Chapter Sixteen James #2
“I didn’t have anyone that understood why I couldn’t get out of bed on my dad’s birthday.
No one to get why I’d hunt down every slice of pie in the city, only to cringe because none of them tasted like they came from the Pie Shop.
” She smiles, but it’s sad. “These people know me. They’ve seen me in my happiest and worst moments—and I know they’ll still show up in droves to support me at the opening.
They’re family. And family roasts family.
Plus . . . I guess, I’m excited to show them I can succeed at something too.
Because I’m determined to this time.” She pauses. “If I can get my mojo back.”
I stare at her through heavy brows for another minute—looking for any cracks forming under the surface. But I don’t see any. I think she’s telling the truth.
“All right. I guess I believe you.”
She eyes me, head tilting at whatever she finds in my expression this time. “You’re upset though? Like really upset about it?”
I don’t bother hiding it. “Yeah, I’m upset. They should have talked to you with more respect. I didn’t like it at all. And I think it’s okay to tolerate some good-natured roasting, but only to a certain point. They each crossed over that point today.”
She’s smiling timidly at me. Something soft and secret transpiring between us that I don’t think we’ll ever acknowledge out loud. “Thank you for that. I’m not sure that anyone’s ever thought I was deserving of respect to that extent before.”
And that kills me.
This is the last stop for the day, and it’s a house I keep on the route because it’s been in our family for generations.
I bring them a box of produce, and they never pay—because we’ve never asked them to.
I’m not even sure how it started. All I know is that my dad has always referred to them as Mamaw and Papaw even though they are not our blood relations.
They’re just a sweet couple, Della and Victor, who have lived in this house for most of their long, happy marriage.
Like my dad always did, I set aside a box of the best produce for them and take it by during deliveries. In return, they have a cup of coffee and a slice of cake waiting for me. And today, Mrs. Della looks a little too happy to be pouring Madison a cup alongside mine.
“It’s good you finally found yourself a good lady, James. I worry about you being alone so much,” says Della, her tremor a little more prevalent today as she pours coffee into my mug.
“Oh, she’s not—”
Madison places her hand over mine and smiles. “Well, Mrs. Della, James is definitely not alone anymore. And since I’m a chef, you can rest assured he’ll always be well fed.”
“That’s what I like to hear,” she says with a happy wink.
When Della turns to slice off a piece of butter cake for us to have with our coffee, Madison leans in close. “A mamaw should never have to worry about anyone,” she whispers in my ear, her breath slipping over my skin in a way I’ve only dreamt of until now.
Guilt creeps over me for how good it feels to hold her hand while she tells Della all the happy parts of culinary school.
To run my thumb across the back of her knuckles and pretend for these short twenty minutes that she’s mine.
I wonder if I can milk this and lean across the table and kiss her?
Take her to the bathroom and trace her neck with my tongue.
Carry her to my truck and lay her down on the bench seat.
Instead, I finish my coffee and cake and try not to stare at Madison too much as she talks, and then when I lose that effort, I kick myself outside to bring in the crate of produce.
Per usual, Victor’s out cold in his recliner, hat perched on his head—even the screen door slamming didn’t wake him.
“All right, Mrs. Della. I’ve got some extra-special goods for you today,” I say, setting the crate on the countertop.
“Oh, you’re not kidding. These are some good-looking tomatoes.” Della turns each one over, inspecting their color. “I’ve been waiting on some like this for months now. What’d you do to them this time?”
“Sang them a song and tucked them in every night.”
She beams. “Told ya that would work.”
Madison is curious now and hovers closer until she can peek over my shoulder.
She smells like coffee and sugar. “Wow. These do look good.” She picks one up, turning it over a few times in her hand.
“The last chef I worked for used to make this really incredible roasted garlic and root veggie pasta sauce. If he saw these, he would have offered up his children in exchange for them.”
I want to ask her if this was the chef who hurt her, and then offer to end his life instead of giving him good produce.
