Chapter 20

CHAPTER TWENTY

Laney

"I promise they're closed," I say to Adam who is currently hiding inside the bathroom.

I am, as he requested, sitting on the end of the bed, eyes closed in preparation for the big reveal.

Because Adam just shaved off his beard.

He knew better than to argue with Ivy about it, but he was grumpy through most of dinner, which I found highly entertaining and adorable. I love Adam's beard, but I'm still excited to see him without it.

The past twenty minutes of waiting have been absolute torture. Actually, torture is probably a strong word. I've been lounging in our very comfortable bedroom, enjoying a gorgeous view of the Blue Ridge Mountains, watching the sky turn orange and purple as the sun drops behind the horizon.

There are worse ways to wait for your not-quite boyfriend to shave. And shower, apparently. Though I did my best not to think about that one too hard. Adam, right on the other side of that door. Warm water. Suds. All that skin.

"Adam?" I call, my hands still pressed to my eyes. "Are you coming out?"

"Maybe not," he says back.

I drop my hands. "Why not?"

"Because I look like a different person."

"Come out here and let me see."

"Nope. Not happening."

I stand and move toward the door. "I'm sure you look amazing. And it's not like you can put it back?—"

The door flies open, and my words stall in my throat.

Adam is… wow.

He does look like a different person.

He looks like Deke.

I have never seen Adam this dressed down, in dark gray joggers and a white t-shirt, and my stomach swoops as I look him over. He's still him, but he does look younger. And so much like the Deke of my youth.

"I look stupid," he says.

There is nothing stupid about him. In fact, I think I might have once described something just like this in the abysmally bad fanfiction I wrote in the tenth grade, when I briefly considered a career as a writer. Midnight Rush released their debut album that year, and my obsession was in full swing. Deke was younger than he is now, obviously, but I specifically remember a story about a freshly showered, post-concert Deke randomly encountering a fan outside his trailer and being so taken with her, he volunteers to be her first kiss.

My stories were totally innocent and sweet, but it still sends a wave of embarrassment washing over me. To think about how I thought about him then when he's standing right in front of me now .

"You do not look stupid. You look amazing."

He runs a hand down his face. "I'll probably get used to it. But I'm growing the beard back as soon as the concert is over."

"I love your beard. I would love for you to grow it back," I say. "But I love this too."

Honestly, I love his beard more. Maybe just because it's how I've always known him. Maybe because it works so well with the flannel he loves to wear. But you won't hear me complaining about how he looks now.

My phone buzzes with an incoming text, and I read it off my smartwatch. "Ivy says she wants proof that the deed is done."

Adam frowns. "What, like a picture?"

I shrug. "Or you could just walk down the hall. It sounds like they're all hanging out in the common area."

He sighs. "Fine. Let's just get it over with."

I am definitely a fan of this slightly grumpy version of Adam, and I happily follow him out the door and down to a comfortable seating area where Leo, Jace, Freddie and Ivy are sitting with… Oh. My. Gosh.

That's Flint Hawthorne.

The Flint Hawthorne. The Oscar-nominated, been in a million movies, monumentally famous Flint Hawthorne. Just hanging out like it's no big deal.

I shouldn't be that surprised.

I did some googling before I left this morning, and I learned a couple of things. One: Stonebrook Farm is owned by the Hawthornes—family of the famous actor, Flint Hawthorne, who apparently grew up in Silver Creek. Which explains how Freddie found the space. More than one online source indicated that Freddie and Flint are friends, and I easily found a dozen different photos of the two of them together at a Lakers game in LA.

I met another Hawthorne at dinner—the one currently running the farm—and remember thinking he bore a slight resemblance to his famous brother. Even that felt thrilling. But to actually see Flint here? When just last week, I watched him blow up a building in the new Agent Twelve movie?

It doesn't compute. My ability to tolerate the fantastical in my own life is maxed out. Threshold exceeded. I need at least a week of nothing but mundane, boring events in order to recover.

I'm sharing a bedroom with Adam Deke Driscoll, texting with Freddie Ridgefield's assistant like she's my new best friend, and Jace Campbell spent the last half of dinner showing me videos of his daughter, who is indisputably the cutest toddler I have ever seen. Now I'm supposed to hang out with Flint Hawthorne?

Cool. No problem. I am A-okay.

