Chapter 20
Chapter twenty
Liam
Ipick up my pace to a sprint as I run up the final hill. Once it plateaus, I’ll reach the turn to the street that the rental house sits on. I’m already exhausted from the extra-long route I took today, but I needed to burn out as much agitated energy as possible.
Usually, I’m not one to rehash my interactions with other people. I’m a direct communicator, take it or leave it. The bonus of my career is that I literally get to leave when the job is done, so other people’s reactions to my communication style isn’t something I lose sleep over.
But last night, I laid awake in bed arguing with myself over whether or not I was too harsh with Madison.
Because I want her to take it, not leave it, with me.
In the past, she’s seemed to dish out the honesty and sarcasm as readily as she’s accepted it from me, but I may have crossed the line last night.
I tried to find a comfortable sleeping position that would turn off my thoughts, to no avail. Hamlet was not happy with my mental thrashing that turned into physical fidgeting. His irritated hiss directly in my ear forced me to still my body, even if my mind wouldn’t turn off.
After walking a few extra circles around the driveway, I pause to stretch my quads and calves.
It’s technically still spring, but the stifling Arkansas humidity is already starting to set in.
I wipe sweat off my forehead with the hem of my shirt before opting to pull it over my head altogether.
There’s no way Madison is up yet, considering I got up to run after waking even earlier than usual, unable to fall back asleep.
As I open the door, I find that Madison is awake.
She’s perched sideways on the lumpy floral sofa with her laptop balanced on her knees, a steaming mug in one hand.
Her gaze turns to me when I come through the front door but abruptly snaps away.
She swivels her body so her back is to me, but not before I glimpse the flush heating her cheeks.
I cover my smile with one hand, even though she’s no longer looking my direction.
At this point, pausing to put my shirt on would call more attention to the fact that Madison just saw me without it, so I simply walk to the kitchen to fill up a glass with water.
“Morning. You’re up early,” I observe before chugging the water.
Hamlet scurries over and paws at my feet, so I scoop breakfast into his food dish.
Madison is awkwardly fighting to keep her eyes locked on the laptop screen in front of her—fighting and failing. Her frequent glances in my direction make me smile again, which I hide by turning to put my glass in the dishwasher.
“Yeah, well, some of us have things to chase and dreams to do,” she says, then smacks her forehead. “Dreams to chase. Things to do. Whatnot and et cetera,” she amends.
As adorable as fumbling Madison is, I don’t actually want to make her feel uncomfortable, so I slip my shirt back on before I join her in the living room, taking a seat on one of the pink chairs. “What are you working on?” I ask.
Madison’s cheeks are still red, but she manages to maintain eye contact with me as she answers. “Trying to get a few chapters proofread before Clara and I go on a little adventure to Bentonville today.”
“Oh, really? What’s in Bentonville?” I ask.
“Hopefully some decent thrift stores,” she says, crisscrossing her legs. “But don’t worry—I’ll be hard at work cold contacting more potential clients later today. No lectures required.”
“Hey, you accepted my apology. Are you retracting?” I tease.
“Ugh, lucky for you, I’m a woman of my word. You’re still forgiven,” she says as she moves the laptop from one knee to the other. “Doesn’t mean I won’t still sass you about it,” she adds under her breath.
“I’d expect no less,” I reply. Standing to my feet, I ask, “If you had your number one pick of the type of material to proofread, what would it be?”
Madison leans her head back to maintain eye contact. “I’m not exactly being picky right now, Suits.”
“But if you were being picky, what would you pick?”
She purses her lips as she considers the question. “I would love to edit nonfiction books in the leadership and self-development genre.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Because . . . well, because it feels especially important that those kinds of books not contain stupid errors. Why should I take your advice if you don’t know when ‘full time’ should be two words or hyphenated?
It drives me absolutely crazy to find typos in personal development books,” she says.
“But before you even suggest I just ‘go after those authors,’ those authors are primarily working with publishers who have in-house editors.”
“Then why didn’t you apply for an editing position with a traditional publishing house?” I ask.
Madison pauses to pull her hair back into a ponytail before she rises from the couch. “Because . . . I don’t know.”
