"How do you have time to do stuff like this?" I ask as I wriggle out of my coat.
"Because I manage my time," she says with a smug smile.
"You know that I hate you most days, right?" I ask and, I've had so little sleep over the past week, that I'm not sure if I'm joking or not.
"Follow the first week of that binder, and you'll be saying you love me."
"Why? Did you write that in as a task?" I mumble as I put my coat and newly acquired binder away. She doesn't reply so I assume she actually did make that note. I flip through the calendar for my afternoon appointments. I only have one, and I breathe a sigh of relief. Not only do I have just one appointment, the bride is only in for a fitting.
It's almost as if someone cleared my schedule as much as they possibly could so that I would not be more stressed than I already am. I look over at Jamie, who just smiles.
"Fine. I don't hate you," I say as I close the calendar. "But I don't love you yet, either."
"Does she have you on a schedule?" Jess, Connie's daughter and Jamie's cousin, asks as she walks out of her mom's office with a baby attached to her snuggly with some sort of sling that goes across the front of her body. "Eventually, she breaks all of us."
"I never got you to use military time," Jamie tells her.
"Yes, but you went and changed my child's nap and meal times." Jess looks at me. "She babysat once. One time and this kid now follows Jamie-Time."
"You're welcome," Jamie says. I feel confident in saying that the only thing that keeps Jess from lunging for her cousin's throat is the baby slung across her body.
As they bicker, I look at Jess' baby and make silly faces, trying to get a smile out of the kid. She has the brightest green eyes that I have ever seen. A head of dark hair that is unmistakably her father's, and a tiny nose and pouty lips that match Jess's perfectly. The baby finally smiles at me after I puff out my cheeks and wiggle my nose.
"You seriously need to get some sleep," Jamie says, watching my interaction with her niece with a judgmental look splashed across her face.
"Hey, Jess, did you know that Jamie keeps forgetting to use proper pronouns when talking about your daughter?" I ask, offer a simper at Jamie, and turn to prepare for my next appointment.
Before I get too far, I hear Jamie reluctantly agree to babysit over the weekend, and to swear on her label maker that she will not change a thing about the baby's schedule.
Sometimes, it's the little victories in life.
Chapter Eighteen
Tonight's the night that Adam unleashes a love spell on our best friends. I know it's completely stupid, but I have a mix of excitement and curiosity in my stomach about this dish. And, as much as I hate to admit it, the time management schedule that Jamie made for me has actually helped me get on task and even wiggle a few hours of free time with my friends.
When I open my door to let Adam in (right on time, no less), my stomach flip-flops at the sight of him.
"You look nice," I say, the words out of my mouth before I can stop myself.
"I'd say 'thank you,' but I'm kind of offended at how surprised you are that I own a button-up shirt," Adam says, smiling down at me.
"I knew you owned a button-up shirt. The tie, however, is a welcomed surprise," I say as I raise my hand to touch his tie. I stop myself with my hand only an inch from his chest. I feel my face grow hot as I drop my hand to my side. I clear my throat, hoping that's enough to move past my awkwardness. "I just didn't expect you to dress up for dinner with Rachel and Carter."
"You always look so nice for everything. I thought I'd give it a try," he says as we walk around the side of the house to get to the steps that lead to Rachel's apartment.
"You think I look nice?" I ask, and his cheeks redden, but that's from the cold.
"I meant that you dress up for every occasion. You probably wear heels to go through the drive-thru at the bank."
I shake my head. "No, not heels. But I usually ask the butler to fetch my tiara out of the vault when I go to pump gas."
He laughs, and my stomach does another little flip just as the wind picks up. The smell of the peppers waft toward me. Man, I did not realize how hungry I am until just now. Adam's crackpot theory about the magical peppers may not be so insane; they smell incredible.
"You know something? I think those peppers are magical."
"Really?" Adam asks as we reach the landing to Rachel's apartment. He sounds so excited by my declaration.
"Yeah. I think I've just fallen in love with them."
