I never saw it coming—falling in love with Madison.
One moment she was Maddie, Noah's annoying little sister who was always around, always causing chaos, and always in the way. And then on a random Monday in her early twenties, she suddenly didn't seem like his little sister anymore.
I first noticed it when she asked to use my pressure washer to clean the mud off her truck tires. She was wearing a baggy black T-shirt, jean shorts, and flip-flops. When she heard me approach behind her, she looked over her shoulder and smiled at me. And that's the first time I remember thinking, Holy shit, Madison is beautiful. It slammed into my chest, and I've been beaten up by it ever since.
I filed it away as only an attraction for a few years. But that didn't last. It grew and morphed into something significant. Something I'm worried might ruin everything. Something I haven't even been able to get rid of by dating other women.
I've never acted on these feelings because, with our lives and families so intertwined, you can't just blurt out something like that without a plan. Without knowing you're gonna make it for the long haul. And Madison has never given me any reason to think I should tell her.
Except . . . for that phone call.
The call where we talked like two adults and not like James and Maddie who grew up together. And then I made a decision that officially ruined even the slightest chance I'd ever have at being with Madison. I asked her to work for me—to be the executive chef of my restaurant.
My restaurant that didn't exist before that phone call.
The second I hung up, I dialed my brother Tommy and it went something like this:
"Let me get this straight, you want me to help you develop a restaurant—the very thing I told you to do when you called asking for money to repair that damn tractor again—and instead of taking me up on it you said 'over my dead body'?"
"Pretty much, yeah."
Because here's the thing. Initially, when I finally faced the music that the farm was in a steep financial decline, I wanted to try everything I could to revive it in the same way my dad would have. With extra-sticky Band-Aids and good old-fashioned muscle. Something that wouldn't involve tourists traipsing around my crops day in and day out. Something that would make my dad proud he'd handed the business over to me. But like it or not, times are different now. Band-Aids won't work this time; I have to modernize. And modernizing costs a shit-ton of money.
Tommy suggested a few solutions: open a restaurant to bring in more income; take a contract with a major food supplier. The first option I was adamantly against because that would require real time and effort from Tommy, something I've never seen him give to this farm. There's no way I could handle launching the restaurant on my own if he decided he was bored and didn't want to help anymore. And the second option was even more disgusting because it went against everything I believe in as a local farmer.
The only reason I agreed to open the restaurant with Tommy is because Madison dialed me by accident . . .
"And now," Tommy continued, horrified, "you not only want me to develop the restaurant and find financial backers for it out of the goodness of my heart, but you want me to do it in six months?"
"Three and a half, actually."
His laugh was so loud I had to pull my phone away from my ear, which did nothing to help the chafed pride I'd had to swallow to make the call in the first place.
"No. Even if I wanted to make that happen, I wouldn't be able to build something from the ground up that fast."
"It's not from the ground up. I want to renovate Granny's old greenhouse for it."
"That's . . . that's . . . well, that's actually a great idea and very compelling. Not to mention less red tape since it's already an existing structure . . . but—no! Doesn't matter! That's an immense amount of work." I could hear his intrigue tugging against him. Tommy has never been able to resist a good concept.
"If anyone's up to the challenge, it's you. You're the best in the business."
Again he laughed, knowing me too well. "You're a piece of shit, you know that? I haven't talked to you in a year and now you call and blow smoke up my ass because you want something?"
"Is it working?"
"I mean, yeah, a little . . ."
"Great. Listen, I'm aware we're not best friends, but if you could help me make this happen, I'd really appreciate it. Also, I sort of already promised someone else that it would be happening."
I could sense his gloating before I even heard it. "Oh, this is good. You reallllly need me to do this. I'll consider it if you grovel."
"Hell no. Just say yes or no and be done with it."
"Tell me I'm actually the better Huxley son and I'll do it. And that I'm better looking. And smarter."
I rolled my eyes, barely able to hold back a groan. "Sure. Yes. You are better than me."
"And?"
I gritted my teeth. "Better looking."
"And?"
". . . smarter."
He was silent.
"Tommy?"
"Yeah, sorry, I just . . . I can't find my damn tape recorder."
"Okay, we're done here. Email me what I need to do to get this ball rolling."
