chair next to mine.
I look up—way up, because he’s even taller than I remember—and ask, “Are you making room for someone else?”
“What? No.” He digs in the bag and sets a tablet next to my plate. “Thought this might make it easier.” He pauses, hands clenched around the chair back, so tightly that his knuckles pop, and all I can think is those same hands fisted in the skirt of my dress, dragging me up against him—
“Sorry,” he says. “I should’ve asked before moving over here. I’m trying...”
“It’s okay,” I hear myself saying, surprisingly calm for someone whose entire body is aflame. “That’s why we came.”
I take a sip of my drink, sucking long and hard on the straw while he gets situated next to me, knees bumping mine. The icy liquid sends shivers down my spine but does nothing to cool my desire. I need to stop reacting to him like this, but it’s tough when he’s being so thoughtful. Not just thoughtful,professional.
The waiter walks over and I startle upright. “Can I get you anything else, or are we all good here?”
I can’t speak for Adrian, but no, I am not all good. His touch left me muddled and befuddled and all sorts of rhyming words he’d doubtless detest.
“Could we get some tea?” Adrian says. “Unsweet for her.”
The waiter turns toward me, hand on his hip. “’Course. Where are you visiting from?”
“Uh, Michigan, originally.”
He smirks like I proved his hunch, which of course I did. “Be right back with y’all’s tea.”
“Not visiting?” Adrian raises his brows.
“Okay, maybe it was a half-truth. But a person should be allowed to drink tea however they please.”
