Page 18 of Redamancy (Fated Fixation #2)

Chapter fourteen

If people came with warning labels, I’m almost positive Adrian’s would read, among other things: dangerously addictive. Proceed with caution.

And that’s exactly what I’m doing—exercising caution.

Hanging out with Adrian in person, no matter how tedious the domestic errand or how many financial incentives are attached, is too risky.

Too unpredictable.

I can’t trust myself—let alone him—when he’s standing right in front of me.

But texting…

Well, that’s cautious, isn’t it?

There’s distance. No room for spur-of-the-moment impulsivity. No chance of my facial expressions or tone betraying something I don’t want betrayed.

It’s an easy boundary to maintain between Adrian’s never-ending hours at the hospital, and my…well, everything currently.

So, we text.

All the time.

When he’s not cracking open someone’s chest under sterile LED lights, he’s messaging me. Telling me about his day. His coworkers. Occasionally threatening their lives.

That last one would be more endearing if I could be certain that he was actually kidding about it.

Mostly, it’s easy enough to steer our conversations toward lighter, more surface-level topics while avoiding questions like: Have you murdered anyone in the past ten years? How about blackmail?

Sometimes though, Adrian will push.

Tell me the worst thing you’ve done this week.

Why???

Fine, I’ll start.

The night shift ER doctor is completely incompetent. And rude, though I find that less insulting.

So, I’m going to steal his phone this evening and “accidentally” let his wife know he’s been cheating on her with one of the ED travel nurses.

You know, usually people end up in a church when they want to confess their sins…

Only if they’re looking for absolution.

And what are you looking for?

Something in my lower belly stirs when I read his answer.

Whatever you’ll give me.

My reply takes longer than it should, and I hope to God he’s not watching the three-dot typing indicator pop in and out.

Well, I don’t think you need absolution , anyway . He’s the one who’s cheating.

I never said he was actually cheating. But if he’s half as incompetent at home as he is at work, I’ll be doing his wife a favor , anyway .

The fact that Adrian is shamelessly admitting his plan to implode an innocent man’s life should horrify me. It should set off every warning siren in my head.

It shouldn’t make the dark, twisted parts of my soul flicker to life—but it does.

Your turn.

And I should definitely not follow his example.

I sorta freaked out on this asshole at my favorite coffee shop earlier this week. He made the barista remake his drink at least three times and kept berating her for the most minuscule mistakes AND held the line up.

I was just going to steal his wallet or something, but his date showed up five minutes later so I stormed up to their table and started screaming about him abandoning our “love child” and gambling all my money away.

You truly did that?

I swallow.

Shit.

Was that too much?

I’m already halfway through a Just kidding! I made that up text when Adrian’s response comes through.

You really are a vengeful little thing.

That stirring in my lower belly becomes an undeniable surge—but then my phone dings again.

I love it.

For all my attempts to tread lightly and draw my boundaries like lines in the sand, he’s just stomped over every single one.

And I am fucked.

***

It turns out internal pep-talks are not my strong suit.

Although I’ve spent the past twenty minutes freezing my ass off in Fort Greene, trying to convince myself this isn’t a mistake, there’s just as much dread coiling in my stomach.

I could be at home right now, snuggled up with Toby next to a space heater.

I could be scrolling apartment listings on StreetEasy and Craigslist for the thousandth time.

I could be—

“Poppy!” The reason I can no longer feel my fingers, toes, and nose rounds the corner, his eyes lighting up when he spots me.

“I’m so sorry I’m late. Got caught up with a bunch of paperwork for—well, I won’t bore you with the details—but you haven’t been waiting long, right?

” Tom pulls me in for a hug, but since we’re both bundled up in scarves and coats, it feels like I’m embracing a marshmallow more than a man.

“No. Not at all,” I lie.

I definitely wasn’t googling symptoms of hypothermia before you got here.

He shoots me an apologetic smile. “Well, besides leaving you out in the cold, I’d also like to apologize for this —” He glances towards the brick building that we’re standing in front of. “I’m sure it’s not what you had in mind for a first date.”

I shrug, but it’s a little forced. “Maybe not, I’m excited—”

Lie.

“—I’m sure it’ll be a great time—”

Hopeful lie.

“— I love socializing with new people.”

Blatant lie.

“Okay, perfect,” he says, relief coloring his tone. “It’s just…Janie and Harrison are some of my closest friends, and I’ve been promising I’d stop by and see their new place for ages.” His eyes shift back to the building. “They give me enough hell when I blow them off for work, let alone a date.”

