In Your Dreams — Chapter no 17

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Madison

55 DAYS UNTIL I FAIL . . .

JOSIE: Hey! Haven’t heard from you in a while. Want to FaceTime and catch up soon?

“You want these in the kitchen?”

I look up from the surprising text to see my brother walk into James’s house, a bag in each hand—both full of pies. Amelia follows with takeout from the Diner.

“Yep, kitchen’s good.” I shut the door behind them and glance at the

message again.

Josie? Why would she text me?

We’d shared a few polite lunches, but we weren’t close. Okay, maybe she’d invited me out once or twice, but only after I overheard her making plans with other friends. They were pity invites.

I never went because I was filling my rare free time with Caden— investing in something that turned out to be a one-way street.

But this? This text feels intentional. Why?

Yeah! Let’s do it! I respond, knowing it’ll probably never happen, and then pocket my phone while joining Noah and Amelia in the kitchen.

James’s kitchen.

It’s been a week since our delivery day, and I haven’t stopped thinking.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but I’d been completely blocked because I was trying to create the kind of restaurant the New York chefs I used to work for would have approved of. Something sleek. Cool. Pretentious.

Something that wasn’t me.

But then I met Della. And it all clicked into place.

I don’t want to reinvent my roots. I want to honor them.

This restaurant will celebrate Southern food, my specialty. It’ll be simple and heartfelt, and every bite will taste like a memory.

That night, I scribbled ideas like jalapeño skillet cornbread, watermelon beet salad, and three different crust options for fried catfish. Then I sent it all to Tommy.

He called within minutes. He loved it, offered a few ideas of his own, and we brainstormed how to market the whole theme. We talked for two hours. And before we hung up, he asked if I was ready to take him up on that date yet. I said never and he replied, maybe next week.

So anyway, this is why I’m gathering my family here tonight. They’re going to help me make a few decisions.

“Where’s James?” asks Noah as he unloads the pies onto the counter and then swiftly turns to free up Amelia’s arms.

“Still on the farm. I told you he’s been working really intense hours lately.” Even though he’s supposed to be prioritizing rest.

Noah glances at the clock, brows furrowed, then goes back to what he was doing. Classic Noah. Full of thoughts and unwilling to share a single one of them.

“Hello?” calls Emily from the front door. “We’re here!”

“In the kitchen!”

A few seconds later, Emily and Jack join us, along with Annie and Will right behind them. “I brought beer!” Will says, holding up a case. And then he raises his other hand. “And ginger beer for those who want it.”

“You can just say you brought it for me,” says Jack with a grateful smile as he leans back against the counter. “Everyone knows I’m the only one who drinks it.”

A discreet look is shared around the room.

“Actually,” says Emily, leaning into him and hugging his waist as he curls his arm around her shoulders, “I think I’ll have one tonight too.

Sounds good.”

“Same!” parrots Amelia. “I’m not really in the mood for beer.” It’s clear as day what they’re doing—creating a way for Annie to not have to drink alcohol without putting her on the spot.

This is what siblings are best for: enabling your lie.

“Yep, me too,” I say, even though I despise ginger beer. I’d rather drink James’s battery acid coffee. I’ve always felt like the outsider in my family, but in small moments like this I can trick myself into thinking I fit in. I’m one of them. A successful gal with her life moving in a forward direction and doing the right thing for the sake of the fam.

“Huh.” Will frowns. “Okayyyyy. I guess I’ll put the beer in the fridge?”

He looks disappointed. Like he’s waiting for someone to save him, which is interesting. Does he not realize Annie is pregnant? It seems so odd to me that she wouldn’t have told him yet. He is not only her husband, he’s her best friend. So why is Will looking at her like he’d rather eat his shoe than drink a ginger beer?

Noah silently takes the case from him and shuts it into the fridge. He might as well have punted it off the cliff. None of us are touching that stuff tonight.

We all continue shooting the breeze, but I can’t focus. My mind is zeroed in on the clock. Why isn’t James back yet? He didn’t know we were going to be here, but still—he used to clock out at five o’clock almost every day. These days, I’ve noticed from my window where I’ve definitely not been creepily keeping tabs on him that his truck rumbles back up to the house sometimes as late as 7:45.

