Rebound (Boomerang #2)(18)

For some reason, he’s avoiding the issue, like he’s avoided filling in the profile. And like he’s been avoiding a direct look into my eyes. Why?

Something tells me now’s not the time to probe, so I launch into the Boomerang questions. The profile already tells me he was raised in Newport, Rhode Island, to entrepreneurial parents, that he loves to surf, and that he’s got one brother, Grey.

I scan through the questions until I find a juicy one, and then I take the plunge. “How many sexual partners have you had?”

Again, he gives me that amazing half-smile, and his eyes light with amusement. “Today, you mean?”

“Funny. But I think it means lifetime record.”

He shrugs. “Pass.”

“Pass?”

“Yes, let’s go to the next question.”

“Because it’s so many, or because you don’t kiss and tell?”

He grins. “Yes.”

He answers the questions about his favorite book—a tie between Good to Great and all the books in The Belgariad series. Then I learn that he loves The White Stripes, French cuisine, and, of course, surfing. The most exotic place he’s traveled is Tangier, and his favorite time of year is winter.

“I would have thought summer for the surfing,” I say.

“I like to ski, too.”

I nod. These bits and pieces are interesting, but they’re leaving me hungry for more.

“Speed round,” I tell him, thinking maybe I can dazzle him into giving me something substantive.

“Fire away.”

“Frugal or spendy?”

He smiles. “Neither.”

“Lefty or right-handed.” I can’t believe I haven’t noticed. But then he seemed to have very proficient use of both hands during our last encounter.

“Southpaw, all the way.”

“Chocolate or vanilla.”

“Mint.”

I smile. “Me too.” I scroll through the questions, looking for something with a bit more depth. Finally, I find something. “‘Heaven is for real,’ or ‘that’s all, folks?’”

His expression clouds. “No clue.”

“Come on; what do you think? You must have some opinion, even if it’s a third option.”

“Why don’t we save the rest of this for another time,” he says, in a brittle tone. “I want to take you by the new Blackwood Entertainment complex. I think you’re going to be impressed.”

I miss the Adam who talked about the noise in his head, the way that surfing brought him peace. I want to talk to that person again, the one I couldn’t help putting my arms around. Not this one, with the canned responses that aren’t responses at all.

I save Adam’s profile, still mostly empty, turn off my iPad, and slide it into my purse. “Okay,” I tell him. “Blackwood Entertainment. Let’s go.”

We enjoy a half hour of prickly silence as he drives us to an office compound a little north of downtown. Construction vehicles line the gravel drive, and a couple of men in hard hats sit on the gate of a pickup truck, eating sandwiches.

“Hey, big man,” one of them calls.

Adam gets out of the car and comes around to my side to help me out of the low passenger seat. I take his hand, and there’s that warmth, that tingle. Not fireworks, like the other night. But a spark, at least, which comforts me after the chill of our exchange at the restaurant.

He holds onto me, directing me around a swirling eddy of dust, cigarette butts, and fast-food wrappers. And even though we’re awkward together now, I’d gladly step into a puddle of quicksand to keep his hand in mine just a bit longer. A completely unproductive thought, I know, but a girl’s allowed the contents of her own mind, isn’t she?

“This place could use a clean-up,” he tells the men, and there’s something perfect in the way he says it. Confident. Assured of results. But respectful too. I don’t know any other twenty-three-year-old with that kind of ease and authority. Sure, I can fake it—sometimes—but it seems like he sprang from the womb with a briefcase and a business plan.

“We’re on it,” the man says.

“Appreciate it,” Adam replies, and gives a brief nod in my direction. “I’ve got a VIP with me today. Need to impress.”

Fishing a couple of hard hats out of the bed of the truck, Adam hands one to me and says, “Come on. I want to give you the tour.”

Sunlight glints on the tempered glass window as we approach the building—which is vast and made of two cubelike buildings joined by a short open breezeway. In the foreground stretches a long courtyard, with benches and a small reflecting pool in the middle. Grass stirs in the breeze, and the scent of smoke blows in from the city.

“Is this all yours?” I ask, following him along a path to a set of glass double doors.

“We’re on a five-year lease,” Adam says. “But I’m hoping to buy outright at that point. I think we’ll easily make use of this space. Wait until you see what we have planned.”

He picks up his pace, and I have to dash along behind him. It’s clear he’s not being rude. He’s excited, and that excitement is propelling him toward his imagined future. A future that my father and I can help make happen for him.

Reaching the door, he turns and waits for me to catch up. He doesn’t look at me exactly, and I find myself wanting to take his face in my hands to look right into his gray eyes, which look light in the sunshine, like the color of water rushing over rocks.