Page 17 of Nice Guys Don't Kiss Like That At Christmas
Sally leans in, conspiratorially:
“I upgraded to the Pro5000 last year.Glow-in-the-dark.Charges faster than my patience.”
Adam chokes.
I consider lying face-down in the snow and dissolving back into the earth.
Then Sally’s gaze slides a few inches to the left to Dickle, dangling from the tote by his yarn tail, like he’s trying to escape this narrative and failing.
“And that,” Sally announces warmly, pointing at him, “is the Santa Pickle pattern.Middle stitches are a bit flabby, but it gives him character.And honestly?Relatable.”
Adam drags his hand slowly down his face, like he’s rebooting his entire nervous system.
My dogs are looking at me like I’ve left my mind back in Chicago as I cling to the car.
Focus.Professional.I am an almost full-time ER nurse who can handle trauma cases without flinching.Who clawed her way back to almost full-time after three years part-time because my body needed more naps after transplant.
Adam’s gone completely still.His lips part slightly, eyes darkening as they track from the damning evidence in my tote, to my mouth, then back to my eyes.
That look should come with a warning label.
The air between us crackles with something dangerous, something intimate.Something that pulls me back to late-night confessions, whispered “would you rather,” and Adam’s voice rumbling about showers and walls, and how he wanted to trace the freckles on my shoulders he saw once.When I was living my truth while telling him a lie.
I need to say something.Anything.
“Well, it’s…” My throat tightens.“It’s Dickle.”
“Dickle?”
“Hmm-hmm.Emotional Support Pickle.”
“Well, Dickle’s middle stitches need tightening to be harder.”Sally beams.“I’ll show you at the B&B.Though Adam here might have some tips.”She pauses.“Did Adam tell you he tried crochet once?”
Adam’s jaw ticks, softer now, but he doesn’t deny it.
My mouth goes dry.Those big, rough hands stitched farm dogs, splinted kitten legs...and crocheted?
Adam grabs my suitcase.“I’ll help you get in.I’ll wait for Mike...”
“Papalap!”Sally waves her hand dismissively.“Mike doesn’t need a welcome committee.And he might not be here for another hour since you did miss Wes’s birthday.”She lowers her voice and I swear it sounded like“your own goodbye party.”Or was it“your old roommate party?”Sally continues, louder.“Plus, Eve here might need help with those dogs.And who better than our resident animal whisperer?”
Adam crouches down to Blanche’s level, his voice dropping into that soft tone that does things to my insides.“Hey there, beautiful.This looks scary.But you’re doing so good already.You’re such a good girl.”
Okay.The man can still read lines like this out loud and have me wanting to lean in for more.Or fan myself.But that’s not the only reason butterflies fluttering back to my life in my chest, my stomach, everywhere.
It’s the difference between him and a memory that stings like a crochet to the heart.My ex’s voice, sharp with derision: “A Great Dane with anxiety?Really, Eve?You barely have time for me between shifts.How are you going to handle a special needs dog?”
You.Not “We.”When he had told all his friends how committed he was to fostering dogs with me.How we had a system in place since I wasn’t working full-time.How#WeGotThis.
Adam keeps talking to Blanche, patient and steady.“That’s it.You’ve got this.Your mom’s right here.”He glances up at me, those blue eyes warm with understanding.“She’s not going anywhere.And neither are you, right beautiful?”
It takes ten minutes, but eventually we manage to get my giant scaredy-cat to settle on the carriage floor, while LoverBoy is in the carrier on Adam’s left and Dorothy is tucked in between us.
“I can’t believe this is happening.”I try not to notice how his thigh presses against mine, warm even through our layers.
“First time in a carriage?”Sally asks.
“Yep,” I reply.
