72 DAYS UNTIL I FAIL . . .
"When I die, I want to be buried with my truck," I say, arms spread wide, star-fishing against the green steel hood.
Emily looks uncomfortable and intrigued at the same time. "What do you mean by 'with' your truck? Like, with the steering wheel in your hand?" We all have a morbid sense of humor. I imagine most people who have experienced tragedy at a young age do.
"I'm talking buckled into my driver's seat and the whole thing lowered into the ground."
She grimaces. "I was afraid that was what you meant. We're gonna be digging for ages."
I plant a big kiss on the hood and then peel myself up. "I've missed this old girl."
"Really? I couldn't tell," Emily says with a grin, because nothing makes her happier than seeing one of us Walkers happy.
"You have no idea how awesome it is to decide to go somewhere, grab my keys, jump in the truck, put on whatever music I want, and hit the road. Literally whenever I please," I say while performing each action like it's revolutionary. But after constantly having to think ahead for the last couple years and consider train schedules, walking times, Uber prices, or whether Dan the Lock of Hair Guy is lurking outside the apartment when I'm going to leave or not, this is a dream. I just wish I didn't feel so silly for loving this more than the city.
I slam the door shut and the familiar, heavy sound brings a wide smile to my face. Before I drive off, I roll down the window and reach my hand out for Emily's. We intertwine fingers. Her reds against my chipped rainbow. "It's so good to be home."
"It's good to have you home." Her words are kind, but there's something reserved in her expression. She looks like how I felt on Saturday mornings when I'd walk to my favorite bagel place but wouldn't let myself get excited for the salted bagel because there was always a fifty percent chance that by the time I got there they'd have sold out.
And now I know what the look means.
"I'm here to stay, Em. This is real." I say it, hoping to ease some of her fears. But my words bounce right off her flimsy smile. Emily is used to people coming and going from her life—and to be honest, I always thought I would be the person who left and never came back. I didn't realize until I was gone exactly how much of my heart lived here and wasn't willing to pack up and move with me.
After leaving Emily's, I hang my arm out the window, letting it surf through the wind as I drive to Huxley Farm. I've been covered in winter frost, but I'm finally thawing and coming back to life. It would be nice, though, if I didn't keep replaying the look on Emily's face a few minutes ago. Does she think I'll get restless and leave again? Or . . . that I'll screw up and run away?
I'm not comfortable with how both options align with my character.
But not anymore! I've changed. This is going to work. Failure isn't an option, and neither is running away.
When I turn off the main road, my breath catches. It doesn't matter how many times I see this place, I'm still mesmerized by this land and the farmhouse positioned at the front of it. It's paradise.
A large ivory house sits on sprawling green grass—powder-blue sky with happy little Bob Ross clouds dotted across it. Cornfields stretch out from the left of the house, and then behind it, as well as off to the right, are thriving crops and industrial greenhouses.
My dad used to work full time on this farm before he and my mom passed away. They were best friends with the Huxleys, and even though my mom worked at the Pie Shop with my grandma, she always dreamed of opening a flower shop of her own. She convinced Mr. Huxley to rent her a little plot of land—for practically pennies—so she could start growing her own flower crop.
I hate that she died before she ever got to see her dream all the way through. But Annie made it happen for her. She still uses the same crop our mom planted and she named her shop after her: Charlotte's Flowers.
A buzz hums under my skin as I get closer to the house because I finally get to be part of this place.
From time to time I imagine standing in front of my parents and telling them life updates. Usually the news makes them frown. But this time they smile from ear to ear.
"Hello! Anyone home?" I shout, Sammy's cage tucked under my arm as I make my way into the Huxleys' house. Or no . . . it's just James's house now, I guess.
The scent knocks into me like a bear hug from your best friend. It's a smell unique to this place and the Huxley family. Warm and earthy with sharp citrus undertones that mix perfectly with some of my favorite memories.
As I wheel my suitcase into the house, part of me expects to see Ruth round the corner, wiping her hands on her white ruffled apron. But she and Martin live in Florida now, in a sixty-and-up retirement community. Which is why the Huxley house now belongs solely to James. A concept that's still strange to me.
In high school, I would come over here from time to time with Noah, but he and James would run off to do something out on the farm, and I would sit at the island, watching Ruth work around the kitchen. She was one of those hospitable ladies who would, when she heard someone walk through her front door, fly off to the kitchen to whip up a cake. Or brownies. Or a meal if you hadn't eaten yet. You never left her house hungry—and now that I think of it, she's part of the reason I fell in love with cooking.