I give her a pointed look. She glares back at me but doesn’t say anything else. Taking a step closer, I prod. “Why didn’t you apply to publishers, Madison? Why create Madison Joy Editorial?”
She crosses her arms and matches my step forward, erasing more of the space between us. “Maybe I didn’t like the idea that I could put years of honest work into a company and have my job stripped away in an instant again. Maybe I liked the idea of having a little more autonomy and control.”
“Okay,” I say with a nod. “Do you think there could be authors out there writing the kind of books you want to edit who also like the idea of having more autonomy and control than they could find with a traditional publisher? And do you think they could be on the hunt for experienced proofreaders who will make sure their work is just as high quality as any traditionally published book?”
Madison’s nostrils flare as the gold flecks in her eyes catch fire.
Fiery Madison is my favorite version of any human I’ve ever met. The thought flashes through my mind, but I sweep it away to my subconscious, unwilling to acknowledge what it could mean.
“Fine—you have a good point. I’ll try to find those authors later today,” Madison says.
She swivels on one heel to turn away from me, her ponytail swishing across my bare arms in the process.
“I’ll report back tonight. You might owe me a second round of flowers in addition to the first bouquet you never got. ”
As Madison picks up her mug of green tea with one hand and her laptop with the other, an idea floods my mind. Something far more useful than flowers.
Scooping Hamlet up from where he’s lurking behind the chair, I head to my bedroom. Before showering, I send off an email to our assistant back in Houston.
Angie,
I need an upgrade on my reMarkable tablet to the newer model with more storage space. Expedite the shipping if you can. Thanks.
When I arrive home after work, I walk through the front door to discover that the North Pole exploded in the entryway.
There’s a three-foot Christmas tree lying on the floor along with tangles of lights, boxes of ornaments, and a faux pine and eucalyptus wreath.
Hamlet is sniffing his way around the piles of greenery, and the Jonas Brothers’ voices fill the house as “Like It’s Christmas” blares from a Bluetooth speaker.
“What is going on here?” I yell, expecting Madison to pop into view.
Apparently, my yell is no match for Nick, Joe, and Kevin, though, because Madison is nowhere to be found.
I turn to the right and peer my head through her open bedroom doorway.
She’s shoving her full body weight into an antique dresser that has to weigh twice as much as her tiny frame.
“What are you doing?” I ask, finally catching her attention. “Why are a bunch of Christmas decorations cluttering up the entryway?”
She stands and brushes a strand of hair out of her eyes. “Oh. I bought some Christmas decorations at the thrift stores today.”
“How? It's April. No stores have Christmas decorations out already,” I say.
“You underestimate my powers. I didn’t receive my ‘Queen of Thrifting’ title as a participation trophy,” Madison scoffs.
“You’d be surprised to find that thrift store owners are more than willing to give you access to their storage rooms and offer discounted prices if you’re promising to offload their currently unsellable merchandise. ”
“Um, I don’t think that’s actually a thing. Thrift stores don’t just take customers to the off-season storage rooms,” I say, brow furrowed.
“Like I said—you underestimate my powers,” Madison says, eyebrow quirked. “Particularly when combined with Clara’s Christmas obsession.”
“Let’s circle back to the ‘why’ question. Why are there a bunch of Christmas decorations here?” I ask.
Madison sighs and leans against the dresser that hasn’t budged an inch. “Clara and her spell on this town have me under the Christmas curse. I can’t get in the inspiration zone without being surrounded by Christmas. I’ve been off my game ever since I moved out of the cabin and into the house.”
She averts her gaze from mine, as though she’s cognizant of the fact that there are other reasons she could be off her game in this house, but she’s unwilling to acknowledge as much.
I’m also unwilling to acknowledge as much.
“Well, you may be a goner, but I am under no Christmas curses. We are not putting up a Christmas tree in April,” I say.
“Duh,” she replies. “It’s all going in my room, not the living room. Have no fear.” She pushes off the dresser and stands, gesturing to me. “Are you going to make those muscles useful, though, and help me move this so I have room for the tree close to my desk?”
“I think you’ve lost your mind,” I say instead of moving.
Madison stalks toward me, eyes narrowed. The movement is not dissimilar to how a disgruntled Hamlet slinks across the room, as much as she claims to hate him.