Chapter Seventeen Madison #2
Emily lifts a brow. “Friendship?”
James winces, really getting into character. “Afraid so. It was never supposed to happen.” He looks at my brother. “And I don’t want to blame it on you, Noah, but—you’ve been sort of wrapped up in your wife lately and neglecting me.”
Noah’s lips press together—unamused.
Now that I’ve got the hang of where the plot is going, I’m ready to play along.
“It’s true. I tried my best to resist it .
. .” I say, casting my eyes up to James and patting his chest. Oof, bad idea.
I forgot how solid he is, and now I just want to trail my hand under his shirt and experience what his skin feels like stretched over his muscles.
He finishes my sentence: “. . . But too many lonely nights inevitably lead to—”
“Cinnamon sugar toast,” I say in a mocking, shame-filled tone.
And the thing is, I know we’re only playing.
That this is a dramatic production about friendship.
But the way he’s looking at me coupled with how my palm is absorbing the beats of his heart like they belong to me, it doesn’t feel like we’re acting.
It feels like we’re actually confessing something to each other under the guise of sarcasm.
Does James feel it too?
He blinks and breaks the spell, looking out at my family. “We’re really sorry, guys.”
“We never intended to hurt you,” I add, pulling my hand away.
I half expect us to take a bow, but my family has their own encore, apparently.
Noah crosses his arms. “Oh no—they’re alike. How have I never noticed this before?”
Emily nods slowly. “It’s true. They both live for drama. And James . . . he suddenly looks like he has the urge to get drunk and dance on a table, belting ‘No Scrubs’ at the top of his lungs.”
“Hey. That happened one time. Quit bringing it up.”
“And Maddie—” Jack says, pushing his glasses up his nose to get a better look at me. Kinda upsetting how someone can look so hot in glasses actually. (I certainly don’t.) “Is it just me, or does she look like maybe she’s already set an alarm for the morning?”
“Not fair,” I interject. “You’re insinuating he’d influence me in a positive way! He has plenty of bad traits.”
“You’re gonna have to dig pretty deep to find them,” says James with a smirk that used to irritate me. Now I dream about it.
I tip my head back and let out a loud HA! “If I’m becoming more like you, it means I suddenly have the urge to put my nasty boots on the table!”
“Because it’s fun to see you get annoyed.”
“To wear the same hat for ten years!”
“It’s actually a new hat every year. . . . I just keep buying the same one.”
“To work late every day covering shifts for people who should be working but aren’t.”
He ticks out the side of his mouth. “Shoot. Looks like you’re doing it too now.”
“Dammit. You’re right. You have too many good traits.”
He leans his hips back against the counter, crossing his arms. “Just when I thought I was getting upgraded to James Dean, I’m back to an old oak table.”
And then I hear Annie whisper something to Will, and the world slowly pulls back into focus and I realize the thing happened with James again. Everything else had faded away around me until it was only me and him.
“Okay, I’m officially too hungry for this joke to continue.
Let’s eat!” I shout and turn away, pulling everyone’s attention to me as I open the oven, releasing an aroma that draws groans from everyone in the room.
I’ve been practicing a few dishes this week in my cottage, but today I snuck over here and used James’s kitchen to try out a few of the more expansive recipes.
At first, it was like stretching sore muscles.
I hadn’t cooked simply for the joy of it since culinary school—since the pressure crept in and convinced me that every slice, every dash of seasoning, every arrangement on a plate had to be flawless.
But this time I let myself have fun. I let go of the need to impress and remembered what it felt like to chase a craving, to wake up in the middle of the night with a dish idea and feel an unstoppable urge to make it right then.
I remembered the thrill of turning on music and getting lost in the rhythm of chopping, stirring, tasting. For me, the best—and most addictive—part of cooking has always been the high of watching people I love enjoy the food I made, knowing it fed something deeper than just their hunger.
And now I’m giddy. Not nervous, not second-guessing. Excited to see how my family likes this meal. Because making it felt so damn good. It felt like coming home to myself.
