Chapter 17

Evie

Adam pulls a few items from the fridge. A block of blue cheese, a carton of free-range eggs, portobello mushrooms, and string onions. "How does an omelet sound?" he asks, looking perfectly at ease in the kitchen.

I take a seat on the barstool next to the marble island. "Heavenly."

"I've got a loaf of French bread in the basket behind you. Mind cutting a few slices?"

French bread? The guy is curiouser and curiouser. It takes some effort to gel this Adam with the rugged five-o'clock-shadow, Honda-driving version I hung out with on the trail and in the bar. The one smirking while his friend lost at pool. Apparently, he's more than just that guy. He's also a mega-loaded, sexy, unattached computer whiz who buys French bread and stinky cheese. If ever there was a time when looks were deceiving, it's now.

I reach for the long loaf. It smells divine. "Where do you find fresh artisanal bread out here in the middle of nowhere?"

"I have them delivered."

I suspect it's a very bougie service that delivers fresh bread to his door. In the middle of Yosemite National Park.

I find a bread knife in the sleek cutlery drawer and begin slicing.

Actually, the entire kitchen is exactly that. Sleek. Surfaces and cabinetry are all clean lines with not a handle to be seen. You simply push on the surface and it glides opens. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the glass cabinet.

Yikes.

I redo my ponytail. As if that will make a difference. I look like a woman who has hiked all day and experienced a near-traumatic event.

"Um, I really could use a hot shower."

Adam stops chopping the vegetables and looks up at me, concern in his eyes. "Oh, right."

I look at the bruises on his arms. Since the fall on the mountaintop, they have turned new shades of purple.

We're both shellshocked. Neither of us considered washing up. Hunger has taken precedence.

"I'm really sorry," Adam says, his forehead furrowed as if silently chastising himself for the oversight. "Come on. The eggs can wait. I'll show you to the guest room."

I nod, grabbing a slice of bread on the way out the door, gobbling it up in two bites.

Adam stops at the end of the wide corridor and pauses, seemingly sizing me up.

I feel a flutter in my belly. When three seconds pass without a word, I ask, "Earth to Adam . . . can I help you?"

He shifts his eyes up to meet mine. "I was just trying to see if you'd fit into my pjs."

I swallow hard, picturing myself in his pajama top while he wears the matching bottoms.

Jeez, I need to snap out of it.

"Maybe your baker can also deliver a new wardrobe," I goad while trying to erase the sexy image from my mind. But he does have a valid point. I have none of my clothes with me. They are all back at the hotel. A very long drive away.

"Cute. How about this? We'll toss the clothes you're wearing into the wash and you'll wear my Broncos jersey as a nightshirt."

I'm not about to ask for his underwear. "Got any clean exercise shorts to go with the jersey?" I feel my cheeks heat up.

Adam grins. "I'll even throw in a helmet. Okay?"

I can't help but laugh. The entire situation is crazy.

Adam points out the laundry room, then opens the door to the guest room. "Make yourself at home."

I walk past him into a spacious, modern room, decorated in soothing earth tones. It's three times the size of my bedroom at home in New York. The far wall is actually an enormous pane of glass. "Wow."

"Like it?"

"Love it."

He stands there a moment, as if wanting to say more, and then steps out, closing the door softly behind him.

Twenty minutes later, I wipe the condensation off the mirror. Adam's jersey clings to my curves, reaching the tops of my thighs. It's far from an extra-large. Maybe it shrunk in the dryer. Hmm. Good thing I asked for his shorts.

Other than a tube of tinted lip balm, all my makeup is back at the hotel. I wish I cared. But I'm starving.

Okay, maybe I care a little bit. The more time I spend with Adam, the more fluttery my butterflies become.

I run my fingers through my hair, hoping the waves will dry nicely and do some ridiculous face exercises. As if trying to lick my nose with my tongue will tighten my skin before dinner is served.

Unfortunately, there's little more I can do right now about my appearance. I swipe on the lip balm, leave the room, and toss my soiled clothes into the washer.

Back in the hallway, I turn right and am struck by an enormous oil painting of a bear in a stream, a salmon clenched in its mouth. The scene is so realistic that I stand there for a few moments studying the brushstrokes. Breathtaking.

Across from the painting is a door left slightly ajar. I catch a glimpse of an enormous bed, the linens distinctly masculine.

Adam's room.

Realizing I've turned the wrong way out of my room, I make a U-turn and sniff the air. Smells like the eggs are ready.

Barefoot, I make my way into the kitchen, pausing in the doorway.

There's Adam at the stove, his back to me. Only this time, all he's wearing is a pair of gym shorts. The muscles on his back and shoulders remind me of the horse sculpture I admired earlier. All I want to do is touch them, feel his strength.

Instead, I say, "I could eat a horse."

Adam turns to face me, taking in my appearance. His gaze is intense, fiery. If thoughts could physically manifest, the jersey clinging to my body would be scorched and tattered.

We stare at each other, neither one saying a word. An unseen force is pulling at me. Hard. It takes every last ounce of restraint to keep from running to him, falling into his powerful arms.

When he speaks, his voice is thick. "Come here, then. Let's eat."

It sounds more like a cunning dare from the wolf in Little Red Riding Hood than an offer to try the slowly burning eggs.

I walk into the kitchen, fully unsure if I should accept the challenge.