Page 143 of Adam
But the problem is, I didn’t feel scared. I already knew the cost, yet I kept reaching anyway.
My hands slide up to his jaw. “I’m yours, Adam. I think I’ve been yours for a long time.”
His lips capture mine in a passionate kiss, and I reciprocate with equal fervor.
I never thought a man like him—strong, fearless, reckless—could carry that kind of vulnerability inside. And I never thought he would drag the same out of me. To make me feel exposed and unstable, but also bold enough to stand with him, to matchhim and not back down. He makes me feel breakable and unbreakable at the same time, and it scares the hell out of me.
This morning feels off. I barely slept, and I don’t think he did either. He stayed turned away from me all night, his back to me the whole time. His breathing was shaky and uneven, like he was still tense or unsettled.
At some point I fell asleep, and when I woke up, he wasn’t there. The bed felt wrong without him in it. I threw on my clothes and walked through the place, which felt even bigger in the morning. A few staff members greeted me as I passed. That still feels strange—not everyone here moves or looks like my father’s people—but I didn’t ask if they’d seen him.
I really need coffee.
I step into the kitchen and see Grayson at the stove, moving between a pot and a frying pan like this is routine for him. He’sdoing several things at once, precise and amazingly capable. The place smells like pancakes and something savory underneath—butter maybe.
For a second, I just stand there and watch him. He doesn’t notice me right away. Then he shifts and looks over his shoulder.
“Good morning, Miss Calvano,” he says with a bright smile, pushing his thin-framed glasses back into place.
“You can call me Isabella,” I say. “Do you need any help?”
He gives me a playful glance. “No.” He grabs the freshly brewed coffee jar. “Coffee?”
“Yes, please.”
He takes a white mug and pours me some. “Mind if I join you?”
“It would be my pleasure.”
He grabs another mug and pours himself some too. He gestures toward the chair. “Have a seat.”
He seems old, but not too old. Time has creased the corners of his light green eyes. His gray hair is neatly kept, his face clean-shaven. There’s an old-school warmth to him, something careful and polite in the way he holds himself.
I take a sip of the coffee. “It’s perfect.”
He smiles faintly. “A very smart kid once gave me a tip to make the perfect coffee.”
“Yeah? What tip?”
He takes a sip. “A pinch of cocoa powder. It brings out the flavor.”
My brows lift. “So simple, yet so effective.”
“Yes. I’ve kept the habit all these years,” he says, his eyes brightening. “I can’t drink my coffee without it anymore.”
“And how would a kid know what could make coffee taste better?” I ask, lowering my voice as if I’m waiting for the world’s deepest secret.
“His mother hated coffee,” he says softly, lowering his mug to the table. “But one day, she craved it.”
A small smile touches his lips. “The kid adored cocoa milk. Couldn’t get enough of it.” He pauses, thumb tracing the edge of his cup. “So he leaned in and whispered that if I added a little of that to her coffee, she’d love it too. Like the way he loved his milk.”
I hold my breath. “And?”
He exhales, eyes drifting to the steam rising between us. “It was the first, and only, time she ever loved her coffee.”
He seems so … normal. Genuine and warm. Parental, somehow, in this shitty reality I’ve grown up in. Nothing like anything I’ve ever known.
I think I already know the answer, but I ask anyway.