I duck off to the side, watching with a contented smile as everyone forms a line to scoop food onto their plates.
James steps up behind my shoulder, speaking quietly when he says, “Did you make all of this in the restaurant’s kitchen?” The hope in his voice rips a thread of guilt in me.
I hesitate before answering. “No . . . not yet.”
I wonder if he’s disappointed in me—questioning my place at this restaurant.
But instead he playfully bumps my shoulder as he steps around me to join the line. “You’ll get there, Chef.”
The night goes off without a hitch. We eat. We laugh. My family takes turns lavishing me with compliments about the food, and we roast one another until one of us says something that’s a little too close to the truth and then we switch gears quickly. You know, family time.
Once the chaos dies down, they each take a turn circling the table I’ve methodically laid out with potential place settings.
But these aren’t any old plates and napkins.
The dishes are hand-thrown pottery from our local studio, and the napkins are embroidered by a seamstress who works out of the quilt shop.
If my restaurant is going to honor my Southern roots, I want every part of it—down to the linens—to come from this community.
Beatrice, the potter, was just as excited about the idea as I am. She’s agreed to supply plates and cups at a discounted rate, and in return we’ll set up a small merch corner in the restaurant where customers can buy a piece to take home.
Which is why tonight matters. Beatrice gave me several style and color options, and I need to choose which ones will define the brand of the Greenhouse, which is the restaurant’s official name. It feels right. James told me to trust myself, so I am.
A few hours later, once the votes are tallied and the last car pulls out of the driveway, I’m layering plates with bubble wrap and sliding them into boxes to return to the studio, along with my final selections.
Just as I bend to lift the first box, a pair of arms reach into view and snatch it from my hands.
“Hey!” I say, outraged.
“Hey,” James says like we’re in a bar and he’s trying to pick me up.
I have to skip behind him to keep up with his long strides as he carries the box out to my truck. “Stop that.”
“I’ve tried. Turns out my good looks never quit,” he says, sounding like Tommy and reminding me they really are brothers.
“James. You have been working all day! You don’t need to be carrying my boxes around.”
“I don’t turn into a pumpkin at eight o’clock. I can carry a box. In fact, I’ll carry two. And then I’m helping you unload them at your place, because they’re heavy as hell.”
“So . . . you’re saying I’m weak?”
He laughs, a deep, easy sound that rolls right down my spine. “You’re a lot of things, but muscular’s not one of them.”
“You’ve never been more wrong. Do you even know what it takes to whisk a soufflé?”
He stops midstride, turning to face me, all mock-seriousness. “Prove it.”
I raise my arm and flex, eyebrows lifted in challenge. His hand wraps around my biceps, fingers warm, and he gives it a squeeze.
“Sorry,” I say dramatically. “Did I bruise your fingers with my massive guns?” I throw in a few exaggerated poses.
He grins, hand dropping. “Spaghetti noodles. I’m getting the other box. Can’t have my chef blowing out her rotator cuff before opening day.”
“James.”
He pivots again. His eyes are still soft, but the humor’s gone. “I swear to god, Madison, if you start treating me like I’m spun glass, this friendship will implode faster than it started. Let me carry the damn boxes.”
Oof.
I wish I could say his assertiveness didn’t do things to me. But it does. And . . . I see his point.
James is not one to be coddled, never has been.
So I give in and climb inside my truck, waiting. A minute later, he joins me on the bench seat.
But I don’t put the truck in drive right away. I just sit here.
Eventually, James gives me a look—one eyebrow raised, half a smile playing on his lips. But when I slide slowly across the seat toward him, the smile fades into something quieter. Warmer.
I reach around him, tug his seatbelt across his chest, and click it into place. Then I pat his chest where the belt lies.
“I need you to be safe too,” I say with a grin.
He might not need coddling, but he does need someone to care for him. And although I’m not the most reliable person, maybe it wouldn’t be terrible for that person to be me. As his friend.