During our later emails, he told me he'd found the perfect investor, willing to put up a staggering amount of money for a very reasonable percentage of the restaurant; and in return I told him I had reached out to Madison and she had agreed to be the chef. Luckily, he didn't seem to put two and two together. In fact, no one has. Everyone I've told seems to be completely oblivious that I'm creating an entire fucking restaurant because the woman I'm unfortunately in love with said she wanted to come home but didn't have a way. I made one for her. And even though it might be the worst financial decision of my life, I can't bring myself to regret it.
Now, Madison slaps the bill of my hat down before taking the stool beside me. "I heard a rumor that the president of the United States told you to get rid of this hat."
"Nah, it was only some fancy New York chef with an over-inflated ego."
Her expression challenges me to a duel before she steals my beer again. "She sounds awesome. I bet she has great legs."
I take my drink back—eyes accidentally dropping to said legs, clad only in some very short cutoff denim shorts—but then my gaze snags on the thing sitting in her lap. "You brought your turtle into the bar?"
"Tortoise, James. Tortoise!" she corrects. "Turtles have webbed feet. Tortoises, like Sammy, have the cutest stumpy little legs."
"Okay . . . so you brought your tortoise into a bar?"
"Would you have rather it have been a baby?"
"Does it have to be one or the other?"
She settles onto her barstool with a grin and places the small enclosure on the bar between us. When she pats the top, Sammy retreats inside his shell—adorned with a bright pink Band-Aid across the remains of a small crack.
I can clearly picture Madison strolling through Central Park, finding this turtle—excuse me, tortoise—with a beat-up shell and left for dead, then canceling all her plans so she could spend the day rehabbing it. Or no, who am I kidding? She didn't cancel her day, she just didn't show up for any of her appointments. Probably forgot all about them in that moment and then later, while sitting in the vet's office, said something out of the blue like, Shit! I didn't get the bay leaves! And gave zero explanation after that.
"Well, look who's back!" A sunny voice chimes in from just beyond Madison's shoulder. It's Jeanine, all freckles and red hair and that sunny sweet tone she always has. Her purse is slung over her shoulder like she's just arriving.
Madison's face lights up. "Jeanine! Hi!"
They exchange a quick hug over Madison's barstool.
"Didn't know you were back already," Jeanine says warmly. Her gaze flicks to me for half a beat—something unreadable behind it—but then she's smiling again. "Good to see you both."
"You too!" Madison says, clearly delighted to have been spotted.
Jeanine offers a little wave and glides off.
Madison turns back to me and I relax, thankful Jeanine didn't announce we dated and broke up while Madison was away. I'm not ready to fill her in on that yet. Or the fact that she was part of the reason it ended.
"Did you get in okay?" I ask, trying not to stare at her in wonder that she's actually here. Back in Rome. Sitting beside me.
Her hair is even shorter than the last time she was home. It rests right above her shoulders now and is tucked behind her ears, lightly flipping up on the ends. It suits her personality perfectly.
"I did." She pauses. "Tommy was sweet."
I let out an unintentional grunt. Because yeah, I'll bet he was sweet. That's part of why he and I have never gotten along. I wouldn't say I'm old-fashioned, but I struggle with the way he treats women. Like they're disposable. It's one after another wherever he goes. Miraculously, he's never seemed into Madison. But he also hasn't seen her in a very long time. I'm willing to bet all my money that his tune has changed about her now.
"How long did it take him to try to get into your pants?" When I notice that I'm about to Hulk-crush my glass beer bottle, I force myself to release it.
"About two minutes," she says while casually stealing my drink again. "So we banged one out real quick in the parking lot." Before I can stop myself, my gaze is swinging to Madison—who is grinning wildly against the mouth of the bottle. "You thought I was serious! Oh my god, I don't know whether I should be upset or flattered."
Madison has never tried to keep her love life under wraps. And the only reason I've ever been upset when hearing about her going out with another guy is because I don't get to be the guy. And I think I'm finally coming to terms with the fact that I never will.
"Whoa. Put the shovel down, James. Nothing is happening between me and Tommy and nothing will happen either. Happy?"
"Shovel?"