The thing about Ruth, though—her hospitality didn't stop in the kitchen. It extended to making the coziest atmosphere you could imagine. The Huxley house was where you wanted to spend your days because not only did Ruth and Martin love each other, but they saw the best in everyone who walked through their door. And they knew how to laugh. Sitting around their table was never a polite experience. It was a lesson in cackling. It isn't hard to see why they were my parents' best friends. And because of that friendship, they always kept us Walker kids close.
That's why I couldn't refuse James's offer to run his restaurant. To live on this farm and be part of the magic I always wanted to live inside.
No one answers when I call out, but that won't stop me from making myself at home anyway.
This place is a farmhouse through and through. It has a grand entryway that leads to a big kitchen and a living room. A full wraparound porch, visible from every window. And the bedrooms are all upstairs.
It's the kind of space that demands for you to kick off your shoes, curl up on the fluffy couch, and spill your deepest, darkest secrets.
"James? Tommy?" I yell out one more time but still don't get a reply. No signs of life in the living room either.
Oh, the living room. James's mom left almost all of her previous decor because they moved into a fully furnished retirement home in Florida. And selfishly, I'm glad James kept everything mostly the same after they left, because these are not your average dusty and crusty old furnishings. Picture the female main character's home in the best Nora Ephron or Nancy Meyers film and then you almost have something as lovely as this place.
After setting Sammy on the kitchen counter and telling him to behave, I go upstairs to see if I can find James. The incredible scent that blankets the house intensifies with each ascending stair, and just as I crest the top of the landing and peek into James's room, I see why.
His bathroom door opens, releasing a billow of steam, and James walks out in nothing but a white towel. Water droplets cling to his skin, and his hip bones seem to hold the towel up with passive indifference.
I am not shy about the human body—a fact that is more than evident in this moment as I openly stare at James—but as I watch him a hot flush creeps up my neck. Because here's the thing: Real-life farmers do not live perpetually half-naked like the ones portrayed in movies. They do not bale hay with their shirts off, till crops with glistening sweat beading down their bare backs, or shower off under the hose while giving the horse a bath. Which means I've had little opportunity to see James's unclothed body.
He's tall with suntanned forearms and crowbar collarbones. His shoulders are thick with muscle and the rest of him . . . yeah, also a muscular masterpiece. There's proof in fifteen different places that he has a physical job, one he's been doing most of his life.
Luckily, he hasn't seen me ogling him, so I quickly duck back down the stairs and take a seat at the dinner table, positioned in the open space between the kitchen and living room, like I've been sitting here all along.
I open my bag and pull out my laptop so I can stare at it, but all I can see is James's body.
What the hell is wrong with me? It's just James—the responsible town golden boy who has always looked at me like I might strip naked and dance on the bar, embarrassing him to death at any moment. (Which maybe is a fair judgment.)
Point is, he's as far from my type as a man can be. So why am I flushed from head to toe thinking of him in that towel?
"Oh, hey." Tommy's voice makes me jump as he comes in through the side door from the porch. "When did you get here?"
"A few minutes ago," I say in a rush. "But I've been right here the whole time. Reading emails." I umbrella all ten fingers over the keyboard. "Right here."
He laughs, and I think there's something in my tone or the fact that I keep mentioning my location that's tipping him off. He rounds the table to inspect my laptop, and that's when we both register the blank, dark screen.
I smile up at him. "It died."
Tommy plants his hand on the back of my chair, then leans over me to touch a key. My little traitor of a laptop winks to full battery life.
"Hmm. Interesting lie."
James chooses this moment to walk into the room, hair still damp from his shower that I would like to forget he had been taking. He pauses briefly when he sees me at the table, and his eyes slide to where Tommy is hovering over me in what I'm sure looks like a suggestive position. I get the urge to shove Tommy's shoulders and catapult him across the room so James knows I'm not flirting with him. But that's ridiculous. Who cares what James thinks? Not me.
"That's strange," says James, looking away from me. "I'm not used to seeing my kitchen clean after finding you unattended in it."
"Well, she didn't have time to mess it up." Tommy's tone is all play. "Because she only just got here. And she's been sitting in this chair the whole time."
"Exactly." I narrow my eyes at Tommy in warning.
James goes to the fridge and mumbles, "Cute. They have inside jokes."
One thing is for sure: James does not like the prospect of me and Tommy together. I've always assumed it's because of his loyalty to Noah and a misguided belief that Tommy will leave me heartbroken.
The sheer lunacy of that idea, though.
"Okay, party people," Tommy says with overzealous energy and a big clap that makes my shoulders jump. "I've gotta get to the airport soon so that I have enough time to fill my body with a long-overdue caramel macchiato. So let's get started."
