Chapter 8
By the time I make it up Maddie’s porch steps, my palms are already aching from hauling the paint rollers, and my fingers are curled tight around a can of soft lavender paint, the color she picked last-minute after an entire afternoon lost to a pinterest deep dive.
The tray is jammed under my arm, the drop cloth bunched and threatening to face-plant off my elbow, and the July heat is sticking to me, relentless, melting me into the fibers of her doormat.
I knock once, the toe of my boot thumping the wood. Maddie’s faster than I expect, and she swings the door open before I’ve even found my balance.
There she is, in that wildflower dress with a white primer streak on the hem, hair twisted up and escaping, cheeks flushed and bright. Breathing fast, eyes shining. A little chaotic, all Maddie. The sight of her knocks something loose in my chest, a feeling I have yet to find the right name for.
“You’re late,” she says, but her lips are already curled at the edges.
I tip my chin at her, muscling past and dropping everything onto the hallway runner. “Needed good rollers. The cheap ones shed worse than my cousin’s cat. And just so you know, if you’re planning a home improvement ambush at six in the morning, maybe give a heads up?”
“I texted at five-forty,” she fires back, completely deadpan.
“Five-forty is a threat, Maddie. Not a warning.”
She laughs, clear and bright, trailing after me down the hall. I follow the sound right into the bedroom, where she’s already in the thick of her latest project.
The place is half torn apart, with the dresser and nightstand corralled in the middle of the room, bed pulled from the wall, painter’s tape zigzagging along the edges.
I crouch, sizing up a tape line that’s barely hanging on, bubbling and peeling off in a lazy diagonal for two feet before giving up entirely.
I glance up, one eyebrow raised, fixing Maddie with my best skeptical stare.
She just hands me a roller. “Don’t judge. Mind your business.”
“This is my business. I tape for a living.”
“Then fix it. Stop acting like you’ve caught me committing tax fraud.”
I peel up the tape and re-stick it, nice and straight.
Maddie’s already on the drop cloth, prying open the lavender paint can.
Windows are shoved open, summer air rolling in slow, her phone perched on the sill and blasting music loud enough to drown out conversation.
I don’t mind—it’s almost better that way.
We fall into the work without even thinking. I take the far wall, she claims the near, and within minutes I’ve got a stripe of lavender paint running from wrist to elbow.
“Your fault,” I announce, holding up my arm as evidence.
She glances over and grins, paint roller in hand. There’s a fat smear of lavender on her dress, dead center. Like she did it on purpose.
“Absolutely not. You’re supposed to be a responsible adult.”
“My competence is being assaulted by your terrible playlist.”
She cranks the volume even higher, because of course she does.
She attacks the walls with big, bold strokes, burying the off-white beneath waves of lavender.
With every pass, the room changes, getting lighter, brighter, not just in color but in energy.
Stroke by stroke, Drew’s old bedroom goes under, and Maddie’s space emerges.
I catch myself watching her, more paint on me than the wall.
Twenty minutes in, we hit the first ADHD side quest…the dresser.
“The dresser,” Maddie declares, slamming her roller into the tray. “It’s wrong.”
I look at it. It’s a dresser. “It’s literally fine.”
“It’s visually oppressive against that wall.”
“It holds socks, not secrets. It’s not a regime.”
But she’s already pushing, bracing her hands against the wood. “Help me.”
We shove the thing to the left wall. Pause. Maddie frowns at it, like it’s personally offended her.
“Now it’s blocking the closet.”
“We rescued it from the middle of the floor. That counts.”
“Try the right wall.”
We drag it over. Both of us eye it, heads tilted. The dresser looks the same as before, only more in the sun.
“It was better where it started,” I point out.
She groans. “You’re supposed to support my vision.”
“I am. The dresser is just suffering from commitment issues.”
Back to the center. All the effort, zero progress. Somewhere in the chaos, I end up with paint in my hair, and Maddie points, cackling so hard she almost chokes.
Next up on the random side quest list, the bed. Maddie wants it angled for “personality.”
We angle it. The effect is IKEA showroom meets low-budget horror movie. Both of us stare, neither willing to be the first to say it, until Maddie grumps, “It looks like a haunted house.”
I lose it. So does she. We’re doubled over, laughing against the half-finished wall, breathless, tears tracking clean lines through paint-smudged faces. The room’s a wreck with furniture scattered, drop cloth bunched, lavender streaks sticky in the corners. But it feels alive.