Of course she doesn't clarify. She takes a peanut from the little tin bar-top bucket and cracks it open, popping it into her mouth. "I'm back in town as a chef first and foremost, and I am determined to treat this position with the utmost professionalism." She cracks another. "Even though it's uncharacteristically moral of me, I have a firm rule of not sleeping with colleagues."
And there it is.
I figured this might be the case, and I honestly agree with the sentiment in general. It would be a bad, messy choice. But hearing it from her mouth somehow kills a secret hope I didn't realize I was still harboring. My stomach sinks all the way down to my boots—but still, I don't regret helping her achieve this dream. I just need to find a way to get rid of these feelings for Madison once and for all. I already tried dating someone else this past year, and despite my best efforts over those four months, I wasn't able to sever Madison's hold on my system.
Who knows, maybe I'll get lucky and discover these feelings were mostly born out of her being far away. I'm not very good at relationships (see previous relationship), so it's reasonable to think I invented this one because it felt safe. It's also a nice consolation that if I can't date her, at least Tommy can't either.
"So," says Madison, turning to face me on her stool. "How is everyone around here? What's the latest gossip?"
Tired of being tortured by the lingering flavor of Madison's strawberry lip balm on the rim of my beer, I flag down the bartender, gesture toward my now mostly empty bottle, then hold up two fingers. "Fine. Everyone's fine."
"Fine?! That's all you're going to give me?" She sags dramatically against the bar.
"Yeah." I shrug. "They're good. Everyone's good."
Honestly, I don't want to launch into everything and prolong my time with her. I think the key to managing this situation from here on out is going to be avoiding her as much as possible.
She's appalled. "Quit acting like you're not the biggest gossip in this whole damn town. We're business partners now; you have to share juicy info with me."
"Funny, I don't remember that being in the job description I sent you."
"That Tommy sent me," she corrects, putting special emphasis on my brother's name, eyes dropping to her fingers drumming on the wooden surface. "You never reached out again after that call."
Seth, the bartender, sets Madison's beer in front of her with a huge smile. "Madison! Welcome home. What brings you back early?" I think the whole town had her expected arrival next week marked on their calendars.
I tense when Madison playfully lays her head on my shoulder, knowing something wild is about to come out of her mouth.
She sighs wistfully. "I'm having James's baby. I had to rush back to tell him the good news."
With a repressed smile, I shake my head. By now everyone has learned to take Madison with a grain of salt. Especially where she and I are concerned. She lives to annoy me and there isn't a soul out there who doesn't know it.
Seth laughs. "Congrats. You two will make great parents. I'll go get the parents-to-be a basket of fries to celebrate. On the house."
"Aw, thanks, Seth!" Madison sits back up, dropping the curtain and returning to her personal space the second he walks away. But my mind is stuck on what she said a minute ago.
"Did you want me to call you again?" I study her confused look. "You said I never called you after offering you the job. Did you want me to?"
Her eyes widen. "No . . . of course not!"
"Oh, okay." I drink my beer, unsurprised by her answer since she's generally disliked me every second of every day of her life.
"I didn't," she insists.
"Fine."
"It was only an observation."
"I get it."
Seth returns with the fries and we drink and eat in silence until Madison's head swivels dramatically in my direction.
"I mean . . . we've never had that kind of friendship." Evidently she's been over there churning this topic round and round. "It would've been weird to suddenly have you all up in my business every day like, How are you, Madison?" she says in a droll tone. "And me responding with something like, I'm okay but sort of lonely. How are you, James? Like, gross. Who even are those civil, communicative people? Not us."
"Definitely not us. Where's the snark?" I say, enjoying this new game.
"The condescension?"
"The rude comments about my tiny . . ." I let the sentence dangle so she'll fill it in.
"Brain."
I raise my eyebrows. "Wow. Resisting a dick joke? I even teed it up for you."
She shrugs and sighs dramatically. "I'm feeling charitable. Or maybe I'm just tired from all the travel. Point is. We are not the type of friends to talk one-on-one. So . . . no. I didn't want you to call me again."
"Great," I reply, unbothered.
"Good."
I stare at her. At the freckles across her nose, at the curve of her neck, and at her full watermelon-pink mouth. I replay the words that just exited those beautiful lips and come to a conclusion that might actually kill me. Madison wanted me to call her again. But why?