It’s 7:30 now. He should be home. He needs to be home, resting and de- stressing, like his doctor prescribed.

While Amelia is telling us about the juicy text a celebrity friend of hers drunkenly sent her the other night, I wander to the window and peek out.

No truck. And as Will, Emily, and Jack are bonding over student teaching stories (Will starts his first semester in August), I check my phone’s time just to make sure the clock on the microwave is correct. It is.

Maybe both clocks are wrong.

My eyes hunt for a third clock and instead clash with Noah’s narrowed,

speculative gaze. He’s locked on me.

“Worried?” he mouths.

I shrug. “About what?”

His response is a flat, unimpressed smirk.

Finally, around 7:50, James strolls through the door wearing his usual uniform—worn-out jeans streaked with dirt, a sun-faded tee, and that ever- present hat pulled low over his brow. He looks exactly the way James

always looks, like he could fix your truck, build you a deck, or hold you gently if you needed it.

My blood sparks, knowing he’s in the room. That his eyes will meet mine any second. That the familiar dip in my stomach is coming.

If he’s surprised to find all of us crowded in his kitchen, he doesn’t show it. Then again, this house has been our unofficial headquarters since high school.

No, he’s not surprised we’re here; what he looks downright offended by is the sight of our ginger beers.

He pointedly looks at each of our hands and then asks, “What the hell kind of Nazarene college party did I just walk into?”

“We’re all feeling responsible tonight. Want one?” I ask him, drawing his attention.

Our eyes connect and—whoosh—my stomach dips low. I have never experienced anything like this sensation before. It is alarming. Distinct. And directly tied to the man approaching from across the room.

“I’ve been responsible all day. I’d like a beer.” He moves in, and because I’m semi-blocking the fridge, he touches my lower back with one hand, closing the other around my hip to gently maneuver me out of the way. He could have just asked and I would have stepped aside, but I like his method much better. His touch seeps through my clothes and skin and ping- pongs around my bones.

I still feel the ghost of his hands when he turns to me, gently plucks the can from my grasp, and replaces it with a beer, because he knows it’s what I really wanted. I would not be shy about giving you what you wanted. His eyes hold mischief while he swigs his beer, as if he can see the memory of his words floating through my mind.

They’ve been an ever-present chorus, quietly reverberating in the back of my head ever since he said them.

And this is when I notice everyone watching us with shocked expressions. Oh god. I think my face might be screaming, I want James!

And it turns out, when James is your friend, he kinda gives out I want you too vibes. Is he this way with all his friends? Has James been a fuckboy all this time and I’ve never noticed?

An unbidden image of him and Jeanine flashes in my mind and I hate it.

“You look tired,” I say with a specific intention. “If you want to skip this hangout and go on to bed, it’s totally fine.” Aka, Get lost, buddy, you’re

distracting me.

A grin plays on his mouth. “Totally fine, huh?” He touches his index finger to the spot right in the center of my forehead. “Your face is so loud.”

“Your face is loud,” I counter, slapping his hand down, concerned that my siblings are all listening to us like this is the newest podcast they can’t turn off. So I sniff him. “And you stink. You should go get a shower.”

Another sniff but longer this time because he doesn’t smell bad at all.

Miraculously, he smells like mint gum and earth. Still no cigarette smoke, thankfully.

James still hasn’t looked away from me. Is he drunk already? Suffering a heat stroke? Why isn’t he acknowledging the room? “I smell so bad you had to sniff me twice?”

“Umm, excuse me,” Emily blurts out, holding up a hand. “Is something going on here? Better yet, what is going on here?”

Oh great. If Noah keeps all his thoughts inside, Emily is his antithesis.

Every thought she’s ever had spills out in the most direct way possible. It’s inconvenient ninety percent of the time. And right now, I’d like to give her a big, uncomfortable wedgie.

The last thing I need is for my family to know I’m wildly attracted to James. I would never hear an end to their opinions. Most likely, they’d ask me to leave him alone. Not because they don’t love me but because they know my track record. They’d think I was chasing something I’d only lose

interest in. That I’d hurt him.

