Chapter Three Madison
CHAPTER THREE
Madison
ROME
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?”