Page 5 of My Accidental Valentine

Oh. My. God.

I stare at Adam’s T-shirt, my eyes widening in horror. The neckline and right shoulder are completely torn, leaving a jagged rip that exposes way more of Adam’s very shredded chest than I ever wanted—or hoped—to see.

“Oh no,” I whisper, panic creeping in as I slap a hand over my mouth.

“Are you okay?” Adam asks, his brow furrowing. His hand is still on my elbow, like he’s not entirely convinced I can stay upright on my own. “You look really pale.”

“Yes,” I manage to say, my voice shaky. “Sorry, it’s just…your shirt.” I point at it like a terrified child pointing out a ghost in the closet. Adam looks down at his chest, as if only now realizing the winter wind is breezing right across his pecs.

“Oh,” he says with a hint of surprise. He looks back at me, his lips tugging slightly at the corners, and finally lets go of my arm. “It’s fine.”

“Sorry,” I say again. “I get really clumsy when I’m nervous.”

The words come out unbidden, and Adam’s eyebrows quirk up at the confession.

“Why are you nervous?” he asks, his tone genuinely puzzled.

“It’s just…” I say, my breathing uneven, unsure where I’m even going with this. But then I think,screw it—I need toconfront this now, nip it in the bud before I literally die from being the awkward, clumsy mess that I am.

“I need to talk to you,” I blurt out, the words sounding way too loaded—like we’re not just two acquaintances who had one weird, mysterious encounter in the past.

Adam’s brows lift slightly, and he replies slowly, “Alright.” He looks a bit suspicious, but there’s a hint of curiosity, too. “Let’s get inside first. It’s freezing out here.”

“Yes, right,” I mumble, awkwardly shuffling off the icy patch with small, hesitant steps. Adam notices my wobbly attempt, sighs, and grabs my elbow again, steadying me before shutting and locking the car door.

He keeps his grip steady as he leads me toward the bakery. Under any other circumstances, I’d probably assume I was having a heart attack—no normal heartbeat should be racing this fast.

To my not-so-subtle disappointment, the moment we reach the bakery entrance, Adam lets go of my elbow and pulls the door open for me. I try not to limp, but my ass and tailbone hurt so much I silently pray I didn’t break anything.

The sweet smell of vanilla and pastry envelops us as we step inside, but despite how much I usually love cake, the humiliation of the last five minutes completely kills my appetite.

I start to shuffle toward the counter when Adam’s hand brushes my shoulder, stopping me.

“Come sit over there,” he says, nodding toward one of the booths near the entrance. “I’ll be right back.”

And God, maybe I’m reading too much into it, but I swear he sounds worried.

“Okay,” I say, nodding, too defeated and humiliated to argue. I shuffle over to the booth, and the moment I sit down on the plastic seat, a sharp pain shoots up my tailbone, making me wince.

I look around, trying to distract myself from the overwhelming embarrassment still heating my cheeks. The bakery is tiny but ridiculously charming—the tabletops are shaped like chocolate chip cookies, and the counter is designed to look like it’s dripping with chocolate. Behind it stands a woman in her early sixties with a round face and slicked-back blonde hair, wearing a pink chef’s hat.

As Adam approaches her, I suddenly remember that I have the order number and cash from Peter. I try to stand again but give up almost immediately, calling out instead, “Adam.”

His name feels strange on my lips—like I’ve never actually said it before—and when he turns around, effortlessly handsome, my heart skips a beat.

“I have Peter’s cash,” I say carefully, mouthing each word to make sure he hears me as I reach into my pocket. But he waves me off like it’s nothing. Apparently, he doesn’t need the order number either, which is weird, considering I thought that was the whole reason I came along.

I sigh and pull out my phone, hoping for a distraction. I think about texting Emilia but quickly decide against it—she’s probably busy getting ready for the big day. With another sigh, I set my phone down and eye my jeans and jacket, now streaked with dirt from my fall. I try patting them clean, but it doesn’t help much. Thank God I brought spare clothes.

I’m in the middle of letting out yet another sigh when Adam suddenly slides into the seat across from me, startling me.

“They need about ten minutes to pack the cake,” he says.

“Great,” I mumble, too embarrassed to look at him.

“How’s your, erm…back?” he asks, clearly meaning my butt. And oh, he’s watching me again with that steady, unwavering gaze.

“Hurts,” I mutter, fiddling with a sugar packet. “A little.”

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