She wipes her eyes, smearing fresh violet across her cheek. “I think,” she says, breath hitching, “I have no idea what I’m doing.”
“No one does,” I tell her. “The secret is, everyone’s just shoving dressers around and hoping it looks on purpose.”
She looks at me, really looks, and her smile goes soft at the edges. Not her retail smile, not hiding anything. The real one, saved for moments that crack her open.
“You always know how to make me feel better about being a disaster,” she says.
“Practice,” I reply. “You specialize in disaster. I’ve had to get good.”
She laughs, bright and true, echoing off the half-painted walls. And then she leans against me, shoulder pressed close, the two of us wedged between lavender and faded white, the laughter fading and something heavier settling in its place. We’re still grinning, close, hip to hip, as our eyes catch.
And then, just like that, neither of us is laughing. She’s looking at me like I’ve just handed her a secret, the kind you can only tell with your hands. Her cheeks are flushed, lips parted, the tiniest smudge of lavender paint on her chin. I want to taste it. I want to taste her.
I don’t do anything at first—not a single move, not a breath.
The air between us gets heavy, crackling with what we both want but haven’t let ourselves want out loud yet.
My heart is hammering so hard I could rival a pneumatic drill, which is embarrassing but, honestly, not surprising at this point.
I reach up, thumb swiping that paint fleck from her jaw, slow and deliberate, like I’m testing if I’m allowed. She leans in, chasing my touch. I make a noise in the back of my throat, low and unguarded, and then—
We’re kissing. If that word is even big enough for what’s happening.
At first, it’s clumsy, all teeth and laughter and the zing of what-the-hell-are-we-even-doing.
Then it slides into something deeper, every muscle in me zeroing in on the heat of her body, the press of her chest against mine, the sharp, sweet scent of her sweat under paint and jasmine lotion.
Maddie’s hands are in my hair, tugging the bun loose, fingers scraping my scalp, and I lose track of every coherent thought except wanting more. She tastes like summer and want and stubbornness; she tastes like home.
I crowd her back until her spine hits the wall, not gentle, not rough, just blunt because I can’t not.
The drop cloth crinkles under our boots, furniture pushed wild behind us, the lavender paint on the wall gleaming wet and half-done.
I brace a hand beside Maddie’s head, the other on her hip, locking us in this small, electric space.
She’s grinning into my mouth, that messy, gorgeous laugh still hovering at the edge of her lips. I don’t even bother hiding the smile that splits mine—I want her to feel how good this is, how wild and right.
“Jordan,” she whispers, voice gone ragged.
“Yeah?”
Her hands fist in my shirt, dragging me tight to her. “Don’t stop. Just… don’t.”
That, I can do.
I slide my hands down, grip her thighs, and lift—not a huge haul, just enough to tip her back so she’s sitting on the edge of the dresser, skirt riding up, legs opening for me.
She’s so soft under my hands, sturdy and warm and fully present, like she’s never even entertained the idea of playing coy.
The sight of her, skirt bunched, paint-splattered dress stretched tight across her chest, hair tumbling wild and cheeks red—it’s almost enough to knock me flat.
But instead I drop to my knees, the move so automatic I don’t even think about it.
The floor is cold and hard, but it grounds me, sharp and real, and that’s exactly how I want this.
Her knees are spread, feet planted, and I fit myself between her thighs, palms sliding up her calves and over her knees, anchoring us both.
I pull her toward the edge, flush with the dresser, until I can feel the heat radiating from her.
My hands slip under her dress, up and up, tracing the strong lines of her thighs. She shivers, but doesn’t break my gaze.
I push her skirt high, exposing her. She’s wearing underwear, but it’s already damp, the dark cotton clinging to her curves. I can smell her, sweet and sharp, and it makes me greedy.
She watches me, head tipped back slightly, eyes bright. I press a kiss to the inside of her knee, slow and deliberate. Her breath hitches, a little sound I want on a loop for the rest of time.
“You sure?” I ask, even though her body is writing the answer in all-caps.
She cups my jaw, thumb rough against my cheek. “If you stop, I’ll never forgive you.”
I grin, can’t help it, and swipe my tongue over her knee, all the way up her thigh, teasing her because I want to hear her beg. She’s not shy about it, not even close. Her hands tangle in my hair and she pushes me closer, guiding with zero patience.