"Har har," Adam replies dryly as we walk into the apartment after a few quick knocks on the door. I almost walk right back out. Rachel and Carter are standing on opposite ends of her tiny kitchen table staring daggers at one another.
"You're a chef. Got a knife to cut this tension?" I whisper to Adam.
"You're usually funnier than this," he replies before clearing his throat. Carter and Rachel turn, only just realizing that we've entered the apartment.
Adam thinks I'm funny?
"Hey, guys," Rachel forces a fake smile. "Welcome to the party."
"If this is a bad time, we can pop back in later," I say, taking a step back toward the door.
Her smile doesn't budge. It's terrifying. "No, now's a great time. Isn't it, Carter?"
"Oh, now you want my opinion? What about when you applied for jobs all across the country?"
I grab Adam's arm as a way of suggesting he not take another step into the apartment.
Carter continues to stare at Rachel. "Why am I just now hearing about Seattle and Austin and … Delaware? What the hell is there in Delaware to whisk you away?"
To be fair, I feel like the man may have a point about Delaware.
"They're just options, Carter," Rachel says as she fills the wine glasses, all practically to the rim. "I didn't say I was going to take any of them."
"But you applied for them."
"We should go," I say to Adam, who never let the door close upon our arrival.
"Sorry, guys," Rachel says. "Here, at least take the wine with you."
Neither Adam nor I protest. I take the full wine glasses from Rachel and we hightail it out of her apartment.
"That went well," Adam says as he follows me through my apartment and into the kitchen, pan of peppers in hand.
"Just peachy," I mumble as I lay a tea towel on the kitchen table for Adam to set the pan. I retrieve a couple of plates from the cabinet.
"Was that a jar of buttons next to your bowls?"
I blush. "In my defense, I don't have much room for storage in this apartment."
"Be honest with me, Evie. How much of your kitchen storage is used for sewing stuff?"
I point a fork at him. "Do you want to argue or do you want to eat? Because if I answer your question honestly, the peppers will get cold."
He smiles, and I can't help but feel like I'm unraveling a little.
I grab a couple beers from the fridge - they seem like a better option for peppers than wine - and take a seat across from Adam and watch his hands as he scoops up a pepper and sets it on my plate. His hands are speckled with white marks, I imagine from years of cooking and having grease fly from pans onto his skin, but they're strong and steady hands.
"These are spicy, by the way. They're not your average hillbilly bell peppers."
"I think I can manage. Thank you again for making them vegetarian," I say.
"No problem. It was a chance to try a new twist on an old recipe. I'm always game for that."
"Nerd," I say with a smile. I take a bite of the pepper and try not to let it show that my tongue, my mouth, my soul is on fire. Oh my God. How do people eat these things? Am I sweating? How is a bite of pepper making me sweat?
"What do you think?" Adam asks.
"It's great." My voice is raspy.
"A glass of milk may help. I won't judge."
"Thank you." I jump out of my seat and lunge for the fridge. If Adam has any qualms about me drinking milk straight from the carton, he doesn't say anything. "The peppers are really good, I swear," I say between chugs.
He laughs as he takes another bite, completely unfazed by the fact that he is basically eating fire.
The peppers are delicious, as is everything that Adam cooks. The entire meal is made from scratch and with organic ingredients and spices that come in glass bottles that cost more than a yard of wool. A month ago, I would have considered him to be pretentious. Now, though? Now, I find it impressive. He cooks like I sew. Neither of us takes the easy way out.
Damn it all to Hell, I respect Adam Iberico.
I glance over at him just as a forkful of pepper stuffing falls onto his shirt.
"Son of a bitch," Adam mutters as he removes the chunk of tomato from his shirt. A bright red stain is left behind. "Every single time I eat anything with tomatoes, I swear."
I laugh. "It's okay. I have some white vinegar; it'll get the stain out no problem. Just hand me your shirt and it'll be good as new in five minutes." I spin out of my chair in search of a clean washcloth.
When I turn around to retrieve Adam's shirt, I completely forget what I'm doing with my life. My grandma used to tell me to never trust a skinny cook. She never told me what to do with a buff baker.