Della polishes one of the tomatoes on the apron she always wears around her waist. “Leave it to a chef to try to think of the most difficult and time-consuming thing I could make with an ingredient. But I don’t waste my time with all that fuss when I have a piece of produce as good as this one.”
“What would you make with it instead?” Madison asks, and I can see the spark in her eyes. The intrigue and ideas running rampant behind her smile. She loves food. She loves talking about food. This is Madison’s Disney World.
“Better yet, I’ll show you. Excuse me,” Della says, moving into Madison’s space so she’s forced to back up against me.
Instinct has me wrapping my hand around her abdomen and hugging her to me before I can even process what I’m doing.
Madison’s sharp inhale, however, alerts me to the fact that my hand is splayed across her stomach.
I start to slide it away, but her hand jumps to mine, intertwining our fingers and holding me there. To keep up the act, I tell myself. She just wants us to seem natural.
So we stay like this, Madison’s breath coming faster and faster and my heart pounding against her shoulder blades as Della turns back to the cutting board, pulls down two slices of fresh white bread.
She slices the tomato into delicate little slices and lays them on one side of the bread before slathering mayo on the other.
Salt and pepper get sprinkled over top, after which the sandwich is cut into two and wrapped in a paper towel.
She hands one to both of us, forcing me to let go of Madison.
For this reason only, I hate these sandwiches.
“This is my favorite thing to make with a nice juicy tomato,” says Della. “Take this with you for when you get hungry later. Tell me how you liked it next time you come to visit.” She levels Madison with a look. “And I do expect you to come back and visit.”
Madison wraps Della in a big hug like she’s known her her entire life. “Don’t worry. I’m like a stray cat. If you feed me, you won’t be able to get rid of me.”
A few minutes later, we both climb into the truck, and Madison is acting so normal that I wonder if the reaction I sensed back there was all in my head. Maybe it was only wishful thinking that she was breathing so heavy. I’ve got to stop doing that.
“I mean this in the best possible way, but how do you have more room in your stomach for any of that?” I ask Madison, who has left with not only her sandwich but also a slice of Della’s cornbread and a piece of butter cake for later.
“Room has nothing to do with it. With enough determination, though, you too can fit an army’s worth of food in your stomach.” She bites into her sandwich, and the moan she lets out is almost enough to make me crash.
“God, Madison,” I say, even though I probably should let it go. But I can’t. I’m on edge. I should never have touched her. Everything she does is turning me on.
“Sorry,” she says around her bite, dropping her head back against the seat. “But this is just so damn good! It’s actually filling me with dish ideas.” Her head pops back up, eyes round. “Wait! This is why you had me come along today, isn’t it? You knew this would happen.”
I only grin at the road in answer.
“How?!”
“You always seemed happiest making food that was inspired by what we ate growing up. I figured if you weren’t feeling inspired in New York, maybe you just needed to have some of the best home-cooked food I could find. And Della . . . somehow everything she makes is magic.”
“How did you know I’ve always been most inspired by what we ate growing up?”
“Because you talk a lot,” I say, trying to deflect with a joke. But she’s not having it.
“And you listen a lot.”
“Yeah. I guess so.” I glance at her and she’s staring at me.
So many times over the last year I’ve wished she would look at me like that—really look at me. But now, I wish she’d look away. I’m afraid she’s going to see too much.
“Hey,” she says, still not looking away. “How come you never date?”
I turn left onto Huxley Road, the longest road in Rome, Kentucky. It not only winds past the farm but carries travelers through town and all the way to the interstate. “What makes you think I don’t date?”
“Della said she worries about you.”
I laugh. “Well, no offense to Della, but I’m not usually taking my dates with me to her house.”
“Oh, right. Duh.” She laughs and then goes oddly quiet, turning to look out the window.
“I’ve dated.” For some reason, it’s important to me that she know this. Important to admit it to myself, I think.
“Anyone I know?” she asks.
“Actually, yeah. Jeanine and I dated for a while.”
