Chapter 11
ELEVEN
Jesse
“Higher, Uncle Jess!” Poppy squeals as I swoop her into the air, her curls catching the light from the kitchen window.
“Higher?” I grin. “You trying to get me in trouble with your dad?”
She giggles so hard she hiccups, legs kicking wildly, making it impossible not to smile with her.
It still blows my mind how fast she’s become the center of our family.
She only came into Ford’s life this past summer, but already it feels like she’s been here forever.
Landyn was the college girlfriend Ford could never get over—even though he tried to convince us otherwise.
We were all surprised when she showed up in Deep Cove after so many years away, and even more surprised to learn that she and Ford had a 7-year-old daughter.
I’m not going to pretend it wasn’t messy, but the two of them figured things out.
Now they’re back together, Landyn is doing great work at Cove, and I can’t remember ever seeing my big brother this happy.
And Poppy? She’s got me, Noah, and Wes completely wrapped around her tiny pinky finger.
One smile from her and we’d all burn the world down if she asked.
“Careful with her,” Ford warns from behind me.
“She’s fine,” I say, pretending to look offended as I set her on my shoulders. “I would never let anything happen to my princess.”
Poppy leans down to whisper in my ear. “He worries too much.”
“Tell me about it,” I mutter, loud enough for Ford to hear.
Landyn laughs from behind the kitchen counter, where she’s loading dishes into the dishwasher. “Don’t encourage her, Jess. She already thinks she runs this house.”
“That’s because she does,” I reply, giving Poppy’s leg a gentle squeeze before I lift her over my head and lower her back to the floor. “All right, kiddo. Go see what Stella is up to. Make sure the dog isn’t eating one of my shoes.”
She takes off toward the back door with her usual tornado energy in search of the dog, and I drop into one of the barstools, stretching out my legs.
Ford pours me another two fingers of whiskey before topping off his own, the kind of unspoken ritual that says he has something he wants to talk about.
“So,” he finally says, with big brother concern in his stare. “You’re really going through with this?”
I swirl the whiskey in my glass. “If by ‘this,’ you mean helping a co-worker out by pretending to be her date for a weekend, then yeah. I’m going through with it.”
“Helping a co-worker,” Ford repeats flatly. “That’s one way to describe it.”
Landyn sighs softly. “Ford.”
He sets his glass down with a quiet clink. “You’re blurring lines, Jess. You’re her boss. You know exactly how this can look. I’m not going to pretend I’m okay with it.”
I take a slow sip before answering. “Whatever salacious story you’re imagining, it’s not that. Mads needs a plus one for some fancy gala her parents are making her go to, and I had the weekend free, so I offered to go. End of story.”
“Mads?” Ford asks, eyebrow raised. I shrug in response. “And you volunteered to do this out of the goodness of your heart?” he presses.
“Pretty much,” I say, half-smiling. “You should’ve heard the conversation, man. Her mom sounds brutal. Talk about a guilt trip. I actually feel sorry for the girl. She didn’t stand a chance at saying no.”
Landyn leans against the counter with a knowing grin on her face. “Sounds like someone’s playing knight in shining armor.”
I hold up my hands. “Just trying to make her life a little easier. I kind of thought you’d be proud of me for doing something so selfless. I’m practically Mother Theresa over here.”
Ford rolls his eyes in response. “Funny,” he says. “I remember you giving me the gears when Landyn and I went to that conference in Whistler.”
“That was different.”
“Sure.”
“Ford, come on,” Landyn cuts in gently. “Don’t you think you’re being a little hard on him?”
“Whose side are you on?” he asks, but there’s a playful tone in his voice.
“I’m not picking sides, babe. But last I checked; you fell for someone you worked with too.”
“I’m not falling for anyone,” I interrupt, exasperated. “You both need to relax. It’s a quick trip. No ulterior motives. Nothing is going to happen.”
Ford’s stare flicks back to me. “That’s what I told myself when I asked Landyn to come with me to Whistler. And you might actually not believe it, but trust me, you’ll make something happen.”
I open my mouth to argue, then stop. Because if I’m being honest with myself, even I’m not sure I can promise otherwise.
“Please just don’t do anything that drags Cove into this mess,” Ford says, shaking his head. But the corner of his mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile.