"Wait. You're leaving today?" I ask in a panic as he unloads folders, papers, an iPad, and a laptop onto the table.
"This is the longest I've stuck it out in this bumpkin town since high school. If I don't leave today, one of two things will happen: Either he will murder me in cold blood by tomorrow morning, or I'll voluntarily fling myself off a cliff."
"He's telling the truth about the murder part," says James.
Tommy lifts and lowers his shoulders. "We can't have a Cain and Abel situation on your hands so close to the restaurant opening. Wouldn't look good."
Tommy finishes up tossing various binders and papers onto the table until it's littered with mood boards, fabric swatches, catalogues, and pictures of forks and spoons. There's even a beautiful mock-up menu. It's a restaurant design dreamland.
"Normally, this step would take weeks . . ." He opens his iPad and begins tapping on the screen. "But since this project is rushed, and I don't get the time I, quite frankly, deserve to develop the next best restaurant, we have"—he turns his wrist to read his watch—"one hour."
I eye the table and can't imagine how we'll go through even half of this in an hour, let alone decide on it. Decision-making isn't my strong suit on a good day, but especially when I'm in a creative funk or I've just seen James Huxley in a towel.
I need ample time to make a choice, assume it's the wrong one, ask Emily what I should actually do, then pivot to her idea and repeat the process four more times. But it seems I have . . . one hour.
James joins us, taking the seat to the left of where I'm sitting at the head of the table. Tommy takes the seat to my right, and we all three stare out at the sea of restaurant options.
"Okay, so first let me show you what I had the graphic designer mock up for the branding and menus." As he's digging through the slush pile of papers, my eyes wander to James, who is only drinking from a water glass and not doing a slow-motion striptease for me, yet my body is reacting to him as if he were.
My eyes meet a wet spot on the shoulder of his T-shirt—remnants of the shower—and my mind catapults back to the sight of him surrounded by steam. And then it drags me into the bathroom and supplies me with images of James in the shower. Head tilted back so the water can run down his neck and chest. Arms flexing as he lifts his hands to push through his thick brown hair. His—
"Madison!" Tommy is waving in front of my face. "Are you listening?"
Oh my god. I zoned out, having a dirty daydream about James! This is unacceptable. Outrageous. Not only is it just James—a solid fact that can stand on its own—but he's also the man I declared an official friendship with last night. That I'm going to be working with closely, without the buffer of Tommy for the next few months, as we're preparing for the opening. Just me and James and his body that occasionally takes showers.
Get a grip, Madison.
"Sorry—I . . . Do you have to leave so soon? These are a lot of decisions to make today."
"I know." His lips form a pout. "It is sad to have to part from me this quickly, isn't it?"
Tommy smiles and then puts on his black Gucci sunglasses, pushing them up into his hair.
"But don't worry, you have my much less attractive Huxley brother to keep you company while I'm gone."
Once upon a time, I might have agreed with that statement. But today, in this upside-down world where I'm mentally undressing James at this table, I strongly disagree.
I'm also more than a little worried that life has just presented my newest shiny opportunity that could end in flames.
"I can't work alone with him," I blurt before thinking better of it.
James sits forward, concern etched between his thick brows. "Is it because I didn't do the blood pact?"
"Yes. No. I mean . . ." I swivel in my seat to look at Tommy. "We need you here because there's so much to be done and it seems like too much for only the two of us to handle. Alone. By ourselves."
Tommy is not buying it, and James seems concerned as well. I'm being too weird, which is saying a lot.
The worst thing I can do now is draw attention to my random attraction to James, which will more than likely be gone as quickly as it appeared. Besides, it's probably only a by-product of my pent-up lustiness from not having had sex in so long.
James suddenly gets up from the table.
"Where are you going?" Tommy asks.
"To get a knife," James responds with a stone-cold expression.
Tommy is horrified. "A knife?!"
"I have to slit my palm open so Madison will feel comfortable working with me."
Tommy looks at me. "What kind of shit are they teaching you guys in culinary school?"
"No. James!" I grab his hand to stop him and immediately wish I hadn't. His gaze drops to where our hands meet, and I quickly pull away.
"Sit back down. I'm fine. I'm just . . . a little hungover from last night and jittery about the opening, I guess. Let's keep going."
After a hesitant pause, James retakes his seat. I plaster my eyes on the table, where I plan to keep them for the entire meeting. And when we're done, I'll go settle my mind and get rid of this inconvenient sexual tension.
I just need more sleep. And a vibrator. Problem solved.
