Chapter Four James
CHAPTER FOUR
James
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. ”