"Hey! Deke is back!" Freddie says to Adam. "Looking good."

"I don't know, man," Leo says. "Your beard tan is terrible."

"It's not terrible," Ivy says. "Adam, don't listen to Leo. You can barely see it."

"You're probably going to have to wear makeup tomorrow," Jace says. "The camera isn't going to like your glowing cheeks."

Adam breathes out a sigh beside me, and I loop my arm through his, giving his bicep a squeeze.

"Dude. I'm being so rude," Freddie says. "Flint, this is Adam's…fiancée, Laney," he says, hesitating just slightly on the word fiancée , like he isn't quite sure how far our deception should go. Flint lifts his hand in acknowledgment. "It's nice to meet you, Laney."

I'm okay.

Just kidding.

I am not okay.

This last little bit of the impossible seems to have severely impacted my gross motor skills, because when I open my mouth to respond, no words come out. Nothing. Nada. Not even a grunt of acknowledgement.

Adam's hand slips behind my back and curves around my hip, giving it a gentle squeeze. I don't miss that just moments ago, I was the one comforting him, and now he's doing the same for me.

The realization is just enough to thaw my frozen vocal cords. But honestly, I might have been better off not talking, because I point to Adam, open my mouth, and say, "I'm Adam's vet."

It sounds just as dorky coming out as you might guess. My own version of the "I carried a watermelon" line in Dirty Dancing.

Flint's eyebrows lift, like my words surprise him.

"I mean, not his vet, obviously," I try to explain. "That would be weird because he's a human. And humans need human doctors. Not that vets aren't also humans! We're just not doctors for humans. We're doctors for dogs. His dogs! That's me. A doctor for Adam's dogs."

Beside me, Adam is practically vibrating, his shoulders shaking even as his grip around me tightens. Is he…is he laughing ?

Oh, geez. That was bad. I'm absolutely positive it was bad .

"And that's basically how we met," Adam says, tucking me a little tighter against his side. He looks at Ivy. "And now that you have seen my face, Ms. Controlling Control Pants, we're heading to bed."

I lift a hand to wave, then let Adam tug me back down the hallway to our room.

"Thank you, Adam!" Ivy calls. "You look amazing!"

As soon as we're safely inside our bedroom, Adam dissolves into a fit of laughter that should make me feel more embarrassed, but it doesn't feel like he's laughing at me, so I can't really be mad.

I sit on the end of the bed and collapse onto my back. "Adam?"

"Yeah?" he says as his laughter subsides.

"Did I just monologue to Flint Hawthorne about the differences between human doctors and animal doctors?"

He sits down beside me, leaning back onto his elbows. "You did."

"Did you know he was here?"

"I met him yesterday, so I knew he was around. I didn't know he was coming over tonight."

I push up on my elbow so I'm stretched out on my side, facing him. "I've actually been pretty proud of myself today. I met Leo and Jace and hung out with all of Midnight Rush at the same time, and I didn't lose my cool."

Adam nods, his expression sober. "Flint Hawthorne was the last straw, huh? You just couldn't handle it anymore."

"It was. I already function with fewer cool cards than everyone else. This whole situation is entirely unfair."

His lips lift into an easy grin, the lamplight reflecting off his ocean blue eyes. "Cool cards? Do they hand those out in vet school? "

"Hmm. We actually have to turn them in when we go to vet school."

"That's how it works," he says. He holds my gaze before asking, "Do I really have a beard tan?"

There's a new vulnerability in his voice that makes my heart squeeze. He's always so confident and self-assured. It's sweet to see him feeling a little insecure.

"You can barely see it," I say. I study his face, my gaze catching on the curve of his lips. It's the same mouth I've kissed before, but I can't stop myself from wondering what it will be like to kiss it now, without the beard.

"You're staring, Laney," Adam says.

I smile. "I know."

His expression softens. "What are you thinking?"

"Just that I'm really glad I'm here."

He holds my gaze. "I'm really glad you're here too."

Warmth spreads through my chest, something that seems to happen a lot whenever I'm around Adam. But there's an added element this time. This time, it isn't just about fluttery feelings of attraction—or even hotter sparks of desire. There's a certain rightness to being here with him. Like I've found something I didn't know I was looking for. I'm in a room I've never been in, inside a house I've never visited. But I still feel like I'm home, because I'm with him.

