Always the Last Word (Always the Bridesmaid #4)(11)

"I do live in dresses and skirts, it's true."

"And why is everything so colorful?" He nods at my current ensemble, not judging it per say, but definitely curious about it. Mixing prints is dangerous, I know, but I think I make the floral skirt work with the plaid shirt.

"I have to wear black to work. I have to make the most of my time off. Plus, my dad always got a kick out of some of my louder outfits. I guess I feel like I'm honoring his memory whenever I wear neon." I force a smile and clear my throat, afraid that my voice will break. "Why do you wear superhero t-shirts?"

"Because they're awesome," Adam says with such confidence that I have to laugh. He doesn't take offense though, and smiles. "And because all my clothes get covered in food sooner or later, and superhero tees are cheap."

"Fair enough," I say, and manage to keep quiet on my thoughts about sweatshops. This is not the time or place for that conversation.

"If you studied fashion design, what are you doing in Kentucky? Shouldn't you be in New York or Paris?"

"New York was the plan. I wanted to design costumes for Broadway. I was going to work at the bridal shop for a year after graduating and save up my money, then move to New York. I had just started looking at which borough I should live in when Dad was diagnosed. Everything came to a grinding halt after that. I couldn't leave with him so sick. I like what I do here. I like helping people find their wedding dress. I like that I have the time to have my own online shop and that I sell a few custom-designed pieces a year. And I really like that I don't pay $1400 a month to rent a closet that calls itself an apartment in New York."



       
         
       
        

Adam laughs. He has a nice laugh. His eyes kind of crinkle at the corners and his shoulders shake whenever he genuinely laughs. He should do it more often.

"I am sorry about your dad," he tells me, his voice serious and sincere.

I nod. "He's not suffering anymore. The medications, the treatments. It was terrible."

We go back and forth in idle conversation, fueled by the chocolate dessert concoction sitting between us on the couch. Adam talks about visiting his family in Peru and assures me that, yes, llamas are spitting sons of bitches. I tell him about mine and Hank's weird twin connection, and how I always get a weird sixth sense when he's about to blow a lot of money on something stupid. He tells me about how he and Carter have a deal to move in together if they outlive their wives and be the male version of The Golden Girls. I tell him that Rachel and I drunkenly choreograph dances to songs by nineties' girl groups in my living room whenever one of us has had an exceptionally bad day. He explains the origin story of the comic book character Squirrel Girl, and I fill him in on my not-so-popular opinions of famous Hollywood costume designer, Edith Head. He laughs at my jokes and I actually snort at one of his stories.

"This has been fun," Adam says as we drop our spoons into the now empty dessert dish. I immediately shush him.

"Don't jinx it. This is the longest we've gone without yelling at each other."

"This is going to be a tough time to beat," he says, checking his watch. "Hot damn, it's four a.m."

"What? No." I jerk his arm toward me to look at the time. He makes a comment about being competent at time telling but I ignore him. I drop his arm so that I can rake my hands through my hair. "I'm going to be a delight at work in the morning."

Adam pulls apart the mini-blinds behind the couch and looks out the window. He lets out a low whistle. "I don't think you're going to be able to run off anywhere."

I lean over the couch and look out the window with him. My mouth falls open at the view. Everything is covered in at least eight inches of snow and ice, including my car parked in front of the building. The snow is still coming down in big fat flakes. It doesn't snow like this often in Bowling Green but, when it does, it makes the most of the occasion.

"It's so pretty," I whisper as I watch the flakes fall. "So pretty and so annoying."

Adam chuckles. "So, it looks like you're stuck here."

"I think so. Sorry."

Adam shakes his head. "No biggie. You can have my bed; I'll take the couch."

"Like hell you will. I'm not kicking you out of your own bed." 

"Evie, seriously. I don't mind. I sleep on the couch a lot."

I smile at him. "You fall asleep to cooking shows, don't you?"

"Like an eighty-year-old man with his stories," he admits as his cheeks darken. "Seriously, you can have my bed. Come on, I'll lend you some pajamas."

