ROME
73 DAYS UNTIL I FAIL . . .
I am a terrible person.
I've had four weeks to reflect on my choices—and they really don't look good. I shouldn't have said yes to the job. Even as a lowly intern I could barely keep my shit together in Chef Davis's kitchen, so how in the hell am I going to run, let alone launch, my own restaurant?
Knowing this, I should call James and fess up.
Buuuuut . . .
There's a reason no one has ever accused me of being the moral Walker sibling. How could I decline when he dangled my dream job in front of my face?! A farm-to-table concept in my hometown where I wouldn't have to work under an explosively angry chef? Incredible produce right outside the kitchen door and completely at my disposal?
Opportunities like that almost never come along fresh off the graduation block. It's the perfect solution to my problems. The perfect excuse to bring me home with no one ever having to know it's because I actually failed in New York.
I have no choice but to make this job work, and so I am committed to putting every ounce of fake-it-till-I-make-it into my work from here on out. Because now, it's not just my pride on the line, it's Huxley Farm's reputation too.
"Madison!" a male voice calls from somewhere in the airport pickup lane, but there must be another Madison around because I don't spot James's F-250 pickup truck anywhere.
"Madison! Over here!" I spot the guy in a little BMW a few cars down the line. He's frantically waving at me from the open passenger's window and it takes me a few seconds to realize the guy with Gucci sunglasses pushed up into his floppy blond hair is Tommy, James's attractive, successful, metropolitan younger brother.
I guess James isn't picking me up after all. Sort of like how he hasn't emailed or called me since that night either.
We hung up, I got an email from Tommy two days later with an official job offer, and that was that. James never contacted me again. It was like our chat that night never happened.
I wish I knew why that bothers me so much.
Tommy, however, has emailed a few times about various odds and ends pertaining to the job. And now here he is, picking me up from the airport. Strange to think how long it's been since he and I have been face-to-face, as he rarely ever comes around Rome, Kentucky. He doesn't like our hometown, and our hometown doesn't like him.
Tommy is what most people would call . . . well . . . a douchebag. He's great at schmoozing, only wears designer clothes, sleeps around endlessly, and has the cutest dimple in his right cheek. Personally, I've never had a problem with him. In fact, I've had a crush on him from age thirteen until last year when my DNA rearranged itself.
Say what you will about Tommy, but the man is as successful as it gets. He was cocky enough to skip college altogether and go right into hospitality concept development in L.A. He started working with a friend of a friend's small upstart boutique hotel and then worked his ass off for years, climbing the ladder rung by rung. Now he has one of the most successful and well-known firms in L.A. Every project SaltHaus facilitates turns to gold. That he's developing James's restaurant is another reason I couldn't say no.
As I approach the car, Tommy does a double take of me through the window before jumping out to help hoist my luggage into the trunk. My entire life of the last two years fits inside two suitcases and a backpack.
"Madison Walker!" Tommy says in an enthusiastic tone after slamming the trunk shut and openly surveying me and my white T-shirt and cutoff Levis. His Rolex glints in the light, piercing my eyes and forcing me to squint.
He tilts his head. "There's no way to say this without sounding creepy, but I have definitely been picturing the wrong version of you while emailing back and forth."
"Hmm," I say, scrunching my nose and lightly tapping his forehead. "Then maybe that thought should have remained an inside thought."
He clicks the side of his mouth. "Yeah, I'm not very good at those. Bottom line, you've gotten superhot. How long has it been since we've seen each other?" His grin is crooked and adorably innocent even though I know this man is the furthest thing from innocent you can get.
"Somewhere right around eight years—since you came into town and I hit on you and you shot me down." Seeing the appreciative twinkle in his eye vindicates my younger self, who wanted nothing more than a chance to sleep with Tommy Huxley.
Thirty-year-old Madison, however, who has been out in the world and experienced guys like him more than once, is thankful that nothing ever happened between us. Not to mention this situation would have been a lot more complicated.
Tommy's nicely manicured eyebrows shoot up. "You came on to me? Not a chance. I would have remembered."
"I literally said, 'You know where to find me if you're lonely while you're back in town,' and you laughed and replied, 'Yeah, right.' "
He squints. "Not ringing a bell. But if the offer still stands . . . ?"
"Not a chance."
"Tommy, you're a damn fool," he says to himself with a shake of his head and a charming, self-deprecating smile. It's almost cute enough to have me going back on my word. But I don't, because like I said—too much at stake now and too many lessons learned.
