Dear Adam, page 1
Copyright © 2023 by Kelsey Whitney
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblence to real persons or events is purely coincidental.
Cover designed by Sam Palencia at Ink and Laurel Designs.
Edited by Amanda Chaperon.
PRAISE FOR DEAR ADAM
"Full of southern summer vibes and the sweetest love story, Dear Adam is a must-read rom-com!" -Amanda Chaperon, author of Every Rule Worth Breaking
"Rom-com and dog lovers rejoice, this gives sugary sweet spoonfuls of both that will satisfy any palate!" -Sydney Filkins
"Dear Adam has everything you could want in a romantic comedy: laugh out loud moments, a swoony setting, and a love story for the ages." -Juliana Smith, author of Per My Last Email
"Laugh-out-loud funny and achingly sweet, Dear Adam is utterly unputdownable!" -Madison Wright, author of Just Between Us
For Mom,
I love you more.
Contents
1. Chapter 1
2. Chapter 2
3. Chapter 3
4. Chapter 4
5. Chapter 5
6. Chapter 6
7. Chapter 7
8. Chapter 8
9. Chapter 9
10. Chapter 10
11. Chapter 11
12. Chapter 12
13. Chapter 13
14. Chapter 14
15. Chapter 15
16. Chapter 16
17. Chapter 17
18. Chapter 18
19. Chapter 19
20. Chapter 20
21. Chapter 21
22. Chapter 22
23. Chapter 23
24. Chapter 24
25. Chapter 25
26. Chapter 26
27. Chapter 27
28. Chapter 28
29. Chapter 29
30. Chapter 30
31. Chapter 31
32. Chapter 32
33. Chapter 33
33. Chapter 33
About Author
Chapter one
Aly
Taylor Swift’s Midnights album blares from my speakers as I drive past the iconic, pastel houses of Rainbow Row. The window boxes are packed with flowers of every variety, and Spanish moss drips from the trees lining the street. I follow the natural curve of the road and glance left toward the harbor, never getting tired of the way the sun glistens off the water or the way the whole city is basked in a golden hue during this hour before sunset.
I roll up to my parent’s house and type in the code. The wrought iron gates silently swing open as if on a breeze, revealing the long, ornately landscape-lined driveway and the breathtaking, historical colonial mansion beyond it. The crunch of cobblestones beneath my tires is an all too familiar sound as I shift into park beside Adam’s truck.
Immediately, the idyllic scene is interrupted by my engine backfiring, the loud pop still echoing as my dad comes running out the front door, brandishing a golf club.
“Hi, Dad,” I attempt weakly.
Dad looks around frantically before realizing it’s only me. “Alyson Jane, I swear if you don’t get a new vehicle—”
“Dad, what are you doing with your golf club?” my twin brother, Adam, asks, coming out the same door, saving me from whatever threat our father was about to make. Adam’s eyes dart between me, Dad, and the golf club, and he stifles a laugh behind his balled fist.
“I thought I heard shots, but it was just your sister's piece of junk,” Dad answers through pursed lips, staring at me disapprovingly. He pushes his hand through his hair, and there’s no mistaking the disappointment in his glare.
“Dad, it's a 1966 Ford Bronco. People pay a lot of money for these,” I say defensively.
“People pay a lot of money for them when they are restored, Alyson. Not when you buy them from an auction as is. That is anything but restored.”
Truthfully, when my flower shop was only a start-up and I was running it out of my apartment kitchen, this Bronco was the only thing I could afford. I found it on an online auction, saw the next to nothing starting bid, made sure the description said it ran, and typed in my bid with crossed fingers. Apparently, no one else wanted a rusty yellow Bronco with a single purple door, but Betsy and I have been through a lot together, and I’m not sure I’d trade her for anything else.
I hop out of the driver’s seat, and the hinges squeak as I slam the door shut. As if on cue, a little pile of rust dust catches in the breeze and floats to the ground. I barely hold back a cringe.
