Page 20 of Four Weekends and a Funeral

“Uh, no. He was Sam’s friend. And apparently your friend.” Adam fastens his seat belt, the click of the buckle emphasizing the word. “Although I don’t usually drape my sweaty body against my friends.”

“Friends hug each other.”

“That was not a hug,” he says with a snort. “That was a full-body press. That was foreplay.”

“He was being nice.”

“The nicest. Tell me, do nice people claim their dead friend’s stuff at his funeral? I’m trying to get a sense of how we’re defining nice here.” Adam gestures between us on the bench seat, tipping his mouth into that infuriating smirk that crinkles his eyes.

“He wants the gear for his trip. That’s all.” I pull my seat belt too aggressively, and it locks. I jerk at it uselessly three more times—trapped in a Three Stooges physical comedy bit against my will—before I’ve released it enough to get my belt to click. I let out an exhausted breath and gather the courage to face Adam.

He shakes his head, his mouth pushed up in what—on anyone else—would be an effortlessly handsome smile. “That was…wow.”

“Please drive to the lot so this can be over,” I say with the simmering rage achievable only by someone who’s been moderately inconvenienced. “We have to deliver this note before the lot closes.”

He twists toward me and extends his arm across the backrest to reverse out of Russell’s drive. His finger grazes a strand of my hair, and he recoils like he’s been burned. I’m suddenly very aware of how small this truck is. If I leaned back an inch, his hand would be cradling my neck. The thought makes my skin hot because my defective nervous system can’t decipher the nuances of this dynamic.

He seems to notice this near-touch too and bends his elbow, resting his clenched fist behind the bench. “That note’s a crime,” he says, like a spark of electricity didn’t just flicker between us.

“Are you a lawyer?”

“No. I’m a carpenter.”

“Like Jesus?”

An irritated breath passes through his teeth. “No, like custom Nordic furniture.”

“You’re joking.”

Adam’s eyes flash to mine before returning to the road. “Why would I be joking?”

I round on him gleefully. “I didn’t think Nordic furniture makers existed outside of Hallmark Christmas movies. Are you responsible for teaching a workaholic woman the true meaning of Christmas or is that a different grumpy carpenter? Do you guys work in shifts?”

“I’ve never been so happy to have no idea what someone is talking about.”

“It’s a compliment, really. Few jobs lend themselves to romantic proclamations of love in the form of matching rocking chairs.”

“It’s an ordinary vocation. There are many furniture makers in the world.”

“I’m sure there are hot toy store owners too, but I’ve never met one.” I blush, mortified that I called Adam hot while trying to insult him. Wasn’t Harrison Ford a carpenter when he was discovered by George Lucas? The thought forces a shiver down my spine.

“This conversation is ridiculous.” His eyes shoot death glares at a VW Golf that passes us without signaling. “And technically, I work for a building contractor. Furniture’s a hobby until I get my business off the ground.”

“What do you need to get it off the ground?”

He ignores the question and continues driving. He seems to deploy silence whenever he’s finished speaking to me. This rankles me, for some reason.

I lean my head against the window, the glass cool against my temple. “I wish I had a Hallmark Christmas movie profession. I’d love to own a candy cane store.”

“There’s no market for that.” He drums his thumb against the steering wheel. Adam is always in motion, I’m noticing, like an impatient child. I prattle on with my movie musings until I’m interrupted by my phone’s vibrations.

“What?” he asks. His frown is a true upside-down smile, and if I didn’t know better, I’d think he was disappointed I’ve stopped listing impractically twee Christmas movie occupations. It’s an impressive look too. I thought only two-dimensional emojis could contort their lips with such severity. The stark contrast of hard lines formed by his chiseled jaw and the soft, cartoonish expression paints a surprisingly adorable picture.

“It’s Russell.” I read off my screen. “Following up about something called a ‘canyoneering harness.’ Sounds uncomfortable.”

“Is that why you’re doing all this?” His voice bends, not quite angry. Hurt. “So you and Russell can pick through Sam’s life for scraps?”

The whiplash from his words practically tosses me through the windshield. “Scraps? What are you—”

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