Page 54 of The Grumpy Side of Paradise

Zach catches my eye. His mouth creeps into a smile as he follows my gaze to Evie. He raises an eyebrow, and with a subtle nod, gives his approval.

I think I even mean it when I send him a quick smile of thanks.

Chapter 25

Evie

Here’s the thing. Zach is the contractor Georgia hired for this project. His job is to keep it running on schedule, and he needs the framing to be done by the end of next week, so mechanical, electrical, and plumbing can come in the week after.

Obviously, Adam needs me. I may not be great help, but a little help is better than no help. Zach even said so. He told me I should keep doing double duty helping Adam and designing.

So, I go to the job site every day. To help. Not to flirt. Maybe that happens sometimes, accidentally, but never on purpose.

The point is, my being there isn’t slowing either of us down. Even with helping Adam for most of my daylight hours, I’m still making progress on my designs. And there’s the bonus of getting lots of social media content while I’m at the job site. I’m gaining new followers every day.

I’ve already scheduled three posts for today, and now it’s time to design. My materials are spread out in front of me on the kitchen table. I’ve sketched out most of the interior, picked out possible paint colors, countertops, and backsplash options. Every day I search for reclaimed wood to use for the floors. Adam and I decided he probably didn’t have enough in his own stash to do Georgia’s main floor level. So far, I haven’t found anything within Georgia’s budget, but I’m not giving up.

The antlers Adam helped me find I’ve decided are big enough for the legs of a cool coffee table. I’ll top it with glass so the antlers will be a focal point of the main room.

If I sacrificed helping Adam in order to avoid flirting with him, the project wouldn’t be moving as quickly. Plus, the Adam-focused content I’m putting up is getting more likes than any of my other posts ever. The camera likes him, and my followersreallylike him. I mean, what’s not to like?

Sure, there’s his face and his body, but he’s also funny. Not necessarily on purpose, but people like to see him get mad when things go wrong. And things always go wrong. He’s not a yeller. That wouldn’t be funny. More like a cute, curmudgeonly old man stuck in a young man’s body. A veryfiiiineyoung man’s body.

A couple of times, I’ve tried to show him a few of the Tik Toks and reels I’d made, but he wasn’t interested. So, I quit trying. Georgia even reposted a few and got enough likes and shares that Adam might get recognized if he ever left Paradise. I don’t know if he’d want to know that or not.

He definitely wouldn’t want to be bugged by strangers for selfies with him, and I feel bad about that. But he gave me permission to post stuff with him in it. I didn’t know Georgia would repost without asking me first. I should feel bad about it, but she’s pretty confident that the popularity of my posts will help persuade the producers in our favor. And all the signals Adam is sending me point to him not being disappointed if I stay longer than a few months.

My stomach growls, and I pull my attention away from my sketches and samples to my kitchen, like dinner might appear out of thin air. I haven’t wavered in my resolve to stay out of temptation’s way by staying out of The Garden of Eatin’ but potential starvation seems like a good reason to kick that resolve to the curb. Plus, Rosie is barking even more than usual. I can’t work when I’m distracted by both growing hunger and annoyance.

I push away from the table and grab my coat off the back of the chair. I’m almost to my door when there’s a knock at it. I open it to find Britta standing there holding a paper bag with a Garden of Eatin’ logo.

“Adam sent this.” She holds the bag out to me with a satisfied, knowing smile. Some might even call it smug. “It’s the brown butter and plum pork you wanted the night you got here.” Her eyebrow lifts, and her smile gets smuggier. “That’s some quick work. Good job.”

“Quick work of what?” I take the bag and attempt to suppress my own smile.

“Winning Adam over. It’s not easy, but you must have figured out what makes him tick. Three weeks here, and he’s already cooking up and door dashing his specialties right to you.” She’s already halfway down the steps and waving goodbye. “Gotta get back to the restaurant, but I like the direction this is headed.”

I’m so surprised by her words, she’s at the main door before I think of something to say. “Tell him thank you!”

I stop myself from thanking Britta for her encouragement. I didn’t need her to tell me that Adam is interested in me, but the confirmation and her approval both have me smiling like crazy.

Rosie goes nuts downstairs, and Britta yells back to me. “That dog probably needs to go out. Do you mind?”

She doesn’t wait for my answer, which, apparently, is yes, even though I’m not really sure how to do what she asked me to do. I don’t even know how to get into Adam’s house.

I walk to his door and shout, “Hush, Rosie.” Then I try the handle. The door swings open. Rosie rushes to me, still barking, and runs between my legs right out the main door just before it swings closed. With my hands full of food, I can’t stop her.

I set down the food, then run out outside. “Rosie! Come back!” I think that’s what you’re supposed to say to dogs, but it doesn’t work. She’s Dash fromThe Incredibles. Her little legs go so fast they look like spinning wheels as she runs in circles in the front yard.

I curse under my breath, go back inside, and open my food container. I grab one slice of the pork plated (containered?) so prettily—the pork I’ve been craving since I saw it on the menu—and rush back outside.

By this time, Rosie is across the street, circling the parking lot in front of The Garden of Eatin’. I call for her again, in a gentler voice. She glances over her shoulder at me, slows and, I swear, smiles. But she doesn’t stop.

The music inside the Garden is loud enough that no one can hear me. I have two choices. I can go inside, ask for help, and risk losing sight of Rosie. Or, I can let my food get cold sitting on Adam’s cement step and go after the dog myself while I can still see her.

I break into a jog. I’ve had some experience racing short-legged runners. It only took losing one time to never again underestimate the potential speed of a short person. There are some tricks. Keep the pace slow and steady. Don’t scare them into a sprint. Those are the secret to catching a short-legged runner and this dumb dog.

That and some good pork. At least with a dog. I hope.

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