“Scout’s honor,” I say solemnly, holding up two fingers.
“Jess,” he warns.
“I know, Ford. Don’t worry. I got it.”
I hope it’s enough to end this conversation, but the truth is, I haven’t been able to get Madeline out of my head all damn week. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to cross any lines with her.
Landyn slides onto the stool next to mine and leans into me, bumping her shoulder against mine. “Be careful with her, okay? Madeline is great. And I want to keep her at Cove, she knows what she’s doing.”
I meet her gaze, which is warm but a little too knowing. “I’m not planning on hurting anyone. I promise.”
“I know you would never hurt anyone on purpose,” she says softly. “I know you, Jess. You might be a shameless flirt, but you’ve got a good heart.”
I grin, leaning back in my chair. “See? Finally, someone around here appreciates me. You could learn a thing or two from Landyn here, big brother.”
Ford shakes his head. “Just don’t do anything stupid, Jess.”
It’s close to midnight when I finally call it a night.
The house is quiet, the blanketing type of silence that makes the city feel far away.
I’m stretched out in bed, a book in hand— The Great Gatsby, dog-eared and worn, the same one I’ve read a dozen times.
I have a soft spot for characters who maintain an in-control facade but when you scratch the surface things get more complicated.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand just as I’m about to switch off the light. I glance over, expecting one of Ford’s late-night emails, but instead I see a message from Madeline.
Madeline: Flight’s at 8:15 a.m. tomorrow. I’ll meet you at the gate at 7:30.
Another message lands right after.
Madeline: Don’t forget your ID. Or your suit. Or your toothbrush.
A grin tugs at the corner of my mouth. This girl is nothing if not organized. Maybe a little anxious, if the rapid-fire texts are anything to go by. It’s so her — precise, practical, and unintentionally adorable. It leaves a faint fluttery feeling low in my chest that I can’t shake.
I thumb a quick reply.
Me: Nice to see we’ve progressed from sticky notes to texts. Do you send all your bosses bedtime reminders, or am I just lucky?
Three dots appear. Then disappear. Then reappear.
Madeline: Just making sure this trip doesn’t turn into a disaster before it even starts.
Me: Love that you have so much faith in me, Mads.
Madeline: Let’s just say I’m cautiously optimistic. Emphasis on “cautiously.” And I’ve told you not to call me Mads.
I laugh, running a hand over my jaw. I can picture her reading that nickname with her eyebrows pinched together. She probably has a checklist scribbled on a sticky note next to her bed: suitcase packed, itinerary printed, boarding passes neatly organized.
Me: You know, most people relax before work trips. Watch a show, drink some wine, go to bed early.
Madeline: I’ll relax when we’ve made it through this weekend and my mom finally leaves me alone.
Me: So never?
Madeline: Exactly.
I shake my head, smiling. The woman’s a walking contradiction. She’s cool as hell in meetings and confident in her work, but I can tell she worries too much. If I’m being honest, I like that she’s complicated. It makes me want to figure her out.
Me: For what it’s worth, I’m not planning to embarrass you.
Madeline: I’m pretty sure you could do it without any planning at all.
Me: Fine. I’ll be on my best behavior. Suit )
Madeline: It’s Madeline. Don’t make me put it on a sticky note.
I huff out a laugh, low and involuntary. God, she’s cute. And that’s the problem. Because nothing about this conversation should have my pulse picking up or my cock getting hard. But somehow, she’s managed to make a few simple texts feel like foreplay.
I stare at the screen longer than I should, my grin refusing to fade. Her name—Madeline—glows back at me, and for a second, I picture her typing it, hair pulled into that neat twist, probably rolling her eyes as she hit send.
“Madeline,” I murmur under my breath, testing the sound of it, even though I already know I’m never going to stop calling her Mads. It just fits her too damn well.
I toss the phone onto the nightstand and stretch out, one arm behind my head, the other resting across my stomach.
Tomorrow, we’ll be side by side again—on a plane, in a hotel, at some high-society gala she’s dreading. I should be focused on work, on the campaign, on anything else. But all I can think about is her voice, her sharp wit, the expression on her face when she’s trying not to smile.
This trip is going to be a problem. And I already can’t wait for it to start.