He reaches over and runs his fingers down the back of my hand. We're stretched out on the bed, facing each other, propped up on our elbows with maybe a foot of space between us. It's comfortable, easy, but I am also keenly aware of how close we are. Not to mention the fact that we're on a bed—a bed we're supposed to share in a few hours. I'm not ready to stop talking, though, so I steer my thoughts back to safer waters .

"Do you think the other guys resent Freddie for being so successful?"

He shakes his head. "Nah. I think we all knew he wanted it most. Not that the other guys don't want it. And they deserve to be as successful. But Freddie's got that hunger, you know? He had it back then, too."

"You didn't though, did you?"

He runs a hand across his face, and I immediately miss the warmth of his touch. "I didn't, really," he says. "I mean, I thought about it. I wanted to sing. But the idea of being famous was more of a deterrent than an enticement."

"Then why did you do it? Is it okay for me to ask that?"

"I did it for my mom," he finally says.

This is the second time he's told me he made a decision for his mom, and I feel a pang of regret that I'll never meet someone who had such a profound impact on his life.

He brings his hand back to mine, and I raise my palm to meet his, threading our fingers together. This is more than holding hands. Our fingers keep moving, touching, exploring, brushing over hands and wrists and forearms.

"Your mom wanted you to sing?" I ask.

"Yes and no," Adam says. "She loved listening to me sing, but she didn't care if I ever did it in public. She never would have pressured me into that." His shoulders lift in a small shrug. "But she was sick, and we were poor. And singing felt like an easy way to make money."

My heart squeezes. Adam was young when Midnight Rush became Midnight Rush. Not even sixteen. "That's a lot of responsibility to take on as a kid."

"Yeah, it was," he says, his voice a little softer than before.

I want to know more, but I'm not sure how to ask. I already know the end of the story—he lost his mom and he left the band—and I don't want to ruin whatever is happening right now by dragging up topics that hurt.

When I don't say anything else, Adam nods toward Goldie. "Mom got her from the shelter while I was out on my first tour." Goldie, who's been sleeping on her bed since we came up after dinner, stirs and stretches, then flops back down onto her side. "I was mad at first. She was still young—less than a year—and I thought it would be too much for her to take care of a puppy in between chemo treatments. But Goldie was great. Chill and easy. Sarah used to say Goldie seemed to sense when Mom was feeling particularly bad because she always saved her troublemaking for Mom's good days."

I smile. "I'm sure she's right. Dogs realize a lot more than we give them credit for."

I find myself leaning toward him, shifting my arm out and forward, so his fingers can move up, past my elbow, sending shivers of sensation dancing over my skin.

"Did you always want to be a vet?" he asks.

The question gives me pause. Weirdly, I'm not sure anyone has ever asked me that before.

"I don't know, actually," I say. "I was always considering it, I think, because of Dad. And I've always liked animals, so…I guess I probably did?"

"Really?" he presses. "You never thought about doing anything else?"

"No," but my voice doesn't sound the least bit convincing. "I didn't. Not anything that…" My words trail off as I think about the piles and piles of journals I started filling when I was in middle school. Poems. Snatches of conversations. In high school, I started using my dad's old laptop and graduated to actual stories .

I was never quite bold enough to call myself a writer, but when the world felt scary or hard or overwhelming, writing was always the thing that made me feel better. Pouring my heart into creating something new.

"Laney, you can't not finish that sentence," Adam says. "Not anything that…what? What else did you think about doing?"

I groan. "No! Don't make me say it out loud. It was never anything serious. Becoming a vet was a very practical choice, and I'm very good at my job. I like animals. It makes sense."

"Okay. Good on you for making a practical choice. But what else did you think about doing?"

I lift my hand to cover my face. I have no idea why I'm so embarrassed about this, but then, of course I'm embarrassed. I've never actually admitted this to anyone. Honestly, I haven't thought about it in years. It was a silly daydream—never anything I took too seriously.

Adam's hand curls around my wrist, but he doesn't tug it away. He just holds it, his thumb rubbing a slow circle across the inside of my forearm. "You don't have to tell me," he says, his voice soft and gentle. "But I'd like to know."

I spread two fingers apart and peek out with one eye. "You have to promise not to laugh."

"I promise," he says without hesitation.