Adam gives me a quick hug, then pulls back to search my face. Staring at my twin is like looking in the mirror and seeing the male version of myself: the same sandy-brown hair, deep blue eyes the color of the Charleston harbor, and a golden tan that never seems to fade.
Nervously, he bites his lower lip, then whispers, “Mom and Dad invited Hudson.”
“What? Why didn’t you warn me?” My heart sinks, and I search around frantically for any sign of him.
“I tried, but you didn’t answer my call!”
I pull my phone from my crossbody and see that there is indeed a missed call from Adam.
“You must’ve called while I was working on my sink,” I groan.
“You know you could hire people for that,” Adam says.
I scoff. I could…if I could afford to.
My old, rusty, leaky faucet must’ve been original to my cottage, and I’d only recently got around to replacing it. Lucky for me, there’s a YouTube video for everything. Thanks to the bushy-mustache man behind MrFixIt64, I successfully installed a new faucet, accompanied by too much muttering, some head scratching, several wedgie adjustments, and a few curse words thrown in for good measure.
As if on cue, the gates swing open a second time, and a sleek black Jaguar pulls up next to my Bronco. Hudson casually gets out and points the fob in its direction, the car giving a little beep beep as he locks it. I struggle not to roll my eyes, but am unable to stifle a groan. We were in a gated driveway for heaven's sake.
It shouldn’t surprise me that my dad invited Hudson. To my parents, Hudson is the solution to all of their woes in regards to their children.
Honestly, I’ve never seen parents so disappointed about their kids being self-sufficient. Adam lives in a loft in the city, and while my house may be a fixer-upper I bought at a foreclosure auction, we both have steady jobs and are happy and healthy. But we’re both twenty-seven and single, which annoys our parents to no end.
At least Adam has a leg up on me, because he chose to work for the family business while I did not.
Adam hates working for our family’s boat and yacht service company, but he’s incredible at his job and lands deals with the biggest of clients. Recently, he sold a yacht to Taylor Swift, and I definitely did not ask Adam to include a line in the purchase agreement entitling me to BFF rights with her.
I had to shoot my shot, you know?
But apparently, Adam’s sales numbers are down this month, and I know my dad invited Hudson over to help get him back on track.
And then there’s me.
My parents would love it if I married Hudson, and take every opportunity to throw us together to make that happen.
Adam recently told me a story about how Hudson had gone to dinner downtown and had to send his meal back four times before they drizzled the sauce on it correctly.
“‘It’s a simple thing to do,’” Adam had imitated Hudson’s voice perfectly. “‘But they just couldn’t get it right. I guess that’s why they make minimum wage and I don’t.’ And then he winked at me, Aly. He winked.”
“That sounds about right,” I’d said with a snort.
The memory pulls another groan from me.
Hudson is nearly fifteen years older than I am and incredibly entitled with his old, southern family money, but he is undeniably attractive. He's got the perfect chiseled jaw and smooth skin, not a pore in sight. I’ve even questioned what products he uses because I would kill for skin like his.
Today, Hudson is wearing a button up with a little whale on the pocket, slacks, and loafers sans socks. I grew up in the south and have lived here all my life, but I still couldn’t get past the leather loafers without socks. In what world was it ever okay to do that? Especially in the south? It gets hot here. Now all I can think about is if his pinky toes are chafing and how bad his shoes must stink.
I look down at my own attire and run my hands along my wrinkled sundress I tie-dyed with my best friend, Emma, a few summers ago. I don’t own anything that lives up to Mom and Dad’s standards of pearls and shirts with collars, so I picked out the one clean thing from the mound of laundry piled in the corner of my bedroom I thought would suffice.
But that’s part of the problem. Hudson probably spends a good portion of his salary on skincare and nice suits. My entire paycheck goes to renovations on my cottage. Whatever is left goes into a little piggy bank. Like, a legitimate piggy bank. It’s pink, it oinks when you slide anything in it, and you have to bust it to get the money out. I’m not proud of it, but I was short on cash a few weeks ago and so desperate for an iced vanilla latte that I managed to turn the pig upside down and shake out a few quarters with the help of a nail file I shimmied up in there.
