Page 66 of Four Weekends and a Funeral

“What’s in there?” Russell nudges his chin at the pizza box in Adam’s hand.

Our questions fly past each other, all of us wanting to speak to someone who doesn’t want to talk to us.

“Pepperoni and pepper pizza—her favorite.”

“Are those cookies?” Russell eyes the bakery Thin Mints propped on top.

Adam doesn’t answer, instead crossing the room and taking my can from my hands. “What beer is this?” His look freezes me in place as he presses his lips to the can. He takes a slow, deliberate sip before handing it back to me. “Ooh. Sour. Wouldn’t have expected you to like that.”

He might as well have peed on me. It would’ve been more subtle.

“It’s different.” I accidentally answer with Minnesotan for I hate it and internally groan at myself.

Adam swallows his satisfied smirk. He knows he’s won this round.

Russell, not to be outdone, combs a hand through his perfectly coiffed hair. “Adam, can you have this stuff cleaned out by Sunday morning? I’m taking the photos, and I don’t want to waste the light.”

Confusion pinches my forehead. “Wait—you’re the real estate photographer?” Will I ever figure out what this man’s job is?

“I’m the listing agent. I sold them the condo. Didn’t Richard tell you I wanted it on the market by the end of the month? Otherwise, we have to wait until spring. Minnesotans don’t move in the dead of winter.”

One thousand expressions travel over Adam’s face as he registers that the December 1 deadline—and every little upgrade we’ve made to the condo—has been for the benefit of Sam’s family and Russell.

I throw my head back. “Are you or are you not a Realtor?”

“I’m not just a Realtor. I’m a real estate multihyphenate. I have rental properties, flip houses; I was in talks with Magnolia Network for a home renovation show pilot, but we couldn’t make it work. I need full creative control over my brand. This guy gets it.” Russell gives Adam an unearned pat on the shoulder. “I like the cabinet upgrade, by the way. The color will look great in the listing photos. Kitchens sell these places. We should talk collabs.”

Adam’s jaw ticks, and I know it’s taking everything in him not to swat Russell’s hand with his paw like the disgruntled bear he is.

“Is this it?” I hold up a blue-gray bag like a white flag.

“That’s it!” Russell points. Maybe there is a god. “Still want to get that drink, babe? Or are you busy with…whatever this is?” He points between Adam and me.

I tilt my head in the direction of the door, too mortified for direct eye contact. “See you around, Russell.” I agree to call him about the trip and shut the door behind him.

Adam’s humorless laugh reverberates against the walls of the hollow apartment. “Wow. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“Oh, yeah? Was that macho display for his benefit?” I ask, folding my arms in front of my chest.

Adam flips open the pizza box on the counter with practiced nonchalance. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

My eyes snag on his fingers, and I shudder at the memory of what those fingers feel like in my hair. On my face. At my waist.

“Were you able to get whatever issue you have with Russell out of your system?” I ask, hating that my voice is higher than usual.

“Are you going to Chile?” He sounds utterly disinterested, his face a portrait of calm.

“Patagonia. And why would you care if I am?”

God, how I desperately want him to care.

“I don’t.” He removes paper plates from a bag on the counter, unruffled. “You know why you shouldn’t go to Patagonia with him?” he asks like he’s pondering this for the first time. “Because you shouldn’t backpack through the mountains for several weeks, period. Regardless of the company.”

“It’s only ten days.”

“Oh. Well, then, never mind,” he says caustically.

I pull my arms in tight like a shield. “You don’t think I can do it?”

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