“I’m up for anything,” I tell him, even though, as far as first date ideas go, a dinner party with complete strangers falls just above standing in line at the DMV.

“Awesome,” he smiles, oblivious to my discontent, and his eyes flick toward the brown paper bag lying at my feet. “Oh, is that the pie?”

“Yep.” I lean down and carefully arrange the hefty dessert in my hands. “Hudson Valley Apple from Petee’s. ”

“Perfect,” he says as we trudge up the stone steps of the stoop, and he presses one of the numbered buttons on the call box. “I hope it wasn’t a hassle to pick it up. I would’ve grabbed one myself—it’s Janie’s favorite—but I’ve been logging a lot of early mornings and late nights at work.”

“Right. I imagine that’s really hard. Dealing with…” I blink.

Shit.

What does he do again?

It’s something with kids; I know that.

I hesitate a beat too long, and Tom offers me a patient smile. “Tutoring disadvantaged children for my friend’s non-profit,” he reminds me. “It’s alright. It’s been at least a month since we met, and what? Two canceled dates because we’re both so busy?”

Two dates that I’ve canceled , you mean.

But Tom is polite enough to make our failed attempts at a first date seem like a joint venture, and not what they really are: me, losing my nerve and canceling at the last minute.

“And here we are now,” he continues, smile widening. “Finally making it work.”

‘Making it work’, I think. I’m not sure there’s a more apt way to describe my love life right now.

The door opens before I can respond, and an olive-skinned woman pokes her head out.

“Tom!” She’s tall—taller than me, taller than Tom even—with big, round green eyes and sleek, dark hair pulled into a low ponytail.

“You made it!” She raises one dark, thick eyebrow at him, and I hear the rounded edge of an Italian accent in her words. “And you’re late.”

Tom holds his hands up in surrender. “Totally my fault. Sorry, Janie.” He gestures at the pie in my hands. “But I brought you pie to make up for it.”

Her eyes light up. “From Petee’s?”

“You know it.”

“I suppose you’re forgiven.” Her gaze trails over to me, lingering with appraisal. “And you must be Poppy.” Her tone is missing the familiar warmth she had when addressing Tom. “It’s nice to meet you. Come in, both of you—it’s fucking freezing out here, isn’t it?”

We clamber into the brightly lit, narrow hall of her townhome, and she takes the pie from my hands while we hang our coats on the rack in the corner.

Tom is still in his work clothes, but looking at Janie’s band t-shirt and cuffed jeans, I feel mildly overdressed for the evening—an observation she doesn’t waste any time pointing out.

“Tom,” she calls out. “What did I tell you about bringing home another fashionista?” She giggles like it’s a playful barb, but it comes out a little too sharp for comfort.

I raise my eyebrows. “Fashionista?”

“She’s making fun of me, not you,” Tom hurriedly interjects, and shoots an eye-roll in Janie’s direction. “Because every girl I date is a hundred times more fashionable than I am.”

“He swears he’s this humble Midwestern farm boy,” Janie adds. “But every girl he brings around is always wearing Chanel and Loro Piana and YSL .” Her eyes drift down to my maroon turtleneck. “Like you.”

Tom laughs the comment off with a shake of his head, but I don’t miss the gleam in Janie’s eyes.

Someone has definitely decided they don’t like me.

“Well, I’m not sure a turtleneck, tights, and skirt makes me a fashionista,” I use the same slightly mocking tone she does. “And it’s thrifted Anthropologie—not Chanel.”

“See?” Tom scolds Janie. “I told you Poppy isn’t like that. She’s not interested in all that materialistic stuff—she’s an artist. She only cares about her craft.”

Well, I never said that.

I’d be a hell of a lot more interested if I had the money to afford designer clothes right now.

That extra five grand from Adrian is a nice cushion—and more money than my savings account has seen in a while — but I’m going to need just about every penny for moving.

“Alright, alright. I take it back,” She rolls her eyes, but her tone suggests she does not take it back. “Harrison should be plating dinner right about now, so I hope you two are hungry.”

“Starving,” Tom says, and I nod in agreement.

Between apartment tours and discussing art placement with one of Ocean’s assistants at the gallery today, my stomach is empty, minus the chalk-flavored protein bar I choked down on the subway ride over.

“Great,” Janie claps her hands together. “You can sit next to me, Poppy. I want to know everything about you.”

I internally groan.

I didn’t have ‘hostile female friend’ on tonight’s bingo card, but that’s fine. This is fine. Totally fine.

It’s one date.

I can handle a couple of hours of this, right?

***