That night after I hung up with her, I decided it would be essential to take a big step back. Putting her into a Colleagues Only box is the only way I will survive working with her every day. I'd let Tommy handle most of the day-in-and-day-out communication, and when I saw Madison around I'd be friendly yet brief.
But seeing the look in her eyes just now . . . it has me changing course immediately. Because where Madison is concerned, I think I'd be willing to set the world on fire if it made her smile. And she has no idea.
I watch her closely as I say, "We could be—you know?" My beer hovers in front of my mouth, and when she looks at me with a curious expression, I clarify. "We could be friends who talk one-on-one. Might even be a good idea since we're about to work together."
Whether from curiosity or horror, her eyes widen. "I'm not sure you can handle the full force of Friendship Madison."
"You make it sound like a hurricane."
She tips a little closer to me, like she's telling me a secret. "They're very similar." She sits back. "Only difference is, one comes with an invasion of privacy and complete use of your kitchen whenever I want."
"You do that anyway."
"But now you don't get to complain about it."
God, I should leave this bar right now. If I knew what was good for me, I'd close out my tab and get the hell away from her.
Instead, I turn my stool so we're facing each other. "And what do I get out of this friendship?"
She thinks for a second. "To taste test a lot of incredible food?"
"Sold."
She laughs, looking skeptical that I would actually agree to this. Maybe skeptical about agreeing to it herself. We've never been direct friends. Even though it wasn't intentional, it's like Noah has always been standing between us—a human buffer. And in this brief conversation, we just pushed him out of the way. Madison is looking directly at me now.
"Really?" she asks. "You want to be actual friends?"
I don't mean to, but my eyes drop to her mouth. "Bring on the hurricane."
Her smile is a lightning bolt. "Great. Let me go get a knife."
It takes me half a second to register her words before I hook my hand around her biceps to catch her when she leaves her seat. "Why the hell are you getting a knife, Madison?"
"So we can make a little cut on our palms and shake on the new friendship. A blood pact." She mimes the slice across her open hand. Casual. Like she does this all the time. Most disturbing part of it, she's dead serious.
"I'm not . . ." I shake my head, letting out a breathy laugh. "Hell no. Sit your ass down."
"The friendship needs to be binding."
"Does it though?"
She folds her arms, a little pinch forming between her brows because she's second-guessing my commitment now. She's about to rip it away as quickly as she offered it. In her eyes, I'm back to being Noah's dumb friend.
So I sigh and extend her my pinky instead. "This is the best I can do."
She eyes it and then her arms loosen. "It lacks drama, but okay . . ." She wraps her pinky around mine and there it is. Just like that, a new era is born. I can feel it. Even the air seems to change in recognition.
Once our pinky promise has solidified, she demands to hear all the gossip I'm withholding from her. I go for the most fun piece of drama first: when Gemma accused Phil of cheating in the Easter bake-off. Phil swore on his life that he didn't cheat, but then Clara walked by his car and found a discarded store-bought cellophane bread wrapper in his back seat. He publicly apologized and admitted that the stress of the holiday had been too much for him. Gemma won first place after Phil was disqualified.
Madison's smile is wild. She scoots forward. The gossip is a fish-hook sunk into her skin and tugging her closer and closer to me. Our knees are sandwiched together like black and white piano keys. Mine, hers, mine, hers.
"And what about with my family? Anything I should be aware of?"
I look away.
"You do know something! Tell me." When I won't look at her, she grabs me by the shoulders and shakes me. "You can't withhold information about my own family from me, Jameson Huxley!"
This wild and loud creature is causing a scene, and I'm just trying not to laugh. Life hasn't been nearly as bright without Madison in it.
"All right, all right, get your claws out of my arm before I catch your rabies." She smiles deeply, like she's been waiting for me to say something like that all night. It's the kind of teasing we've done for years. A barrier of my own making, because if I don't tease and annoy her, I'll accidentally worship her.
I lean in a little closer and drop my voice. "I heard from the new barista at the coffee shop that Annie has been ordering . . ." I look over my shoulder and then back. "Decaf."
Madison sits back, a shocked expression smashing her in the face. "Decaf?"
I nod. "And at family dinner the other night, I caught her pouring out her wine in the sink."
"Oh my god. That means she's—"
"Maybe. But hey . . . no one else in the family has seemed to