Rebound (Boomerang #2)(41)

We say our hellos, and I introduce him to Paul, who, to his credit, affects a look of only mild interest and gives Adam a curt handshake. Then he settles his arm along the back of my chair in a possessive manner that makes me smile.

Adam sees, and his own lips turn down a bit. “You two look like you’re having fun,” he says. “So I won’t keep you. I just wanted to stop by for a second and say hi.”

I take another long sip of my drink, grateful for its sedating effects. “I’m surprised to see you, actually.” I look over at his table and spot Brooks, who’s sitting next to a gorgeous brunette with a sleek asymmetrical bob. Beside her slouches a redhead, with one of those long, large-featured faces just made for film and a hostile look in her eyes.

Adam nods. “I know. I just wanted to make sure everything was . . . going okay.”

I’m brought back to my first Boomerang date—my disastrous reunion with Ethan. Now that all seems so far away—like something that happened years, rather than months, ago.

Paul’s arm moves to my shoulder, and he squeezes me close to him. He’s definitely earning that date with Philippe.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I promise she won’t end up in the trunk of my car.”

I’m mid-sip, and that makes me choke down the spiced liquid. It sears my throat, and the laughing makes me light-headed, makes the table float for just a moment. I do love this feeling of drifting in my own skin, warm and buoyant.

A waiter approaches, and I tap the rim of my glass, signaling for another. Then I drain the rest of my martini.

“That’s right,” I say. “I’m more of a strapped-to-the-roof kind of girl.”

Paul laughs like that’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard. But Adam’s lips sharpen into a thin line, and his posture stiffens.

“Maybe you should go a little easy, Alison.”

“I’m fine,” I tell him. And I’m better than fine. I think of Persephone, trotting along the beach, and the word “unfettered” comes to mind. “Maybe you should go back to your date. She looks like she wants to poke your eyes out with a swizzle stick.”

“She’ll be fine,” Adam says. “I’m not worried about Julia.”

“Well, maybe you should be,” I tell him. “Seriously, Adam, she looks like she’s about to have an aneurysm.” I drop my hand onto Paul’s knee, not because I’m trying to play at an attraction between us but because my mind keeps telling me to reach out and touch Adam, to at least brush my fingers across the soft sheen of his fitted sweater. “Anyway, we’re fine here, aren’t we?”

Brooks rises from the other table and heads across the patio toward us. He’s pulled back his hair into a sleek ponytail, but he still looks rugged and rough-edged, so different from Adam’s polish and grace.

He greets me with a big grin, shakes Paul’s hand and then claps Adam on the shoulder. “I’m heading to the can,” he proclaims. “You better get back to the table before there’s a meltdown.”

Adam’s jaw flexes minutely, but that’s the only indication he gives of his annoyance. “All right, man. Thanks.”

Brooks passes through the open doors into the restaurant, and Adam looks back down at me, his gray eyes light and dark at once. Warm and cold like the night. Like the way I feel.

Then he shifts his attention to Paul. “Put her in a taxi, all right?” It’s definitely not a question.

Paul nods. “I’ll make sure she gets home in one piece.”

Adam hesitates, like he wants to say more. And I wait, because I want him to say more, too, though I’m not sure what I want to hear.

“Okay, great,” he says. “Goodnight.”

I watch him return to the table and engage in some kind of whispered exchange with Julia, who gestures like she’s conducting an orchestra and spits what seems like a nonstop string of words at him. I’m glad I can’t hear them though I’m burning with curiosity, too.

“Someone is in trouble,” Paul sing-songs.

“Most definitely.”

The waiter delivers another round, and Paul and I clink glasses. Some far-off part of me weighs in with disapproval—both at the drinking and at the way I treated Adam. But it’s easy to shrink that part to the tiniest dot. Another sip makes it disappear completely.

Paul and I finish our meal, sharing plates of chicken enchiladas and lobster macaroni and cheese, which taste like absolute heaven to me now. We chat a little bit about our work, and Paul talks my ear off about his job as an environmental activist. His passion gives me a giddy feeling, it’s so infectious.

When it’s my turn, I find I can’t talk about my father’s investment company or Boomerang or Adam. So, instead, I talk about Suede, about finding just the right caretaker for her and about Persephone and our first successful ride along the beach.

“Oh my God,” Paul breathes. “I’m terrified of horses.”

“You shouldn’t be,” I tell him. “Next to an LA County Commissioner, a horse is a kitten.”

“True.”

Our conversation turns to Philippe, and of course I make him sound like the absolute best thing since Kate Spade clutches, which he is. I promise a date soon, in payment for this evening.

“No need to repay me,” he says, and leans in to give me a sweet kiss on the cheek. “I’ve had an awesome time.”