Dear Adam

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 F or 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.