Chapter 17 Madison
Chapter seventeen
Madison
“I’m coming in, and I’m providing you with basic living necessities, so you’d better not give me any attitude!” I call loudly through the door. Perhaps if I announce my presence to Hamlet, he’ll be less threatening.
Opening the door a crack, I poke my head in to look around the cabin. I’d like to assess the position of my enemy before I step onto the battlefield. A mild panic sets in when I see zero signs of life. Liam only left this afternoon. Surely Hamlet hasn’t figured out how to unlock doors to escape?
“Hamlet?” I call out as I tentatively step inside—right into a trap.
I nearly jump out of my skin when Hamlet loudly hisses right next to my ear, where he’s perched by the door on the built-in bookshelves that Liam repurposed as a shoe holder.
I clap a hand over my racing heart and narrow my eyes.
Pointing a finger at Hamlet, I say, “You are the type of cat that gives cats everywhere a bad name.”
As if to emphasize my point, Hamlet swats at my finger, hissing a second time. I jump back, glaring at the feline. “You’re lucky I’m a rule-follower who believes in doing the right thing, or I’d walk right out of here and let you fend for yourself for the next twenty-four hours.”
He leaps to the floor and haughtily pads away from me, leading the way to his food and water dishes. There’s a bag of bougie-looking cat food on the counter along with a note from Liam.
One scoop for each feeding.
Thanks,
Suits
I openly smile, since there’s no one here to hide it from. Direct and to the point, just like I’ve come to expect from Liam. But his embrace of my nickname for him makes my stomach do a weird flutter kick.
Carefully measuring out the scoop of food, I pour it into Hamlet’s food dish, pulling my hand away quickly to avoid any more swatting. I dump out what’s left of the water and refill it in the sink.
As Hamlet munches away on his dinner (keeping watchful eyes on me while chewing), I turn a slow circle around the cabin.
I’ve been here before, but it’s worth pausing to see if there’s more information to gather.
As much as I’d love to full-on snoop around, I have moral boundaries.
So I settle for absorbing anything in plain sight—which is disappointingly little.
A set of adjustable dumbbells sits on the floor by the loveseat, but that only serves to confirm Liam’s commitment to fitness.
Which his regular runs already indicated, so that’s nothing new.
There are no family photos or personal memorabilia of any sort.
Unless you count the suits.
The past couple of weeks have been an odd contrast to our first week as neighbors.
Liam has kept more distance ever since the night he helped me get my business launched instead of working on his own reports.
In theory, I know that he has simply been absorbed by his actual job.
That he remembered his focus needs to be on what Holden Inc.
is paying him to do rather than on me launching Madison Joy Editorial.
But I have a hard time not assuming the worst—assuming that he got tired of my company, tired of my sass. After all, he wouldn’t be the first man to do so.
I have a whole litany of reasons people shouldn’t enjoy being around me. I’m the chairwoman of the “Madison’s Critics Club,” ready at the drop of a hat to give a lengthy speech about everything that’s wrong with me.
Too direct.
Overly critical.
No filter when speaking.
Has unrealistic expectations.
Annoyingly perfectionistic.
Quick to judge.
The disappointing part is that, at least for a few days, it seemed like Liam was hanging with me. Dishing out just as much as I did—and enjoying it as much as I did.
But either my initial assessment was all wrong, or he moved on to more important things.
Either way, I’ve been matching his distanced vibes, at least until our conversation last night—when he confessed that his mom is a Shakespeare expert, he has a little sister, and he grew up in small-town Arkansas.
And now, I have a zillion curiosities about Liam Park’s life.
I might literally go insane if he keeps withdrawing and never gives me answers.
Alas, what’s visible in the cabin gives me zero new clues.
I decide to send a slightly probing text. First, I send a photo of Hamlet by his food dish.
ME
The devil eats.
SUITS
You’re being a touch dramatic.
ME
Your evil companion is the dramatic one. I have the minor heart attack to prove it.
Just showing that I followed through on my end of the bargain. If there’s any other personal information you’d like to divulge, I could be convinced to stay and shine a laser pointer around to keep Hamlet entertained.
SUITS
I’d advise against that idea. It’s unlikely to end well for you - Hamlet sees right through laser pointer nonsense. He’ll only look at you like you’re an idiot.
ME
Like that’s a break from his typical expression.
