Page 42 of The Grumpy Side of Paradise

“He may know we’re trying to get zoning approved. I’ve tried to get in touch with him to talk about it, but he won’t answer me. He doesn’t know anything about the size or about the potential deal with HGTV. Even if he would take my calls, that info has to stay confidential until it’s a sure thing.” She doesn’t sound very concerned about keeping this from Adam, so I try to brush away my worries. Georgia’s known Adam her whole life. I’ve known him a week and a half.

But the niggling in my gut won’t stop, so I ask my questions. “You’re not going to tell him anything? Do you think that’s fair to leave him in the dark?”

“I couldn’t tell him even if I wanted to. You can’t either. That’s part of the NDA we both signed with HGTV. We can’t tell anyone until the deal is official.” She says the words so matter-of-fact that I shouldn’t feel the disappointment that I do.

I’d forgotten about the NDA, but it makes sense, even if I don’t feel good about not telling Adam the real reason I’m renovating Grandma Rose’s. It’s basically the spec home for the rest of the project. If the production company doesn’t like what Georgia and I do, the show won’t happen. And if the show doesn’t happen, the rest of the renovation won’t happen either. The Little Copenhagen cabins will sit empty. At least until Zach and Georgia can get investors.

“Listen,” she continues when the silence between us has stretched on too long. “Adam wasn’t always against Paradise growing and changing. He’s just in a bad place right now. But when he sees that we’re maintaining the integrity of Paradise while also bringing in new business—business that will benefit him—he’ll be onboard.”

She sounds confident enough that I put aside my own concerns. Adam has offered to help me with Grandma Rose’s, and I’m going to need him, whether or not I’m comfortable keeping the full extent of her plans from him. In a way, having something I can’t tell him is a good thing. It gives me a reason not to act on whatever attraction we have for each other.

And I need a reason. Lots of them, actually. Especially since Adam’s voice carries through my walls, and my brain is finding every reason possible to knock on his door. Borrow a cup of sugar. Ask for help to close my blinds. Say hello to Rosie.

Whatever it takes to see him again tonight.

Chapter 20

Adam

Evie’s bedroom light guides me home from the Garden. Not that I need it. I know my way. But it’s nice having some illumination in the dark.

Might even be nice having Evie upstairs. Paradise seems a little brighter with her around.

For a second, I think I see her at the window, but her blinds are closed. So probably just my imagination. That doesn’t stop me from almost knocking on her door. I don’t, but then I can’t stop hoping she might knock on mine. The thought is stupidly optimistic at best and wishful thinking at worst. But I can’t erase from my memory the way she looked at me tonight.Staredat me.

If both Sebastian and Bear hadn’t pointed out the same thing, I’d be able to tell myself I’d imagined her gaze never leaving my face. I’d be able to brush away the hitch in my gut that happened every time our eyes met. I’d be able to ignore the way my pulse raced when she smiled back at me.

But they saw it too. So, there’s no denying it happened.

There’s no denying somethingishappening between Evie and me.

Rosie greets me at my front door and immediately stops barking when I pull a baggie of bacon bits from my pocket. I always bring her some from the Garden. They’re the only thing that will keep her quiet. That and lots of hugs, kisses, and serenading.

I scoop her up, hold out a tiny piece of bacon, and break into my version ofYou Ain’t Nothin’ But a Hound Dog,in which a hound dog becomes terrier. She grabs the bacon from my fingers and gulps it down in one bite. Then she thanks me with lots of cheek-licking.

Since I can’t resist her cuteness, and she’s my only source of kisses at present, I lean my cheek closer.

“That’s my sweet girl,” I coo and cradle her like a baby, scratching her belly at the same time. Her tongue lolls to the side, and she smiles. I swear she knows how to. Her lips curl up in the corner whenever I scratch her in the right place.

When I set her down, she circles my legs, letting out excited yaps. Usually, I love this show of affection, but she’s loud enough that I can’t hear whether Evie is moving around.

“Hush, girl.”

She stops and sits. Her tongue falls out again as she gives me her patented,I want baconstare. I toss her a piece, then stand still and tip my ear to the ceiling. I stop short of climbing on a chair to press my ear to the ceiling, because that would be weird. But it still takes every ounce of willpower I possess not to.

I don’t hear anything, so I give up the idea of seeing anymore of Evie tonight. Which is probably better anyway. After working at the store and at the restaurant, I’m exhausted. What I should do is go to bed. But, despite my exhaustion, my adrenaline is still racing, thanks to Evie.

I peel off my work clothes and toss them into the hamper, almost making it. I pull on my favorite pair of pajama bottoms—the ones Dakota ordered for me with Rosie’s face all over them. They’re the most comfortable pants I own, but I haven’t worn them since she left. I’ve tried to avoid anything that reminds me of her. Not that it’s worked.

But tonight, I’m ready to try an experiment. Is the connection—no, the electric current—I’ve felt between Evie and me enough to zap away the pain I’ve been living with for the past five months? Possibly. The pants are soft, and I can smile at the memory of taking them from the box on Christmas morning. The picture in my mind of Dakota laughing as she put on her matching pair stings, but not like it did even a few weeks ago.

So, maybe, possibly, I can get over her.

And maybe the way to do that is like Zach suggested. Move on to Evie.

I pull the drawstring on the pants tight and am about to pull a t-shirt from my drawer when Rosie lets out a long whimper. Her eyes are full of desperation, and I realize I forgot to let her out when I got home. I have about fifteen seconds to act before the rest of my night is going to be spent cleaning up dog poop. Or, worse, pee, which is impossible to get out of carpet.

I pick her up and run for the back door. She’s an apartment dog. Dakota always had to take her out to go potty in New York. No matter how hard I’ve tried to get her to use a dog door, she won’t do it. She goes when her human is there to pick up after her, and that’s it.

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