I finally drop my hand, but Adam doesn't let it go, instead giving me a tiny squeeze of encouragement.

"I used to write," I say.

Adam's brow furrows. "Why would I laugh at that?"

"Because I mostly just wrote fanfiction." I admit this last part without fully thinking about the consequences, but then Adam's eyes glimmer with an unspoken question, and I know before he opens his mouth what he's going to ask .

"Fanfiction, huh?"

"Did I say fanfiction? I meant just…regular fiction. About totally made-up people who only ever lived inside my brain."

"Nope. I don't think that's what you said."

I close my eyes and press my lips together. "Don't ask me, Adam. Please don't ask."

"Oh, you know I'm going to ask," he says, his smile stretching wider and wider.

I tug my hand out of his grip and shimmy backward, inching my way up the bed. "You can't make me tell you. I'll run."

He lifts an eyebrow. "Pretty sure I could catch you."

"You don't know that. Maybe I ran track in high school. Or cross country. I could be very fast. "

He gives me a dubious expression. "I'll take my chances."

I swear under my breath, and Adam chuckles. "Who did you write your fanfiction about, Laney?"

I quickly crawl toward the head of the bed—Adam cannot make me answer that question—but he's right behind me, wrapping an arm around my waist and tugging me against him. He's gentle—so gentle—and I'm positive I could get away from him with very little effort if I wanted to. But I love the game of him chasing me, and I let out a little squeal as he rolls me onto my back, pinning my arms over my head and holding them there with one hand. He's hovering over me now, his blue eyes flashing with heat and hunger.

"Tell me who," he says.

I bite my lip and give my head a tiny shake. "You know who," I finally whisper .

His voice is husky when he says, "Did any of your fiction ever involve a situation like this?"

"What kind of situation?"

He leans down and brushes his nose against mine. "You, me…close enough to kiss you?"

My heart practically pounds out of my chest as I close my eyes and take a long, deep breath. We've kissed before, but something about this moment feels different, like there's a new vulnerability here. There is no pretense to how Adam is looking at me right now. His feelings are written right across his face.

"Not exactly like this," I say. A twinge of compassion pulses in my chest as I think of my younger self. My awkward, insecure, lost self. "I always made up girls to put in my stories. Because something like this could never happen to someone like me."

Adam's expression darkens, the fire in his eyes turning molten. "Not until now." He leans down again, his lips grazing across the skin at the side of my mouth, his breath brushing across my cheek.

The hesitation feels intentional, like he's waiting, checking in to make sure I'm okay with where this is going.

The answer is easy. I arch up and find his lips with mine, my hands curling into fists as heat pours through my body, sensation filling me from fingertip to toe. Adam's lips are warm and soft, his touch light as he releases my wrists and moves one palm to my cheek. I wrap my arms around his shoulders, my hands against the back of his neck, and tug him toward me, wanting more of him.

He carefully lowers himself onto the bed beside me, stretching out on his side, and I roll toward him without breaking the kiss. This isn't our first kiss, but it somehow feels like it. Like we're shifting into a different gear. Like every kiss is a promise of something more to come.

A kiss on my temple and I'm hearing Adam's laughter, seeing his smile.

One on my jaw just below my ear and I'm seeing us together at the rescue, stretched out on a blanket while the dogs play around us.

On my lips, and suddenly he's holding his guitar, singing to me and only me.

On my collarbone, and I'm sucking in a breath, seeing the family we might have together one day.

The thoughts should just be snatches of possibility, but with his lips pressed against my skin, they feel more like prophecy.

Kissing has never felt like this.

This contact, this closeness, is unlike anything I've ever experienced before.

We kiss for a very long time. Long enough that fire builds in my body, making me desperate, aching to have as much of me touching him as possible. I love the solid feel of him under my palms, the way his muscles shift and roll as I slide my hands across his chest, over his shoulders and down the dip and curve of his bicep. I love the noise he makes when my tongue brushes against his, the way he does not hide his desire for me, but I also love that he's being so careful.

There may be fire, but it's a controlled blaze. Adam isn't pushing, he's just… kissing.

Realizing as much unravels a tiny knot of anxiety deep in my heart, one I didn't even know was there. I know what I want with Adam, but all of this is still so new for me, and I don't want to rush.

