Chapter Fourteen James #2
She’s also a little thief. After noticing the half-finished word search, she rips out the page, folds it, and stuffs it in her back pocket.
I receive a challenging look, to which I raise my hands in surrender.
She seems appeased and then plucks my bowl of beef stew out from in front of me, scrunching her nose like it disgusts her, before replacing it with a giant salad.
And I don’t mean a salad in the bland, bagged supermarket sense.
I mean salad that is definitely from the farm.
Three different fresh greens. Pecans. Feta. Shaved Brussels sprouts. Berries. And what I’m betting is a homemade vinaigrette, drizzled over the top. I don’t particularly like salad, especially not Brussels, and even I think this looks delicious.
“Because it’s important to what happens next,” says Tommy, irritating voice reminding me he’s on the line.
“Why? What happens next?” I ask my brother while also looking up at Madison in question.
The doorbell rings and she and I both look in its direction.
“That is what happens next,” says Tommy, so ominously it runs down my spine.
Madison mouths, I’ll get it, and then goes to the door.
“Tommy. What’s at the door right now?”
“You’ll see. Tell me how she likes them later!” And then my asshat brother hangs up.
I hear the door open and Madison’s gasp. When I turn the corner, I see why. There’s a delivery guy at the door holding a bouquet so large you can barely see him behind it. It’s a rainbow, bursting with every color of rose under the sun.
She squeals and then looks over her shoulder at me, eyes bright and sparkling. “Are these for you, James?”
I grunt a laugh. “Doubt it.”
The delivery guy speaks, voice muffled from behind the arrangement. “Is Madison Walker here?”
“Me! I’m her!”
“Oh, great.” He shifts the bouquet so he can peek around it. He looks fatigued. “These are for you.”
“Who are they from?”
“I’ve got a good guess,” I say dryly.
She goes up on her tiptoes to pluck the little card from the top of the blooms and then reads it out loud.
“The roses are rainbow, your nails are too. This bouquet is to prove, I’m still thinking of you.
From Tommy.” She gives a pouty lip and presses the card to her chest. “Oh my gosh, Tommy used ChatGPT just for me!”
I roll my eyes, wondering if he sent these flowers before or after his date last night. The guy is a prick and doesn’t deserve the beaming smile on Madison’s face. Especially after voting against her working for us—repeatedly.
“Do you mind bringing them inside for me?” Madison asks the delivery guy.
“Su—”
I hold up a hand, staying him. “You’re not actually going to accept these, are you?”
She shoves my hand down. “Why the hell wouldn’t I?”
“Sorry, but . . .” The delivery guy hikes the flowers up higher in his arms. “These are heavy.”
“Shit. Yeah, you can put them on the kitchen table,” she says, disregarding my glare.
He plows his way through the entry and into the kitchen, Madison on his heels and me on hers. “Are you actually entertaining the idea of dating him?”
She laughs. “No.”
“Then why are you keeping these?”
“Because they’re flowers. And I love attention. What’s the problem?” Her hands go to her hips.
The delivery guy points toward the way he came. “Okay, I’m just going to . . .”
“Sit down.” I tell him and then look at Madison. “You should send those flowers back. Reject them so Tommy will get the message.”
Madison folds her arms. “What if I don’t want to send him a message? What if I want him to keep sending me flowers?”
“He was on a date with someone else last night, Madison.”
She stares at me. “So?”
“So you’re a game to him. Don’t you see that?”
She smirks. “I thought you said you were going to stay out of it. That it’s my choice if I want to date Tommy.”
“Yeah, well, that was before we were friends. But now—as your best friend—”
“Oh, you’re my best friend now?”
“Yes. And as such, I’m telling you, you can’t date my asshole brother.”
“Is that an order?” She doesn’t seem amused anymore. I watch her temper flare in her eyes—and god, if she isn’t twice as beautiful. “And I’d think long and carefully before you answer that question, Jameson.”
“It’s not an order,” I say and watch her eyes soften. “It’s a command.”
Her eyes blaze anew. “That better be a joke.”
I step closer. “I don’t want you to date Tommy.”
“Why? Give me one solid reason.”
“Because I—” The rest of the sentence tangles in my throat.
I close my mouth, heart thudding. She’s looking at me now, really looking.
What would happen if I just told her the truth?
Because I love you. Because I can’t stomach the thought of anyone else touching you.
Because deep down, I still have this absurd hope that you’ll want me back. But I can’t say any of that.
At least not with words.
My body, however, seems to have gone on autopilot.
My feet carry me a step closer, and I watch her breath catch.
The floor creaks under my boots and I advance toward her even more.
I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, but now we’re standing close.
So close I can count the freckles across the bridge of her nose.
I can easily see the moment her eyes flick to my mouth.
Mine drop to her lips too, tracing the pronounced bow of her full upper lip with my gaze, and I watch those lips part on a soft inhale.
My pulse is a drum line, and my hands itch to touch her. It would only take one second. One blink.
But then—
“Uh, can I go now?” the delivery guy asks, clearly uncomfortable. “I’ve got . . . other stops.” We both jerk apart, having completely forgotten about our unwilling audience.
Madison blinks like she’s surfacing from water. “Right! Oh geez—sorry.” She glances at the flowers. “Could you help me carry this to my truck? It’s just outside, and then I promise we’ll let you go. And I will leave you a raving review on Yelp!”
The guy nods, looking more than ready to escape, grabs the bouquet, and follows Madison to the back door. She holds it open for him to walk through, and after he’s out she stands there a moment longer.
“I’m going to head home,” she says, and although nothing happened between us, the atmosphere is different.
“Sure. Need help with the flowers at your cottage?”
“No, thanks,” she says with a laugh and then lets the door fall shut behind her.
I blow out a huge breath and remove my hat so I can scrape my hand through my hair, worried that I’ve just screwed up something fragile between us.
But then the door swings back open almost as soon as it shuts and Madison pops her head back in, apples of her cheeks flushed. “Hey . . . I thought I might make popcorn and rewatch Sweet Home Alabama tonight. You wanna come?”
Or maybe I didn’t mess anything up. My blood rushes through my veins thinking of a night cozied up at Madison’s cottage watching a movie. How many times have I wished I could do just that with her. God, I want to. But . . . shit.
“I can’t. I let one of my employees cut out early, so I have to finish covering for him after dinner.”
She nods slowly, looking disappointed. “Oh, okay. No problem.”
She turns to go again, but this time I call after her.
“Madison.”
She pauses.
I scratch the back of my neck, heat crawling up it. “Thanks. For the salad.”
Her expression softens. “Stop eating trash. You literally have everything you need to be healthy growing in your backyard. And take your blood pressure. And go for morning runs. Google says it helps.”
“Mind your own business,” I tell her, grinning despite myself.
“Never,” she says, and the door clicks shut behind her.
I stare at the spot where she stood, the scent of roses mixed with whatever sweet fragrance she was wearing still in the air. And I realize: If I take that contract, I could afford to hire more crew. I could have nights off again. And just maybe, I could have someone to spend my evenings with too.
If only those weren’t selfish reasons . . .