"But in my defense . . ." Tommy says when we're both settled in the car. "The 'yeah, right' comment probably wasn't directed at you as much as it was thinking about Noah finding out I'd fooled around with one of his younger sisters. Or even worse, James finding out." He buckles his seatbelt and gives me one last Tommy Smirk before putting the car in drive and whipping out onto the road.
"First of all," I say, angling toward him as much as this tiny car will allow, "Noah is only loosely protective. He might express mild displeasure, but he mostly trusts my sisters' and my judgment. And second, you're giving James's protectiveness too much credit."
Tommy glances at me briefly. "I don't think you give it enough credit."
I groan. "I need to make him stand down on his surrogate brother role."
Tommy gives a sharp bark of laughter. "He does not act like your surrogate brother."
"You're right. More like a babysitter. Like an annoyed adult, saddled with looking after the hellion child." Which, I mean, isn't far from the truth. "But I'm a grown-ass woman and I can do whatever and whomever I wish."
He nods affirmatively. "I support this notion and am willing to offer up my body for your sexual empowerment."
I hum a throaty sound and smile over at him. "Eight years too late, buddy."
"Damn."
I face forward, eyeing the road. "Speaking of my babysitter, though, why didn't he pick me up?"
I had sent James a text earlier this week (our only communication since our phone call) and asked him if he'd get me from the airport so I could surprise my siblings at Hank's. It's the perfect plan since they think I'm coming back next week. James gave me a thumbs-up, so I assumed that meant he would. I'm trying not to focus on the little hum of disappointment I feel from being passed off to Tommy instead.
I just hoped . . .
Ugh. Never mind.
"He was going to, but when he was about to leave I told him I'd get you instead. I can't sit still in Rome for too long or else my soul slowly leaks out of my bones, you know?"
That used to be me too—all I wanted was to get out of there, but since I left, I've been dreaming of going home. But that feels too personal to tell Tommy, so I settle for "After going nonstop for the last two years, I'm actually looking forward to some mundane days."
"Give it a week," he says with a sideways grin that definitely would have made my heart race in the past. Weird how it's sitting dormant in there now. "Maybe you'll decide you don't want to work at the restaurant after all."
As we exit the airport and prepare for a long drive back to Rome, Tommy gets a work call that he takes on his AirPods. I stare out the window, watching as we speed past car after car, half of my brain consumed with why I'm so let down by Tommy showing up at the airport instead of James and the other half picking up on a reoccurring dinging sound coming from the car. It's got to be some kind of warning? Are his tires low? Do fancy new cars alert for that kind of thing? I'm pretty sure this is a rental, so I'd assume they keep up with maintenance on it.
When Tommy finishes his call, I finally ask him. "Hey, do you hear that? What's making that chiming sound?"
He frowns and removes his AirPods to get a better listen. He glances at his dashboard, then quickly over to me. "Shit, Madison. You don't have your seatbelt on?"
"Ohhhh, that's what it is!" I tug the belt around and click it into place. "Sorry, bad habit."
It doesn't help that my truck is so old it doesn't have one of those handy safety reminders. I can count on one hand the number of times I wore a seatbelt back in Rome. Then again, I barely needed to get above thirty-five miles per hour around there.
Tommy glances at me again, looking frazzled now. "Please don't tell James I let you go fifteen minutes in the car with me before you put it on."
"Oh my god, not this again," I groan, pressing my head back against the seat. "Your fear of him is unhealthy. You need to see a therapist."
"I'm serious," he says solemnly. "Don't tell him or I'll never hear the end of it."
"Fine. I definitely won't tell him—but mainly because why the hell would I? He doesn't care whether my seatbelt is on or not."
He grunts and stares at the road. "You're a beautiful, delusional little woman."
I fold my arms and stare at the side of Tommy's perfectly chiseled face. "That was offensive and sexist. I'm calling HR. Do we have HR?"
"Technically, that would be James." He playfully dangles his phone in front of me.
I give him a flat smile and push his hand away, not actually offended by what he said because I know Tommy. We have the kind of friendship history that allows this sort of playfulness. And truthfully, if this conversation had been taking place last year, I would have absolutely been flirting back. It's a little terrifying how much a year can change a person.
"So how long are you in town for?" I ask while leaning over to unzip my backpack and pull out Sammy's enclosure. He rode in my lap on the plane, but while I maneuvered through the airport I had him safely ensconced in my backpack with rolled-up towels surrounding the enclosure to keep it level.