“Hey, boss man,” Hudson says, sticking out his hand for Dad to shake.
“Hudson!” Dad cries, pumping his hand enthusiastically. “I
“Didn’t you two just see each other Friday?” I mutter. I catch Adam’s eye and we both roll our eyes at the same time. I stifle a laugh but stop cold when Hudson slips an arm around my shoulders. Adam’s jaw flexes and he cocks an eyebrow. I wiggle out from underneath Hudson’s arm, and awkwardly shake his hand instead.
“Hello, beautiful,” he says, and tucks my hair behind both my ears. Like…all of my hair behind my ears. Not just a piece. My ears are completely exposed and that, my friends, is one of the worst feelings in the world. I shudder and quickly shake the strands loose.
Ever since the day Hudson walked into Dad’s office for a job and charmed him with his excessively useless knowledge of every pro golfer since the nineteen eighties, it’s been a constant battle between my parents, Adam, and me.
“Adam, if you paid a little more attention to Hudson, you might be able to make a few more sales. Really take note of the way he’s so personable with the clients.” Or, “Alyson, Hudson would make a fantastic husband. You’d never have to worry about money and you could get out of that nasty little cottage and live somewhere proper.” Or my personal favorite which we hear at least twenty times a week, “Hudson is just the best, isn’t he?”
Sorry, Mom and Dad, that we are such utter disappointments.
I don’t even know if it’s Hudson himself that turns me off so badly or the fact that we hear about him and his greatness nonstop. He might actually be a good guy and we’re just not giving him a chance. But, if I hear one more thing about how wonderful he is…I think we both might snap.
“Hi Hudson,” I say through a forced smile.
“Aly, let’s get Pretzel’s things switched over into your car while we’re out here.”
Pretzel is Adam’s one-year-old wiener dog. A couple days ago, Adam told me he was going out of town for work and asked me to watch her. I wasn’t keen on the idea, considering the last time I watched her, when she was only a few months old, she managed to find the bag of my new panties I had picked up at the seven for twenty seven sale and chewed the crotch out of every single pair. I found her with a pair draped casually over one ear, the other ear turned inside out.
Then she puked the panty pieces all over my shoe.
Even thinking about it now makes me shudder.
“How long do you need me to watch her?” I asked Adam.
“Ten days or so,” Adam had coughed out.
“Ten days?” I’d screeched. Money signs had blurred my vision as I thought about all the new underwear I’d have to replace. “Where are you going?”
“I have a client that wants to wine and dine me before I sell him a boat,” Adam had joked. “He’s in Santa Monica, and I figured while I was there, I could see Levi for a few days.”
“I guess I can watch her,” I’d conceded. “But remind me to make sure all my underwear are somewhere safe. Pretzel has a real taste for bikini cut.”
In the background, Pretzel had yipped, almost as if she was agreeing with me. Weirdo.
We’d agreed to trade off today, since Adam was leaving in the morning.
Adam heads toward his truck and I practically skip behind him, happy for any chance to get away from the awkward situation from moments before. I channel all the twin vibes I can possibly muster to send him a silent thank you.
“Where is Pretzel anyway?” I ask, and then I hear the unmistakable sound of dishes clattering to the floor from inside the house.
“Pretzel!” Mom’s angry voice floats out to us. For a split second, I feel sorry for Pretzel. I’ve been on the receiving end of one of mom’s scolding too many times to count, and they are anything but pleasant. But then I remember the underwear incident and don’t feel as bad.
Mom’s yell rings out again, and I look around to see who’s going to get eyes on the situation inside. Adam is wrestling with my rusty tailgate, muttering something unintelligible under his breath, and Dad and Hudson are practically making googly eyes at each other, talking about their most recent yacht sale, leaving only me to heroically dash inside to try and save Pretzel.