Madison’s feet, which were up on the dash, slam to the floor. “You . . . you and Jeanine. We’re thinking of the same one? Red hair, worked at the Diner, but now is manager of the Pie Shop? Has a little boy?”
“That’s the one.”
“Oh my god. Are you still together?”
“No.” Because she isn’t you.
“No,” she repeats softly, and if I didn’t know better I’d think she sounds relieved. “How long did you date?”
I tip my head in thought. “Four months.”
Madison suddenly clutches her throat like she’s choking. “Four months,” she wheezes.
I’m glancing between her and the road. “What the hell is your problem? You think I’m that undatable?”
“No. I’m just—” She stops herself and swallows what she was going to say.
“I’m struggling to picture you dating anyone.
” She casts her distant gaze out the front windshield.
“James being a boyfriend. James walking up to a front door. James picking someone up. Picking Jeanine up. James kissing Jeanine goodnight. James—”
“Okay, conversation over.”
“Holy crap, you had sex with her, didn’t you?” She chokes more.
“I’m going to pull over and push you out now.”
“You were naked with Jeanine!”
“Better yet, give me your cornbread. I’m eating it all and leaving you none.”
This gets her attention. She clutches the wedge to her chest. “I’ll be good.”
“Mm-hmm.”
Madison is quiet again for all of two minutes, and I know her head is still stuck on me and Jeanine. “I’m sorry, I just . . . I’m trying to picture you having sex.”
“I’d rather you not.”
She tugs her lips from one corner to the other in thought. “I had a dream we kissed the other night.”
My elbow slips off the door ledge where it was resting. I want to ask her roughly a million follow-up questions. “You did?”
“Yeah.” She laughs. “It was chaste. It took place in Hank’s bar. And then . . .” She trails off, apparently deciding against continuing. “Never mind.”
“Uh, no. You have to finish that sentence now.”
“You’re gonna get weird about it.”
“I swear I won’t.”
“Okay . . .” She winces preemptively. “I asked you to take me back to your house so we could—you know—and you said no because you were too shy. And then I woke up.”
I am silent. Dead silent. And then I pull over on the side of the road, park, leave the key in the ignition, and jump out. The door is yawning open behind me as I hike to somewhere. Anywhere.
Madison is out and behind me in a flash, laughing her ass off. “You said you weren’t going to be weird!”
“I lied.”
Her hand wraps around my elbow and tugs me to a stop. “James! Stop! It’s not a big deal.” She’s still laughing so hard as I spin to look at her.
“No big deal? I just found out your subconscious thinks I’m too shy to have sex. That’s appalling.”
“It’s probably because I’ve never thought about .
. . you . . . like that.” Her voice jumps an octave.
“I’ve never considered what you’d be like in bed, so I guess my brain just filled in a blank to wrap up the dream.
” She shifts on her feet, hand falling away, eyes scanning the cornfield like she’s hoping to find an escape hatch hidden in the stalks.
“I mean, we’re friend-friends, right? So why would I know what you’re like—or what you like—in bed?”
But the second she says it, her gaze flicks away and her lips press tight.
I’ve seen that look a hundred times. It’s the one she makes when she’s trying to hold the truth inside her mouth.
And just like that, I know she’s lying.
She’s thought about it and is trying to pretend she hasn’t.
I should let it go. Climb back in the truck and pretend none of this happened.
But something is shifting between us. I’m almost sure it’s not all in my head anymore.
I want to chase it.
“Friend-friends or not, I know you well, Madison. I know exactly what you’d like in bed. And believe me . . .” I tip a little closer. “I would not be shy about giving you what you wanted.”
She sucks in a breath. So I give in, just a little, to what my body is screaming for.
I press a kiss to her temple, letting it linger only long enough to cross the line from friendly to something else.
“Good to know,” she whispers.
A truck roars past, shaking the ground beneath us, reminding me that real life still exists.
“We should get going.”
“Yeah . . .”
We don’t talk on the drive home. Alan Jackson fills the silence and we pretend the air between us isn’t charged.
But my mouth tingles the whole way.