Tommy sets his phone back on its magnetic holder. "Just long enough to—" He does a double take. "Is that a turtle?"
"Tortoise."
"Do I want to know why you have one?"
"Doubt it. You were saying? Just long enough to . . ."
He looks like he's still tempted to question my pet of choice but then lets it go. "To hammer down some last details for the restaurant with you and James, then I'll be out of here." A smile snakes across his mouth. "But I can be persuaded to stay a day longer if you change your mind and let me take you out?" His smile is the very picture of playboy promises. The kind of smile I used to hunt—back when I was content with hopping from experience to experience.
"Nope. But it's not personal, I just don't date co-workers." Not anymore.
Not since Caden, a classmate who ripped my self-esteem to shreds back in New York. I met him pretty early on in my culinary school days. He was charming and hot and available. Our free time was scarce but it lined up a lot, so we started hooking up shortly after meeting and it carried on for a solid year. We'd have sex, then order takeout and occasionally watch a movie or something. The epitome of casual. And that wasn't a problem . . . until it was.
Apparently I'm not someone he could take home to his parents. Someone he had no problems sleeping with, but actually spending time together in public? I guess that was a step too far.
He liked my body, but he didn't like me.
And that cut deep.
That entire last year of school I had to see him in class and pretend his words hadn't created a festering wound.
After what feels like an eternity in the car, we finally cross into Rome city limits. Tears prick my eyes as we drive through the town square, passing Mabel's inn and the Market and the Pie Shop. All the places I once couldn't wait to escape, now I consider leaping out of the moving car just so I can kiss their sidewalks. I'm home.
Technically, coming home means I failed, but no one here has to know it.
"Are you coming in?" I ask Tommy after we pull up in front of Hank's bar (the town's Friday-night hot spot) and realize Tommy hasn't turned off the car yet or made any moves to get out.
"Nah. You know how much this town likes me." Zero percent. "I'll take your bags with me back to the house. Want me to take your . . . turtle?"
"Sammy has attachment issues. I'll keep him with me."
"Right. Have fun." After I shut the door, he rolls down the passenger-side window and leans toward it. "Hey, Maddie."
I turn back.
"You know where to find me if you get lonely while I'm in town," he says with a wink, reciting my pickup line back at me.
I can't help it, I laugh. "Get out of here, asshole!"
His absurd little BMW kicks up a cloud of gravel as he tears out of the parking lot. I tuck Sammy under my arm and follow the faint buzz of the flickering neon sign hanging above the door.
Inside, Hank's is the same as it's always been—charmingly dingy. There's sticky, old cracked leather over the barstools. Christmas lights strung across the ceiling. Jukebox against the wall with outdated songs that no one ever seems tired of, and the lingering memory of cigarette smoke from days past ingrained in every inch of the place. I hunted and hunted for dive bars in New York that could replicate this vibe but always came up short. Because none of them had the people or the memories that make Hank's bar so special.
My eyes sweep across the room, noting that none of my siblings are here yet, then freeze on the man sitting at the bar. James Huxley. He's everything opposite of Tommy. He's rough farm hands and old T-shirts. Wranglers and dark brown hair. He's the bachelor everyone wants but no one can have. He's also thirty-four to my thirty, and that used to seem like a big deal—but not anymore.
There's a lot of things about James that used to seem wrong to me, but now . . .
Oh wow—nope. Can't finish that thought.
He's sitting by himself at the bar, watching a muted TV with his tan forearms resting against the counter. His favorite old Carhartt hat hides his eyes, and as I stand here watching him the strangest desire sweeps through me. I want to go wrap my arms around him.
I want to hug James.
Likely this is just a side effect of missing home so much though.
After forcing this weird urge into submission, I set my shoulders and meet him at the bar. As I stand behind him, the lingering smell of bygone cigarettes grows stronger and the Christmas lights strung overhead twinkle.
Silly that these are the things that make me feel warmer.
Before he sees me, I reach around his shoulder and snag his beer bottle. James is not someone who startles easily. He's solid. Steady. And that's why he only casually looks over his shoulder at me while I raise his beer to my mouth and take two big pulls before setting it back down.
"Hello, Jamesie. Miss me?" I say, ready to take part in our usual game of antagonization.
James's brown eyes connect with mine for the first time in months, and for some damn reason my stomach swoops, jump-starting my dormant heart.
The corner of his mouth curls. "You have no idea," he says, and I must not have detected any notes of sarcasm because of how loud the music is in here. And that smile he's giving me? It has to be a trick of the neon lights.