Chapter 13 Madison
Chapter thirteen
Madison
Why did I just do that? Why would I spontaneously invite Liam to join me for dinner in my tiny cabin? My very tiny cabin? Especially when I just cooked stir-fry? If he grew up with any amount of homemade Korean food, he’s going to judge this meal so hard.
I blame my tired brain for making such an irrational decision.
Or, maybe I should fault the town of Noel for only having three dinner options during the offseason—pizza, the Deer River Bar, and a fried catfish joint I could never imagine Liam setting foot in.
Actually, I should blame the town gossips (everyone) who would quickly broadcast that Liam and I were out to dinner together.
Although, Liam looking so dang good in that gray suit and black shirt this morning might hold the most culpability.
There's so much blame to go around, but there’s no time to divvy out responsibility for my poor choices. Nothing in Noel is farther away than a few minutes’ drive, which means I have mere moments until Liam arrives.
I rush to stack the dirty dishes in the sink, at least giving the illusion of the countertop being clean.
After saving the document of notes I took during the course sessions today, I power off my laptop and move it to the side table next to the bed.
I hear the sound of a car pulling in and whip around the room looking for any other messes that need to be cleaned up.
My phone pings from my back pocket, and I check the text from Liam’s new contact name.
SUITS
Stopping to feed Hamlet and then I’ll be over.
ME
After closing the door to the bathroom, I snatch the throw blanket from the back of the chair I was sitting in.
I quickly fold it and drape it across the foot of the bed.
I used my tablet to watch the editing courses, so there’s no Christmas ambience video currently playing to cast doubt upon my productivity.
Still, I close the Christmas tab on the browser for good measure, since I’ll need to show Liam the tablet as evidence later.
There’s a firm knock on the door, and I reach up to smooth down my hair. What are you doing, Madison? Stop acting like you’re interested in Liam. That’s dumb. I purposely dishevel my hair and move to open the door.
Liam stands outside, deep brown eyes meeting mine. The hint of smile lines curb the intensity of his everyday stare. He’s ditched the jacket to his suit and rolled up the sleeves of the black dress shirt. The top button is undone, and so am I.
“Where are my flowers?” I ask, embarrassingly breathless. I need a second to pull myself together—to program my brain to stop romanticizing the man in front of me. And there’s nothing like a little verbal skirmish to reset my brain back to its normal settings.
Liam’s eyes flash with the challenge, and that does nothing to reconfigure my brain’s malfunction. The right side of his mouth twitches in an antagonizing smile as he says, “I’ll bring congratulatory flowers when I know flowers are due. Prove it.”
Rolling my eyes, I gesture him inside. “No judging the microwave rice, okay? It’s hard to cook properly with only one burner and no oven.”
He holds up both hands as he pivots to face me. “Zero judging the food. I’ll reserve my judgment for your work output.”
“Judge away. I have a trump card,” I scoff. After handing him a plate, I pull the lid off the bowl of brown rice and place a spoon inside. “Help yourself.”
Liam motions a hand toward me and says, “Ladies first.”
Quirking an eyebrow, I mimic his gesture. “No, guests first. I’m absolutely positive that ‘guests first’ is the gold standard of East Asian hospitality.”
A half-groan escapes Liam’s throat as he narrows his eyes. “Fine. You’ve got me there.”
“Ha,” I boast. “Benefit of proofreading thousands of articles over the course of seven years—you pick up helpful tidbits of knowledge along the way.”
Liam smiles as he spoons rice onto his plate, followed by a heap of stir-fried veggies. “I’m impressed you made this with such a small kitchenette setup,” he says. “I haven’t even attempted to cook anything outside of microwaving noodles.”
“Is that typical for you?” I ask as I dish up my own serving. “Do you ever cook?”
“If I’m in one place for a while, I cook some of the time.
At least, I’ll make a meal with enough leftovers for a couple of days so I’m not ordering takeout every day,” Liam says as we walk the few steps to the table.
“No one is breaking down the door to eat my food, but I can make enough basics to eat healthy-ish most of the time.”
I avert my gaze as Liam takes his first bite, focusing on mixing the veggies and rice on my plate. When I dare a glance up, he swallows before saying, “This is good. Thanks for inviting me to eat with you.”
