Page 50 of Forest Proximity
Points for Adam. He already knows outside is my favorite place to be.
“There would be food. A gourmet picnic—”
A snarling sound comes from my stomach, and Adam chuckles.
“We’d eat, talk until the sun went down, then we’d look at the stars.” His voice deepens. “Obviously, for the anniversary there has to be jewelry. I’d surprise you with—”
“Opals.” I sigh, leaning into the fantasy a little too hard. “I’m an opal girl, just for the record.” I rub my knees.Shut up, Stevie. Let the man paint a picture.
“Opals,” he murmurs with a nod, like he’s putting the information in his back pocket. “Done.”
We turn onto a treacherous dirt road in the middle of nowhere, and I realize I don’t know where we’re going. Even though I’ve lived here my whole life, I’ve never been on this road that skirts the western border of the preserve. It’s a mess with mud and washed-out areas that Adam steers around carefully. This must be impossible when it rains.
I have more interesting things to think about, though. I want to hear more about our anniversary date and how he’s going to shower me with opals. But when Adam parks in front of a cabin tucked in the trees, I raise an eyebrow.
A long set of natural steps, framed with worn wooden beams, blanketed with moss, and sprinkled on either side with wild strawberry blossoms, leads to a wide porch. The place isn’t huge, but the brown-shingle siding and rockwork make it perfectly cozy.
I want it.
I want it bad.
“Is this your place?” I stumble over the words.
He nods. “I need to change into clean clothes. I’ll be quick.”
Please take your time. I’m fantasizing here.
My mouth hangs open when I peer out the windshield. “Sure. Okay.”
He laughs, and my heart glows. “Would you prefer to wait here, or ...”
“Oh, I’m coming.” I’m already opening my door. “If there’s a fireplace and a claw-foot tub inside, I will pass out on the spot.”
I’m satisfied when Adam’s face flushes, and he coughs. I know that cough. There is a claw-foot tub, or at least a fireplace.
Smiling to myself, I follow Adam up the earthy stairs to his cabin. Now that we’re closer I see that the wild strawberries running amok around the steps are starting to ripen. Some are plump and red, ready for Stevie Sullivan to pilfer. And Adam still looks really good in those muddy jeans. I don’t want him to change. I like him just like this.
“Hey.” I snag his hand, a bold move that I can’t bring myself to regret. I liked holding his hand last night. “Hold up.”
Adam stops, turning to face me. “Yeah?”
I squeeze his hand once before letting him go. “Can we just sit out here and talk? It’s so nice outside.”
“Ruth will hang me if I don’t wash up before we ...” He frowns.
“Your sister doesn’t need to know.” I grin like I’m the cute little devil on his shoulder.
“She’ll know.” He takes my hand, leading me up the steps to his porch. There’s a hammock that looks like it would be the end of my dignity if I attempted to get into it. “You can hang out here, if you want. I’ll be less than five minutes, then I’m all yours.” He coughs. “I mean—you know what I mean.”
I stifle a whine. “Five minutes,” I challenge, looking at my nonexistent watch.
He goes inside, and I eyeball the hammock. It’s wide and sturdier than others that I’ve seen, with a wooden frame and thick padding over a web of cotton rope. It’s tempting, but I’ve already fallen on my butt once in front of Adam. That’s enough. Instead, I sit on the dry top step, lying on my knees and running my fingers over the soft moss at my feet.
I take a long, deep breath. I need to calm down. It's good to have a minute to think and gather my wits.
Adam’s just a handsome man with an idyllic cabin, who happens to be an expert listener and conversationalist—once I get him talking, anyway. Being able to talk to Adam feels like arare privilege, like standing on the Faroe Islands or visiting the Oval Office. Now that he’s consistently wearing a shirt, I’m clean out of objections. But no one needs to know about this. Adam is my little secret, I decide. I can fess up to my friends about him—if there's anything to admit, anyway—after I win this bet.
I pluck a perfectly red wild strawberry—barely bigger than a pea—and pop it into my mouth. The sweet zing of sun-warmed juice covers my tongue, and I’m sure I’ve made the right choice. I like Adam, and no one needs to know he’s nearly perfect. I forage a few more berries, wishing I had thought to bring my cheeseburger from the truck.
