Page 48 of Ticket to You

I look up from my watch and something, maybe our proximity or maybe the look on my face, makes Adam stiffen. He gives me one last shoulder squeeze before standing.

“Come on. Let’s take a photo of the birthday girl.”

Adam directs me under the YAY sign and brochure bunting, handing me my cake. I smile cheesily for the camera, ignoring my inevitable mess of a hairdo. After taking a photo with his camera, Adam takes another on his phone. Then, he takes another with me holding up my three Switzerland-themed presents. And finally, we take a selfie in our wrinkled pajamas and dark eye bags. He seems to have had as restless sleep as I did. I wonder if he too was secretly up for hours, wrestling with growing feelings and their implications.

Now, it’s no longer a hate for Adam that keeps me from him. Instead, it’s Gemma’s words that have been playing on repeat in my mind since last night.If you fell for each other on this trip, Hoffman’s would be furious. Using company funds to go on a trip with someone you’re romantically involved with…they’d hold you accountable.I know this is something I’ll have to remind myself over and over again today.

After I devour my breakfast, split the cake with Adam, and send off my latest notes and best pictures to Jane Sommerland’s assistant, we prepare for the drive to Austria. Out of habit, I check Instagram before we leave. I freeze, struck by the first photo in my feed. Adam posted the photo of me in my pajamas. In it, my hair is wild, I have leftover mascara smudged under my eyes, and the butterfly bandage is still across my cheek. But I also look happy,reallyhappy. Under the photo he wrote,Sorry they don’t have Party City in Switzerland.

* * *

When it’smy turn to drive, I turn the music low and ask Adam anything I can to keep him talking. What is it like filming a documentary? What are the origins of ice climbing? How can the outdoor community become more inclusive? They’re not questions I’ve wondered before, but I’m suddenly intrigued by Adam’s world. Admittedly, I’m also intrigued by where I would hypothetically fit into it.

Lush groupings of trees blanket the rolling green hills, greeting us as we drive into Salzburg. Red-roofed cottages dot the valley.

Today I'm at a wedding reception for an Austrian socialite and a member of the British royal family, though he’s deep in the succession line. While someone closer to the throne would never allow a publication to cover their reception, the bride has been featured inAtelier Todayin the past. Her publicist was eager to make that happen again. She sent me a hotel confirmation, and the address brings us to a building that looks precisely what I would imagine a socialite would pick as the designated hotel for her guests.

The hotel sits on the edge of the river that runs through the city. Elegance exudes from the neat flower boxes on the ground-floor windows to the flags on the roof fluttering in the wind, looking more like a castle than a hotel. I expect a snide remark about the over-the-top building, but Adam is silent. I peek over to see him with his eyebrows furrowed and his fingers flying across his phone screen.

Only after the bellboy takes our bags and the valet takes our keys does Adam look up from his phone, his neck craning to see the top of the tall, impossibly white building.

“How much did this stay cost Hoffman’s?” His voice is back to Old Adam—flat and cold.

“Not a dime. The bride and groom paid for it. But I bet it cost them about half my monthly rent for our one night here.”

Adam follows me silently through the hallways with his nose in his phone. He doesn’t seem to notice the intricately patterned marble floors, the Victorian-era furnishings, or the floral arrangements that defy gravity. Or, if he does, he’s too preoccupied to comment on any of it.

Adam and I may have hundreds of thousands of Instagram followers, one Oscar nomination, and two notable careers between us, but because most of the other guests here have titles like Princess, Duke, and Duchess, the larger suites are reserved for them. Our room is relatively small, but what it lacks in size, it makes up for in just about everything else. There’s finely textured wallpaper, original artwork, and hardwood floors that date back to the 1800s. Again, Adam is oblivious.

I nearly ask him what’s demanding his attention, but, already pressed for time, I start prepping for the reception. I do my usual skincare routine and give my hair a blowout before pinning it into an updo. The invitation specified a black-tie dress code, so after I double-check that the camera batteries are charged and the memory cards are empty, I step into the gownAteliersent for me to wear. It’s a rich aubergine color and has a full A-line skirt, crystal embellishments, and a square neckline. Hopefully, it will be eye-catching enough to distract from my rock climbing scrapes, which I tried in vain to cover with makeup.

I walk out of the bathroom to find Adam still glued to his phone. He’s wearing the suitAtelierpicked for him. It’s burgundy, to compliment my dress, with a monochrome floral design subtle enough that you can’t see it until you’re within a few feet of him. He smoothed his usually disheveled hair back away from his face, though it still retains a hint of his irresistibly wind-blown look. I thought he was hot—annoyingly so—at the holiday soiree, but now he’s setting a new bar for himself. And this time, I’m not mad about it.

To top it all off, Adam has to fight a smile when he sees me, eyeing me from my head to my heels when he finally peels his eyes away from his phone.

“Ready, Birthday Girl? There are cars outside that are shuttling guests to Mirabell Palace for the reception.”

“Why don’t we walk?” I ask, trying to act natural.

Adam takes the gear bag from me and slings it over his shoulder. “Lead the way.”

The route to the reception takes us by the river that runs through the center of the city. To our side, the water below us glistens, the evening sun turning its surface into a sheet of diamonds. The adjoined pastel buildings around us are so cute, I can’t help but smile at each one we pass. Is this scene what Gemma imagines when she thinks of romance? It truly feels like a fairytale.

The sound of Adam’s vibrating phone is the Big Bad Wolf, and it goes off for the third time since we left the hotel. We both flinch in response. Adam huffs, grabbing it from his pocket in a white-knuckled fist. He silences it without looking at the screen.

“Abrams?”

“Hm?” Adam’s face is stone set.

“Can I ask what’s stolen your attention all afternoon?”

“It’s not your day to ask a question.”

Fine. I pick up the pace, willing the palace to meet me halfway.

Adam groans, jogging a few steps to catch up until he’s close enough to grab my elbow gently, slowing me. Heat webs out under his fingers. “It’s my mom.”

Suddenly I’m walking in a minefield. “Oh” is all I say at first, not wanting to risk anything by digging too deep. When Adam seems fine with that comment, I push on. “Is there a reason she’s been texting, and now calling, you nonstop?”

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