Blowing out a breath, I say, “Okay, let’s just address the elephant in the room. How much authentic Korean food did you grow up eating?”
A stifled chuckle morphs into a full laugh as Liam covers his mouth full of food. He takes a sip of water before asking, “There’s no elephant. Have you really been sitting here worried that I would judge your stir-fry?”
Glaring at him, I think my silence is enough of a confirmation.
He smiles as he answers. “I swear I won’t judge your cooking.
Well, unless you attempt to make kimchi.
That I would judge. I ate a lot more homemade Korean food as a child when we lived close to my paternal grandparents.
My halmeoni—my grandmother—would cook for us several times a week.
When we moved, my mom attempted to cook some of the same dishes herself for a while, but that effort slowly fizzled out.
My dad burned anything he attempted to cook, so we didn’t eat Korean food as consistently. ”
“Do you speak Korean?” I ask.
Liam nods. “I can, but I don’t very often anymore. Mostly just with my grandparents when we occasionally talk on the phone.”
I continue prying. “You don’t visit your grandparents often? How far away are they?”
“Across the pond,” Liam says, amusement in his eyes. “They live in London.”
I abruptly stop chewing. Covering my mouth with my hand, I ask, “Wait, you lived in London?” Liam nods. “For how long?”
“First eight years of my life,” he says. “We moved to the US when my mom’s father was in poor health, about a year before he died. And we just . . . stayed.”
There’s something wistful—or pained?—in his voice as he says it. I’d continue meddling, but his body language tenses to a not-open-for-further-questions vibe. Instead of asking any follow-up questions, I sigh heavily. Liam looks up at me quizzically.
“It’s really disappointing to discover that you could have had a British accent, and here you are, speaking all neutral American English. What a pity,” I deadpan.
He smiles as he looks down at his plate. Without meeting my eyes, he murmurs, “I can recall the British accent when I want to.”
Oh good gracious. Add that to the list of things that won’t help my brain act normally. I need to get this conversation back on track and stop imagining Liam speaking with a British accent.
“I completed eight of the ten modules in my editing course today,” I proclaim. “Plus, I started working out a pricing guide for my services. Beat that.”
Liam leans forward in his seat. “I can’t tell you specific details, but I uncovered a lot about the factory’s issues today.”
My heart stutters with a pinprick of disappointment and hurt. “Why won’t you tell me any details?” I ask, masking the hurt with annoyance.
Rather than answering my question, Liam gives me a pointed look. I shrug. “What? Because I’m friends with Beau?”
Liam tilts his head in a “you said it, not me” gesture, and I fold my arms across my chest in response. Slouching back in my chair, I say, “It’s a stretch to even say I’m ‘friends’ with Beau. Acquaintances. Friends by association. Current acquaintances who could be friends in the future.”
“Still,” Liam says before taking another bite of food.
Now I’m really and truly annoyed. Running my hands through my hair, I twist it up into a ponytail. “It’s not like I’m going to say anything to anyone. You think I can’t keep information to myself? I’m a steel trap when I want to be.”
“Don’t take it personally,” Liam says. The exact phrase to use when you want someone to take something extra personally. He takes a drink of water before continuing. “I’m on the cusp of uncovering the root of what’s been going wrong at the factory. I can’t risk messing up my investigation.”
I aggressively spear a piece of broccoli with my fork.
“You make it sound like you’re a police detective,” I grumble under my breath.
I hold the forkful of broccoli in the air to punctuate my statement.
“Well, if you can’t tell me any specifics about what you did, then I’ll have to assume you’re bluffing and didn’t actually accomplish much today. I’ll be waiting for those flowers.”
Shoving the broccoli into my mouth, I glare at Liam as he stifles a smile. “I concede,” he says. “So how does an editor go about pricing her services?”
I cover my face and lean my head back. “What a great question,” I groan. “Turns out that’s more difficult than opening a bank account,” I say as I sit back up and return Liam’s eye contact.
“Impossible,” he replies. “What’s so hard about it?”
Pulling my legs up to sit crisscross in my chair, I say, “I spent a couple of hours today searching through freelance editors on social media. I looked through their posts and websites, making a chart of all the varying rates people charge.”
“How do they price their services? Is it by an hourly rate?” Liam asks before scraping the final bite of rice and veggies together on his plate.