And I’m worried they’d be right.

I’m forming the world’s worst lie when James speaks up first. “Actually, I’m glad you guys are here. We have something to tell you.”

“We do?” I direct my panicked expression at his face.

He wraps an arm around my shoulders and pulls me into his side.

“Madison and I have fallen . . .” Cue the longest pause known to man. “. . .

into friendship.”

A sigh slips away from me.

Emily lifts a brow. “Friendship?”

James winces, really getting into character. “Afraid so. It was never supposed to happen.” He looks at my brother. “And I don’t want to blame it on you, Noah, but—you’ve been sort of wrapped up in your wife lately and

neglecting me.”

Noah’s lips press together—unamused.

Now that I’ve got the hang of where the plot is going, I’m ready to play along. “It’s true. I tried my best to resist it . . .” I say, casting my eyes up to James and patting his chest. Oof, bad idea. I forgot how solid he is, and now I just want to trail my hand under his shirt and experience what his skin feels like stretched over his muscles.

He finishes my sentence: “. . . But too many lonely nights inevitably lead to—”

“Cinnamon sugar toast,” I say in a mocking, shame-filled tone.

And the thing is, I know we’re only playing. That this is a dramatic production about friendship. But the way he’s looking at me coupled with how my palm is absorbing the beats of his heart like they belong to me, it doesn’t feel like we’re acting. It feels like we’re actually confessing something to each other under the guise of sarcasm.

Does James feel it too?

He blinks and breaks the spell, looking out at my family. “We’re really sorry, guys.”

“We never intended to hurt you,” I add, pulling my hand away.

I half expect us to take a bow, but my family has their own encore, apparently.

Noah crosses his arms. “Oh no—they’re alike. How have I never noticed this before?”

Emily nods slowly. “It’s true. They both live for drama. And James . . . he suddenly looks like he has the urge to get drunk and dance on a table, belting ‘No Scrubs’ at the top of his lungs.”

“Hey. That happened one time. Quit bringing it up.”

“And Maddie—” Jack says, pushing his glasses up his nose to get a better look at me. Kinda upsetting how someone can look so hot in glasses actually. (I certainly don’t.) “Is it just me, or does she look like maybe she’s already set an alarm for the morning?”

“Not fair,” I interject. “You’re insinuating he’d influence me in a positive way! He has plenty of bad traits.”

“You’re gonna have to dig pretty deep to find them,” says James with a smirk that used to irritate me. Now I dream about it.

I tip my head back and let out a loud HA! “If I’m becoming more like you, it means I suddenly have the urge to put my nasty boots on the table!”

“Because it’s fun to see you get annoyed.”

“To wear the same hat for ten years!”

“It’s actually a new hat every year. . . . I just keep buying the same one.”

“To work late every day covering shifts for people who should be working but aren’t.”

He ticks out the side of his mouth. “Shoot. Looks like you’re doing it too now.”

“Dammit. You’re right. You have too many good traits.”

He leans his hips back against the counter, crossing his arms. “Just when I thought I was getting upgraded to James Dean, I’m back to an old oak table.”

And then I hear Annie whisper something to Will, and the world slowly pulls back into focus and I realize the thing happened with James again.

Everything else had faded away around me until it was only me and him.

“Okay, I’m officially too hungry for this joke to continue. Let’s eat!” I shout and turn away, pulling everyone’s attention to me as I open the oven, releasing an aroma that draws groans from everyone in the room. I’ve been practicing a few dishes this week in my cottage, but today I snuck over here and used James’s kitchen to try out a few of the more expansive recipes.

At first, it was like stretching sore muscles. I hadn’t cooked simply for the joy of it since culinary school—since the pressure crept in and convinced me that every slice, every dash of seasoning, every arrangement on a plate had to be flawless. But this time I let myself have fun. I let go of the need to impress and remembered what it felt like to chase a craving, to wake up in the middle of the night with a dish idea and feel an unstoppable urge to make it right then.

I remembered the thrill of turning on music and getting lost in the rhythm of chopping, stirring, tasting. For me, the best—and most addictive —part of cooking has always been the high of watching people I love enjoy the food I made, knowing it fed something deeper than just their hunger.