As if he could sense our text conversation, Hamlet looks over at me with a death glare.
SUITS
Also, nice try with the prying. But that’s not going to work - you should put your energy toward something more productive.
ME
I’m nothing if not determined. Just you wait - I’ll catch you with your guard down sometime and learn all about the girl who broke your heart in high school.
SUITS
Good luck learning about something that never existed.
ME
So no high school heartbreak.
SUITS
Goodnight, MJ. Thanks for taking care of Hamlet.
Huffing an exasperated sigh, I pocket my phone. On my way out the door, I pause to stick out my tongue at Hamlet.
“Iced white lavender latte for Clara!” I call loudly, despite the fact that Becky’s Brews is only large enough to accommodate four tables. And despite the fact that Clara is standing directly in front of me.
She gives me an amused look. “This barista power is going to your head, Mads.”
I grin at her. “Just living out my barista dreams. I’ve gotta get the hang of it in time for tourist season.”
Clara rolls her eyes with a scoff. “Never have you ever dreamed of being a barista, Miss ‘Tea Is Better Than Coffee.’ Do you think you’ll be working here over the summer, or will you be too busy with proofreading clients?”
There are no other customers here, so I round the coffee bar and sit down with Clara. “We’ll see. Of course, it would be nice to have a mile-long waiting list of potential clients. But until that happens, I’ll keep slinging the inferior caffeinated beverage that I disdain so much.”
I haven’t confessed to Clara that Liam made me a cup of coffee I actually enjoyed.
I haven’t confessed to myself that I wish he’d invite me over for another cup sometime.
When he came to retrieve his key last night, he offered zero exposition on his time in Houston.
Beyond ensuring that Hamlet behaved himself, Liam also asked zero questions about my life or business or feelings, so I one-upped his aloof attitude as I shut the door without a goodbye.
I don’t anticipate any more pour over coffees with Liam, and I’m working hard not to care.
Becky walks in the front door, arms laden with cartons of various milks. “Morning! How are you lovely ladies today?”
Clara and I both jump to our feet to lighten Becky’s load, and together we restock the refrigerators. As we organize milk cartons, Becky says, “Mads, I need to talk to you about the cabin.” The apologetic expression on her face makes my stomach sink.
“I talked with James last night, and I’m afraid we really need to open your cabin up for rentals as soon as possible,” she says.
“We’ve sold out all of the cabins for the upcoming opening weekend, and we just had another couple email asking if there were any available.
I’m so sorry for the short notice, but the month of April is when tourist visits start ramping up. ”
“It’s okay. You guys were already more than generous to let me stay there for the past few weeks.
You have no reason to feel guilty about running your actual business,” I assure her.
Even though I’ve grown to love my cozy Christmas cabin and feel an unreasonable level of sad feelings when I think about vacating the space.
“Do you need to come stay with us?” Clara asks. “We could blow up an air mattress in the sunroom.”
“No way,” I say. I have zero desire to live with newlyweds, but I don’t tell Clara that.
Instead, I reason, “You need your sunroom office to continue writing the greatest Christmas romances ever told.” She smiles at my compliment, her blue eyes lighting up with warmth.
I sassily add, “Plus, you’d have to sell off half of your jungle in there to make space for an air mattress. ”
She huffs, but she can’t deny it. Clark has only enabled Clara’s obsession with plants—her sunroom truly looks more like a jungle than a house.
He’s the perpetrator who bought the shirt Clara is currently wearing, which says, “Just One More Plant.” Except the word “One” is crossed out and replaced with an infinity sign above it.
“How does one go about finding a rental house or apartment in a town like Noel?” I ask Becky.
“Hmmm, your best bet would probably be to work with Rhonda, the real estate agent in town,” Becky replies. “She handles rentals as well as home sales. Just text her what you’re looking for.”
“What are the odds of finding a small, furnished apartment in Noel?” I ask, already knowing the grim answer. “Or should I be relocating to Kansas City or Nebraska?”
Becky and Clara exchange an anxious look. Clara is the one to answer. “Please don’t leave Noel! I promise it wouldn’t be an intrusion for you to stay with us. We could turn the sunroom into our shared office space during the day. It would be fun!”
I raise an eyebrow, crossing my arms. “Would Clark find this plan fun?”
Clara’s smile fumbles. “He’ll come around.”
I turn to Becky. “What’s Rhonda’s number?”