In a hurry, I kick off my white sneakers by the front door, then listen for any more signs of Pretzel wreaking havoc. Another dish clatters to the floor, and my mismatched socks slide on the shiny hardwoods as I dash around the corner into the dining room to find the natural disaster herself, Pretzel, destroying everything in her wake. She’s standing on top of the dining room table, frayed rope dangling from her collar, her face completely submerged into a bowl of buttery mashed potatoes. Fine china is scattered around like hurricane debris, because my parents think it’s a sin to eat off paper plates. Each dish that’s managed to stay on the table has at least one bite taken out of it, leaving nothing salvageable. I hear something gurgling, and tilt my head in confusion when I realize it’s coming from Pretzel, who is blowing bubbles into the gravy bowl with her nose.
And this is why I’m apprehensive to watch Pretzel. I own a flower shop, and I’m terrified of the trouble she could get into during the long hours each day I’m gone.
I’d asked Adam if she’d matured enough to be left alone, and he said yes, but I knew he was lying.
Turns out, based on the scene in front of me, I knew I was right.
“Get that rat off the dining room table,” my mom snarls, pointing a perfectly manicured nail toward Pretzel.
Adam catches up beside me and we both stare at each other in horror. My mom wails, literally wails, when Pretzel scoots the bowl of green beans off the edge of the table with her nose, and pretends to faint with the back of her hand pressed against her forehead. My dad lets her gracelessly slide to the floor instead of catching her and instead chases Pretzel with the golf club he’s still holding.
They’re having a stare down now. Pretzel has bits of mashed potatoes in the fur around her face, a piece of ham stuck to the side of her snout, and gravy dripping from her nose. Dad has the golf club in his hand, thwacking it into his palm. I feel like I’m watching Monday night football with the scene that unfolds. Pretzel jukes left, Dad jukes left. Pretzel shifts right, Dad does too. This goes on for a solid minute before I realize a five pound dog is faking out my dad, and Adam and I fall over, laughing.
Incredulously, Dad turns to look at us and Pretzel makes her move. She soars off the dining room table…and lands straight on Hudson’s face, who has been staring silently, mouth agape at the whole ordeal. Hudson blindly runs around the dining room, waving his hands in the air, Pretzel holding on for dear life, before running into the wall. He lands with a grunt, and Pretzel hops off, happily trotting down the hallway.
“I should probably go get my dog,” Adam mutters at the same time a choked sob escapes from our mother.
The silence is so thick you could cut it with a blade as we sit around the kitchen table, Italian takeout containers spread in front of us. Dad is holding his plastic silverware with disdain, ineffectively cutting at a piece of chicken parmesan. Mom’s lips are so pursed, they’ve begun to turn white. We’re effectively avoiding eye contact with one another, the scrapes of plastic forks and knives against the plates replacing any kind of conversation. In the dining room down the hall, housekeepers, armed with trash bags and vacuums, are making quick work of the disaster Pretzel created.
Finally, unable to stand the silence any longer, Dad clears his throat and says, “Hudson, I don’t even know how to properly apologize. Had we any idea that dog was such an untrained rodent, we never would’ve allowed Adam to bring her.” He practically spits out the words untrained rodent, and I do my best not to giggle. She’s a five pound wiener dog for heaven’s sake.
A strangled whine comes from the floor below, and I feel a little sorry for Pretzel, who is locked in the downstairs laundry room like a prisoner with no chance of getting out on bail.
“Did you apologize, Adam?” Dad asks. “Maybe Hudson can teach you a thing or two about tying a proper knot in a rope too.” He stares at Adam, disappointment laced with embarrassment etched into every crevice of his face. It feels like we are in high school all over again.
Adam clears his throat. “Yeah sorry about that, Hudson. Pretzel is always a little hyper but has never done anything like that.” The corner of his mouth twitches, and my twin senses tell me he’s secretly pleased with the events of this evening.
