Chapter 17
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
He watched Madison start for the kitchen doorway.
“This can’t continue,” he called out quietly.
She pulled up short, a rigid tower of black. He heard the front door shut. Sawyer and Phoebe were gone. They were alone. It was time for them to talk. Really talk.
When she didn’t turn around, he put his hands on the island and girded himself to do this. God, let him say the right things.
“You’re my best friend, and you’re staying at the restaurant late and leaving early to avoid me.” His breath whooshed out. “I don’t want to add to the pressure you feel, Mad. Tell me how to help you.”
“Let. This. Go.”
But she didn’t move. A painful knot filled his throat. “I can’t. I’ve thought about this every day for… Christ, I don’t how long. You’ve got circles under your eyes, which means you’re exhausted—”
“I’ve just opened a restaurant back up.” She swung around, and Jesus, the fire in her eyes could destroy him. “The restaurant life is a grind. You know that.”
“Except instead of coming home at eleven thirty like you were doing at first, you’ve been coming home around two.”
He would not mention Rico, but for a moment his name seemed to hover between them.
“Do I have a curfew or something?” she shot back, striding forward. “I’ve been going out. Chefs often do that after we close. We’re wound up, Kyle—”
“I know that, dammit. But you’re leaving early every morning—”
“There are a million things to do.” She stalked closer, her combat boots slapping the tile floor.
“It’s the holiday season. Do you have any idea what kind of expectations come with having a Parisian Christmas celebration?
We have to bring down the house every night.
I’m checking everything—from the gleam of our serving plates and utensils to the water levels in those amaryllis bouquets you ordered.
Nice touch, by the way. People have been raving about them. ”
She sucked in a breath, her shoulders coming down from her ears. Fight mode had been deactivated, thank God. She’d remembered they were on the same team. Now he needed to crash them into the next surf.
He went to the cabinet where he’d stored the mezcal he’d bought her.
Not that damn Olvido Divino 30 that Rico had brought to Nanine’s.
But another top brand with a special name and story, because she deserved the best. He hated that he and Rico agreed on that, because he really wanted to dislike the guy showing interest in Madison. Total jealousy.
Grabbing a glass, he purposefully pulled out a barstool and sat down. She stood there staring at him, a little wary, more than a little unsure.
He understood. They were in new territory.
Best friends who couldn’t talk to each other anymore.
Best friends who trusted no one else like they trusted each other.
Best friends who wanted each other so much it was ripping out their guts.
He poured himself another cognac and her a mezcal, extending it toward her. She came closer and sat. Drank hesitantly. Stared at him some more while he gathered the threads of his remaining control.
“That’s—” She pointed at the bottle. “How did you— Pescador de Suenos Pechuga isn’t a brand you just run out and buy here in Paris.”
He wanted to preen at the shock in her voice.
“No. I figured you’d appreciate the shape of the bottle.
” A dagger, made of dark glass. “And the fact that they add raw chicken breast and fresh fruit between the second and third distillation. The name—because as a soon-to-be Michelin-starred chef you are a Fisher of Dreams. Also, Pechuga means sharing.”
Her entire face was blank with shock.
“And that’s what best friends do. Salud.” He held up his glass.
Her hand was shaking as she reached for her drink, he noted, before her grip tightened, her knuckles going white. “Salud.”
Her wide golden eyes held his as she took a hefty sip. She looked unsure of herself, and he knew this was the side of her he didn’t know as well—the Madison who had trust issues with men, men she’d cared about. She took another sip before setting it down.
He took another sip as well, enjoying the burn.
“Now you’re really scaring me,” she finally said, kicking back in her chair as if she were trying to show she was the badass. “When did you learn pechuga means sharing? Although technically it’s a sense of sharing.”
His lips twitched. “I have my ways.”
He was so not telling her about his Spanish lessons. It was going to take serious study and his new Spanish tutor months to get him up to an intermediate level. Thank God he’d found something to do in the quiet evenings when he was alone in the house, waiting for her to come home.
Studying her first language made him feel closer to her.
As he learned the language’s patterns and structures, it gave him insight into how she thought.
Because he knew very well from being fluent in two languages that language shaped the way people thought.
It was like having a new key into her mind.
Not that she’d like that sentiment, probably.