I follow him into his bedroom and have to gnaw on my bottom lip to keep from commenting on the amount of comic book paraphernalia scattered around the room.

To be fair, his room is tidy but, holy shit, there are so many superheroes. There's an artsy Spiderman painting framed above his bed, a slew of action figures (mint condition in box, of course) lined up on his bookshelf, which also houses hundred of comic books, all in plastic sleeves. I almost lose it when I notice the Captain America throw pillow on his bed. I take a deep breath and attempt to compose myself while he pulls a shirt and a pair of sweatpants from his dresser. When he hands me a shirt with Deadpool's mask on it and pants to match, I can't help but let out the tiniest of giggles.

"Like you don't have fashion stuff all over your place," he says as he pushes his glasses up with his finger.

"Touché," I say, thinking of the bins of dress patterns I have in my kitchen cabinets where things like pots and pans should go.

God, that would probably kill Adam.

"Well, good night, Evie," Adam says as he drags a blanket and pillow into the living room.

"Wait a second," I say, and immediately want to kick myself. It's too late to stop myself, though. "Why are you so nice now?"

"I wasn't before?" he asks, a small smile on his face.

"Hardly. You were such a jerk on that date we went on and-"

"You're one to talk. You were constantly checking your phone and not even trying to pretend to give a damn."

"My dad had just been diagnosed when we went out. The reason that Rachel wanted me to go out with you is because she thought I needed a night off from worrying about Dad. I kept checking my phone because I was afraid that he would need me."

"Oh," Adam says. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"I didn't want the pity," I say, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. Apparently, I need to state the obvious with Adam. Neither of us seem to be exceptionally adept at taking a hint.

"If it helps, I was a lot dumber four years ago. Zoe told me about some past boyfriends she had. I saw some similarities between them and myself, so I changed. Obviously not enough since she still cheated on me."

"But that's on her, not you," I say, not quite believing that I'm defending Adam. "You may not be a completely terrible guy, Adam."

"So close to a compliment," he says, putting a hand to his heart. He drops his hand and smiles at me. "Night, Evie."

"Sleep well, Adam," I respond before shutting the door to change into pajamas. I settle myself into Adam's bed and, as the scent of flour, vanilla, and soap surround me, I fall into a deep sleep.





Chapter Ten



My phone dings me awake. I immediately panic when I don't recognize my surroundings. As the superhero collection comes into focus, I remember that I stayed at Adam's last night. And that we stayed up talking until damn near dawn.

This is not how I would have imagined any night going for me ever.

It's a text message from Connie. The shop is closed today due to the snow. Thank God. There's no way I can be pleasant to bridal parties on this little bit of sleep. I check for other texts. No messages from Grant. Didn't he worry when I didn't come back to his house last night? There's over a foot of snow on the ground. For all he knows, I'm stuck in a snowdrift or have had to wander into the wilderness to take shelter in a cave and am facing frostbite like the family from that Lifetime movie I watched as a kid.



       
         
       
        

I drop my phone back into the sheets and curl up with the Captain America pillow on the bed. It's surprisingly snuggly. I don't go back to sleep, though. Oh, I need to and I want to, I really want to, but I don't feel right hogging Adam's bed up any longer than I already have.

I dig a ponytail holder out of my purse and throw my hair up in a messy bun before walking out into the rest of the apartment. Adam isn't on the couch, but a ruckus coming from the kitchen lets me know that he isn't too far away.

"Mornin'," I mumble as I slide onto one of the barstools. "You get a snow day too?"

"Yeah. Wait, stand back up."

"What? Why?" I ask as I stand. I study the seat of the barstool. "Did I sit in something?"

"No, I've just never seen you in pants. Better yet, I've never seen you wear anything this ratty before." He's grinning like a kid on Christmas morning.

"I'm glad you're enjoying this moment." I settle back into the seat and look out over the mess of foods and cookware that are spread across the counter. "What are you up to, Adam?"