Five seconds into waiting—I was assuming his receptionist was his breast pocket—I got antsy and jumped out of bed to pace the floor between it and the bathroom door.
There was muffled conversation, then some laughter—Dad’s?—and then more talking.
When it continued, I went to the kitchen and started making a sandwich.
Men.
For how incredibly thoughtful this one was, he still went and basically gave me the “we need to talk” line and then disappeared.
I’d just cut the sandwich diagonally when his voice cut through the line, crystal clear.
“Ireland?”
I took a deep breath, forcing down my nerves. “I’m here.”
“Good. Hang on just a second.”
More rolling, and then a door shutting.
“So, uh…,” he started. “Hi again.”
I could practically see his grin through the phone. That sharp canine. The chin dimple.
“Hi,” I said, my momentary annoyance forgotten.
“Pops and your dad say hello. They were a little overserious for my liking, so I reminded them of their duckssitting on the windowsill—nice touch leaving them there, by the way—and it was a whole thing.”
My lips twitched. “Yeah, Dad thought his was really great, but I think he may have added his own touches to it.”
“I thought I saw some embellishments. He really is talented. Duck Sewell bears more than a passing resemblance to Beck the man now.”
I laughed, warming from the inside out, but then Adair cleared his throat, and it faded.
“So, listen. My friend is coming into town, and…umm, well….” He trailed off, and I could easily picture his little frown too.
“Adair,” I said flatly. “Just ask.”
Gripping the edge of the counter with my free hand, I cringed at my tone but didn’t even have time to spiral about my attitude before he started laughing.
“Lordy,” he said through a chuckle. “I love how you live. I need more of that.”
There was no reason for me to not believe him. None. But for weeks I might’ve been waiting for him to realize that I wasn’t some secretly bubbly person. That I wasn’t like this just because of circumstances being shit.
And then, being disappointed that this was who I was even on a good day.
Catfished, if you will.
“Do you mean that?” I asked bluntly. “That you—” My question was cut off by sudden commotion followed by voices.
“Ah crap, sorry, Indigo. I guess the Hammonds need the room.” The sound of rolling followed, and something niggled in my brain about that. Was he actually using that chair to get around because he had to? Was his ankle hurting him that badly?
“Okay, this is taking forever. I’m sorry. But my best friend Cole is visiting, and I told him he might need to get a hotel or rental nearby, but he is pouting at me really hard, and it’s just….Ugh, it’ll make sense when you meet him. He begged me to ask you if he could stay at our house. Not in those exact words, mind you, but that’s the gist of the texts he’s been sending me every fifteen minutes. I’ll vouch for him. He’s ridiculous but nonthreatening, and he would stay on the couch. Or, knowing him, he’ll probably try to get in bed with me, but that’s just him.”
“Oh,” I said, surprised. “That’s completely fine with me. And… you know I’ve kind of met him, right?”
There were several beats of silence, then, “Oh?”
“Delly gave me his number. We’ve texted about him possibly playing photographer for that fundraiser with the glamor shots. He didn’t tell you?”
