Chapter 13
THIRTEEN
Jesse
The captain’s voice crackles overhead, announcing our descent. Madeline stirs, slow and drowsy, lashes fluttering, before she blinks awake. A small frown tugs between her brows as she realizes where she’s waking up.
“Oh my God,” she says, sitting up so fast that her seatbelt tugs. “Please tell me I didn’t—”
“Use me as a pillow for the last hour?” I grin. “Yeah, you did.”
Her cheeks flush pink. “Fantastic.”
“Relax,” I say lightly. “It’s not the worst thing that’s happened to me on a flight.”
“I don’t even want to know.” She groans, dragging a hand over her face.
“You must not have gotten enough sleep last night. You were out cold.”
“I was not.”
“Mads.” I lift a brow, loving how easy it is to rile her up.“You were practically drooling.”
“I was not.” Her cheeks go pink. “God, this is why we shouldn’t spend time together outside of work.”
“You should have thought of that before you asked me to be your plus one this weekend.”
“I didn’t,” she says, rolling her eyes. “You offered. Remind me: why did I agree to that again?”
“Probably my charming personality,” I tell her with a shrug.
“Or maybe I had a mini-stroke.”
I laugh at that, and she joins me before she can stop herself. The sound shouldn’t get under my skin the way it does. Just like my body shouldn’t remember the feeling of her leaning into me, trusting me enough to drift off in the middle of a noisy plane. But it does. It really does.
Maybe it’s because I’m not used to being the guy who makes anyone feel safe.
That has always been Ford’s role. He’s been holding things together since we were kids, long before he should’ve had to.
When Mom got sick, everything fell apart in slow motion.
The doctors, the days she spent in bed, the quiet nights when he would sit up with me and Noah and Wes when we were scared of what might happen next.
When the worst did happen, when she died, Dad just…
checked out. He drank more than he worked, stopped coming home— when he did, it was only to yell or pass out on the couch.
That’s when Ford stepped in. He kept us fed, got us to school, made sure we didn’t let our parents’ absence dictate the path of the rest of our lives.
So yeah, I’ve spent most of my life being the one taken care of—not the one doing the taking care of.
Sitting here now, remembering the weight of Madeline’s head against my shoulder, how her breathing evened out when she finally relaxed, I realize that it felt good to be the person she leaned on.
The person she trusted. The person who made her feel safe.
It’s a small thing, and maybe I shouldn’t let it mean this much.
But I liked the feeling of being the steady one for once.
The wheels hit the runway a few minutes later. When the seatbelt light dings off, half the cabin is immediately on their feet.
Madeline unbuckles and stands, stepping into the narrow aisle. She’s small enough that the guy behind her doesn’t even notice her there until his backpack swings down, fast and careless. I react before I even think, catching it before it clips her shoulder.
“Careful,” I say, handing it back to the guy, who mutters something that doesn’t sound like an apology.
Madeline looks over her shoulder, startled. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.” I reach up and grab her carry-on, sliding it out from the bin and setting it at her feet.
“You really don’t have to—” she begins tightly.
“I know,” I say, cutting her off mid-protest. “But I’m tall. Might as well put it to use.”
Her lips press together, but she doesn’t argue, and I take it as a win.
As we shuffle down the aisle with everyone else, she walks just ahead of me. I watch her mesmerized by the wave of her hair as it brushes her shoulder. I don’t touch her, but I stay close enough to make sure no one else does either.
It’s just instinct, I tell myself. It’s just a protective habit. Nothing more.
The hotel lobby smells like polished wood and money. Gleaming glass, gold accents, and a water feature that looks like it belongs in an art gallery instead of a reception area.
Madeline’s heels click against the marble floor as she heads toward the front desk, suitcase rolling neatly behind her. I follow, dragging my own bag with a lot less grace.
The woman behind the lobby desk greets us with a smile. “Welcome to the Fairmont Ridge,” she says brightly. “Reservation name?”
“Madeline Ashcroft,” she answers before I can open my mouth. “There will be two rooms with a king size bed in each.”
The woman taps at the keyboard. I watch her expression shift from cheerful to apologetic, and immediately my stomach dips. That’s never good.
“I’m so sorry, Ms. Ashcroft,” she says, glancing between us. “It looks like there’s been a mix-up with your reservation. There’s only one room available for the weekend. It, uh…” She hesitates, clearing her throat. “Does have a king size bed though.”
Madeline blinks. “Excuse me?”
“The—” the woman gestures vaguely, cheeks pinking “—it’s the last available room. But it’s one of our nicest. Very spacious. King bed, spa tub, balcony. We would be happy to provide you with complimentary champagne…”
Madeline closes her eyes. “This cannot be happening.”
I bite back a laugh that’s dangerously close to slipping out. “Sounds nice,” I offer, just to see her glare at me, which she immediately does.
“This isn’t funny,” she snaps.
“Oh, I’m not laughing,” I lie smoothly, though my mouth twitches. “Just trying to look on the bright side. She said free champagne.”
Madeline’s eyes narrow, sharp enough to slice through steel. “You’re not drinking it.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it. All yours.”
She turns back to the woman, her shoulders beginning to droop in resignation. “There’s really nothing else available? Bunk beds, maybe? A janitor’s closet?”
This time I do laugh.
“Unfortunately, no, ma’am. There’s a large political event in town. Everything’s fully booked.”
Madeline exhales slowly. I can practically see the gears turning in her head as she runs through every possible alternative, hating every single one of them. Finally, she presses her lips together. “Fine. We’ll take it.”
The woman brightens, relieved. “Excellent! I’ll just need a card for incidentals—”
Madeline quickly hands over hers before I can reach for my wallet, because of course she does. The clerk finishes up, then produces a small envelope with two key cards, which she hands over with yet another apology.
“This is a nightmare,” Madeline mutters as we walk toward the elevators.
“Come on,” I say, keeping my tone easy. “Could be worse.”
She shoots me a sideways look. “How, exactly?”
I grin. “Two beds.”
I swear she’s about to smack me, but she thinks better of it. She gives me a look that could cut through glass though, and it’s worth it.