Tommy hands me a mock-up menu with the restaurant title GRAINS across the top in bold blocky letters.
"Not to brag, but I snagged us the best designers in the business to work on this at a hugely discounted rate. They've given you five samples to choose from, but this is my personal favorite. It's trendy. It's modern. It'll add a nice contrast to the rustic greenhouse atmosphere."
I couldn't agree less. I hate it. I think it will absolutely contrast with the greenhouse, but not in a good way. More in a "Hey, look at me, I'm trying to be L.A. in Kentucky" sort of way. But . . . what do I know? Tommy has done this countless times, and it always works out.
So I hold the menu and say, "It looks great!"
An hour later (and countless lies told on my part), Tommy is wrapping everything up to leave and I'm working double time to not let my discouragement show. I hate the direction we're going in with the restaurant. Although I didn't have any concrete ideas for it yet, what I saw today definitely didn't feel right. I can't tell Tommy, though. If my instincts are so far off base, he'll see how unfit I really am to be taking this job. If he says it's good it must be, so I'll spend the next few months aligning my vision with his.
After shoving his iPad into his leather Louis Vuitton carry-on bag, he tells me he'll be sending time-sensitive documents to me via email and will need my response ASAP. James, I notice, doesn't thank his brother for any of this and instead looks more than ready for him to hit the road.
I don't like the thought of anyone's work going underappreciated, though. "Hey, it's fun to see you in professional mode. You're really good at your job, Tommy. Thank you for all of this."
From the corner of my eye, I see James's jaw flex.
Tommy, on the other hand, is immediately a peacock. "It's true. I am, and thank you for noticing," he says before turning a smolder on me. "Is it making you reconsider going out with me?"
"Nope." I give a toothy smile. "I told you I won't date a co-worker, and I meant it."
"I've been thinking about that—and I realized you're in luck! We're not co-workers. I am in no way attached to the longevity of this restaurant. In fact, once we hammer out all of the details and get this bish launched, I'm done with it. So dinner, Friday? Wait. I'm leaving town for a while." He mulls this over and then points at me. "When I get back, I'll take you out! Somewhere fancy. We'll have to drive to Sommerset, but—"
"Tommy . . ." I sit forward, ready to feed him through my favorite new automatic weeding system. "Believe me, you don't actually want to take me out."
"Are you kidding? You have no idea how much I want to go out with you." He makes a grand show out of coming over and getting down on one earnest knee beside me. "From the second you stepped out of the airport and I saw you in those cutoffs, I think I've been in love with you, Madison."
"Dear god," James grumbles beside me, tone threatening murder.
Tommy is undeterred. "Madison Daniella Walker"—that's not my middle name—"you are so beautiful I feel like I could die when I look at you. I will quit my job right now and miss my flight if you'll agree to let me take you out."
Charming, lying asshole.
"Oh, Tommy," I say, playing into his theatrics by placing my hand on the side of his smooth jaw. "The truth is, I'm practicing celibacy."
It's comical how quickly Tommy's playboy smile falls away. "How long do you have to practice for?"
"For however long I want." I shrug, amusement holding strong. "I don't owe you or anyone else a time frame."
I can feel James's heavy gaze but can't bring myself to look at him and read his thoughts about my declaration. It's one I made for myself last year, and I haven't regretted it yet.
Tommy watches me for a long, silent moment, glances at James, then stands, smoothing out the wrinkles of his pants. "All right. A new bump in the road for me, but that doesn't mean I'm ready to give up yet."
"Really?" Shock has to be written all over my face.
"Sure." He grins. "I can woo. I can do old-fashioned romance."
My chin rests against my fist. "And what if I'm celibate for another month? A year?! Just how long are you willing to woo me?"
"We'll see, won't we? I don't owe you a time frame." He winks and I swear I'd want to kick any other man. Tommy, though, is just harmless enough to pull off a comment like that and still make me laugh.
I put my hand over my heart. "I'm touched by your devotion."
"Oh, just you wait. The best is yet to come," he says, giving a final Tommy Smirk before pulling his glasses down over his eyes and pushing his hand through his rich blond locks. James and I follow Tommy out the back door and watch wordlessly as he speeds off down the driveway, honking several times with his middle finger out the window.
"There is really no one quite like Tommy, is there?" I say and James gives an annoyed grunt beside me.
And just like that, James and I are alone.
I look down, shoving my hands into my pockets, feeling awkward and unsure what to do next.
But the gravel crunches as James's boots shift, facing me. "Madison May Walker. Are you ready to see your new place?"
And yes, that is my actual middle name.