And now I’m giddy. Not nervous, not second-guessing. Excited to see how my family likes this meal. Because making it felt so damn good. It felt like coming home to myself.

I duck off to the side, watching with a contented smile as everyone forms a line to scoop food onto their plates.

James steps up behind my shoulder, speaking quietly when he says, “Did you make all of this in the restaurant’s kitchen?” The hope in his voice rips a thread of guilt in me.

I hesitate before answering. “No . . . not yet.”

I wonder if he’s disappointed in me—questioning my place at this restaurant.

But instead he playfully bumps my shoulder as he steps around me to join the line. “You’ll get there, Chef.”

The night goes off without a hitch. We eat. We laugh. My family takes turns lavishing me with compliments about the food, and we roast one another until one of us says something that’s a little too close to the truth and then we switch gears quickly. You know, family time.

Once the chaos dies down, they each take a turn circling the table I’ve methodically laid out with potential place settings. But these aren’t any old plates and napkins. The dishes are hand-thrown pottery from our local studio, and the napkins are embroidered by a seamstress who works out of the quilt shop.

If my restaurant is going to honor my Southern roots, I want every part of it—down to the linens—to come from this community.

Beatrice, the potter, was just as excited about the idea as I am. She’s agreed to supply plates and cups at a discounted rate, and in return we’ll set up a small merch corner in the restaurant where customers can buy a piece to take home.

Which is why tonight matters. Beatrice gave me several style and color options, and I need to choose which ones will define the brand of the Greenhouse, which is the restaurant’s official name. It feels right. James told me to trust myself, so I am.

A few hours later, once the votes are tallied and the last car pulls out of the driveway, I’m layering plates with bubble wrap and sliding them into boxes to return to the studio, along with my final selections. Just as I bend to lift the first box, a pair of arms reach into view and snatch it from my

hands.

“Hey!” I say, outraged.

“Hey,” James says like we’re in a bar and he’s trying to pick me up.

I have to skip behind him to keep up with his long strides as he carries the box out to my truck. “Stop that.”

“I’ve tried. Turns out my good looks never quit,” he says, sounding like Tommy and reminding me they really are brothers.

“James. You have been working all day! You don’t need to be carrying my boxes around.”

“I don’t turn into a pumpkin at eight o’clock. I can carry a box. In fact, I’ll carry two. And then I’m helping you unload them at your place, because

they’re heavy as hell.”

“So . . . you’re saying I’m weak?”

He laughs, a deep, easy sound that rolls right down my spine. “You’re a lot of things, but muscular’s not one of them.”

“You’ve never been more wrong. Do you even know what it takes to whisk a soufflé?”

He stops midstride, turning to face me, all mock-seriousness. “Prove it.”

I raise my arm and flex, eyebrows lifted in challenge. His hand wraps around my biceps, fingers warm, and he gives it a squeeze.

“Sorry,” I say dramatically. “Did I bruise your fingers with my massive guns?” I throw in a few exaggerated poses.

He grins, hand dropping. “Spaghetti noodles. I’m getting the other box.

Can’t have my chef blowing out her rotator cuff before opening day.”

“James.”

He pivots again. His eyes are still soft, but the humor’s gone. “I swear to god, Madison, if you start treating me like I’m spun glass, this friendship will implode faster than it started. Let me carry the damn boxes.”

Oof.

I wish I could say his assertiveness didn’t do things to me. But it does.

And . . . I see his point.

James is not one to be coddled, never has been.

So I give in and climb inside my truck, waiting. A minute later, he joins me on the bench seat.

But I don’t put the truck in drive right away. I just sit here.

Eventually, James gives me a look—one eyebrow raised, half a smile playing on his lips. But when I slide slowly across the seat toward him, the smile fades into something quieter. Warmer.

I reach around him, tug his seatbelt across his chest, and click it into place. Then I pat his chest where the belt lies.

“I need you to be safe too,” I say with a grin.

He might not need coddling, but he does need someone to care for him.

And although I’m not the most reliable person, maybe it wouldn’t be terrible for that person to be me. As his friend.