She crossed her arms over her chest. “All right. I’m not an idiot. You pick a mezcal that means sharing and try and butter me up about being a fisher of dreams. You want to talk, talk. Or is this the lead-up to you telling me you think we should bang?”
“Jesus Christ, Mad! Seriously?” He shot a glare at her. “Give me some credit. I’m your best friend. Last I looked, that doesn’t make me an asshole.”
A flash of vulnerability lit her eyes before she narrowed them. “Doesn’t make you not a guy. Are you telling me you haven’t thought that might be the solution to our little problem? Get it out of our systems?”
His chest tightened. “Of course I have, but I don’t think it’s the solution to our problem.”
“Why not?” she shot back.
“Because I don’t think we’ll get it out of our systems,” he answered in a raw voice, his gut tightening with fear.
He didn’t want to lose her, and they were rushing into Class Five rapids with this talk.
His heart was pounding in his veins, and even across the island, he could smell her.
Woman and earthy smells like bread and roasted meat.
Ones that haunted his nights and made him wish he could run his hands along her skin.
She picked up her glass, drinking slowly, her boot tapping the floor in a nervous rhythm. “Is this about Rico?” she asked finally.
He’d known this question was coming. But he had to be honest. She deserved it. Besides, they’d never lied to each other, and he didn’t want them to start. “We wanted each other before I even knew about Rico’s existence. But yeah, seeing him coming around has brought up feelings I’m not proud of.”
She bit her lip, looking down in her lap. “You were honest with me, so I’ll be honest with you. I’d hoped I could feel something for him.”
He swallowed thickly, hurting in the silence that reigned for the next moment.
“I thought… Shit, I thought that maybe Rico would be our solution. I could get the hots for him. You and I would go back to being friends like we used to be. Because I don’t like this either, Kyle. It’s messing up everything between us.”
“But you getting the hots for Rico, as you say, wouldn’t help my feelings.
” He looked up. He had to look at her as he said it.
“I’d still want you, Mad. And seeing you with him—even trying to be with him…
Fuck, I was jealous and hurt. I want you to be coming back here, hanging out with me in the kitchen, drinking mezcal. Dammit, I’ve missed you!”
Her mouth pursed, and he knew the emotion she was fighting. It was clawing its way up into his throat.
“I’ve missed you too.”
She finished her drink and poured herself another. Motioned for him to down the rest of his. Then she poured him another few fingers from his bottle. They both drank, the silence as loud as the cicadas back home in the trees during a hot summer.
Maybe that’s why the insects screamed. The heat was too much for them. He understood. He felt that way with Madison.
Her swallow was audible before she said, “Maybe it’s everyone else in the house hooking up—”
“It isn’t.” He huffed out a sigh. “This thing between us happened before Thea and Jean Luc got engaged.”
“It was that damn kiss,” she hissed. “I should never have locked lips with you.”
He blurted out a laugh. “Locked lips, huh? We both know it’s more than that.”
“That’s the problem.” She lifted her hand in the air in frustration. “Maybe you should kiss me again and do it really badly. All wobbly tongue. Lots of slobber. I’ll be so icked out that I’ll never think about kissing you again.”
“Lots of slobber?” He couldn’t help but laugh. “What am I? A cow? Jesus.”
She was laughing too. “I guess it’s good we can joke about it.”
“Right now we can.” He sobered. “I wish it would last.”
She stilled. Yeah, because lately it hadn’t felt like a joke. Not to either of them.
Another quick drink and she was gripping her knees, facing him.
“So if you won’t lay a slobbery kiss on me or jump my bones to exorcise this out of our systems, what’s our plan?
Because I hate this too. I’m so pissed at the current drama between us that I wish I could cut this attraction out of us with my cleaver. ”
He grimaced playfully. “I think my balls just shriveled.”
“Good! We should run with that. Then we can find something to make my lady parts shrivel.”
But he didn’t want anything to shrivel. He thought of their friends tonight. All of them with their Plus Ones, glowing like freaking neon signs at Hotel Paradise as they talked about their happy thoughts.
That brought him back. “Your happy thought was the same as mine. You don’t think that’s significant?”
Her eyes shuttered. “Look, I’m not like Doc or Dean who read poetry and dream about big life things. I cook. The same dishes every night for months. I do the same things for hours every day. I— What I’m trying to say is that I’m a worker. That’s who I am.”