Adam moves his mouth to my throat, placing a line of tender kisses along my jaw. "You stopped kissing and started thinking," he murmurs against my skin.

"Did I?"

He looks up and grins. "You did. Are you okay?"

I lift my hand to his clean-shaven jaw, still not used to seeing him like this. "Yeah, I am. I'm perfect."

He nods, his expression turning thoughtful. "Are you…" His eyes drop and he licks his lips. When he looks up again, there is an earnestness in his expression that makes my heart squeeze. "Are you okay with us going slow?" His fingers slide down my shoulder until he reaches my hand, and he presses our palms together. "I am very attracted to you, Laney. Insanely, maddeningly attracted to you. But I want to do this right, you know? Take our time."

So basically, Adam Driscoll is perfect.

"I want that too," I say. "That sounds perfect."

"Good." He grabs a pillow from the top of the bed and tucks it under his head, then he pulls me against him, nestling me into the crook of his arm, my cheek resting on his chest. I can hear the steady thump-thump of his heart under my ear.

"I bet your stories were good," he says.

I let out a little laugh. "Trust me. They really weren't. My poetry was maybe okay. But the fiction—it will never see the light of day, and it really shouldn't."

He lifts his hand, slowly grazing his fingers across my back and over my shoulder blades. "Poetry's cool. You never thought about writing seriously? Pursuing it?"

"Nah," I say easily. "It takes a special kind of bravery to build a career on something creative. And I definitely don't have it. I wanted safe. Reliable. People will never stop having pets, and pets will always need doctors. Job security was a very compelling motivator."

"I get that," Adam says. "And you're good at being a vet. But if writing makes you happy, you should do that too."

"Yeah? What about you? If that's your logic, you should still be making music, right?"

He's quiet for a long moment before he says, "I do make music. I play at home all the time."

I lift my head, propping my chin on his chest so I can look at him. "Just not where anyone can hear you?"

He runs his hand over my hair, eyes staring at the ceiling for so long, I wonder if he's going to answer. I can't fault him if he doesn't. But I want him to. I want him to let me in just a little bit more.

"I didn't like the person fame turned me into," he finally says. "I didn't think I wanted to be famous, but then we were traveling and every time we turned around, people were giving us things—anything we could possibly want. Shoes, cars, expensive clothes. A watch that cost more than the house my mom was living in back in Tennessee. The excess was…" He tenses, his words trailing off, and I slide my hand up his chest, rubbing my thumb over a spot just beside his sternum. "It was addicting," he finishes. "And I lost sight of so much. Of everything that was really important."

"Adam, you were just a kid," I say gently, but he quickly shakes his head.

"That's no excuse." His body tenses the slightest bit as he lifts his arms, running both hands through his hair.

I feel the loss of his warmth almost immediately, and a sliver of fear creeps over me. I don't want him to get up. I don't want our conversation to end. I slide my arms around him and hold on, squeezing his waist, hoping he senses that whatever he's feeling, it's okay.

It's okay, and I'm not letting go.

He relaxes under me, his arm coming down over my shoulders. "I like making music," he says, his voice steadier now. "Writing music. I'm just not sure it's worth it."

"I get that," I say. "You're older now though. More grounded. Maybe you could make music in a way that works for you now. Have more control over what you want your career to look like."

He leans forward and presses a quick kiss to my lips. The gesture feels familiar—like we're an actual, for real couple—and it sends an irrational pulse of happiness pushing through me. "Maybe. Or I could just keep doing what I love in Lawson Cove."

I love the sound of Adam staying in Lawson Cove, but there's a note to something in his words that makes me wonder if he's telling me the whole truth. When he and Freddie sang over FaceTime the other night, I had the very distinct impression that Adam was doing what he was meant to be doing. His guitar in his hands, his words filled with so much meaning.

Now that I know what he's capable of, it's hard to think of him giving it up.

But then, I spent a good part of today stressing over how I will handle Adam's participation in a concert that will thrust him back into the spotlight. If he went back to music full time, it would be a lot more than just one concert. It would be his entire life. A loss of privacy. Screaming fans. Paparazzi. I feel wholly unequipped to handle that kind of life. My first instinct is to run as far away from it as possible .

Life would be so much easier if Lawson Cove could be enough.

But if he wants to sing…how could I ever want anything else?