In Your Dreams — Chapter no 24

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Madison

It’s weird bringing James into the apartment even though I don’t live here anymore. I’ve never brought a guy back here. Never once. Mostly because I knew I’d have to apologize for a thousand things Bryce does, and that seemed too exhausting. Plus, for hookups, I like to be able to leave whenever I want.

Anyway, this is not the kind of place you bring someone back to. The overflowing piles of laundry we have to step over by the door serve as proof. Mind you, the washer/dryer is nowhere near here. It’s actually in the bathroom closet. I guess I can thank Bryce for curing me of my messiness though.

And for letting us stay the night here for free.

“Super weird that she hasn’t been able to rent the place since you left,”

James says in a dry, sarcastic tone while stepping over a loose, oily takeout bag. “How did you live here for two years?”

“I mostly stayed in my room.”

He points. “There’s a thong hanging on the fridge handle.”

“Do you want to know how long that’s been there?”

“Nope.”

As we pass the bathroom on the way to my old room, we hear the shower water running behind the closed door. I give it my signature “shave and a haircut” knock. “Just letting you know we’re here!” I yell through the door.

“Make yourself at home!” she yells back. “There are brownies on the counter. But they’ve got weed in them, so beware.”

I look over my shoulder at James. “Nice of her to warn me. Last time she did not.”

His eyes widen, and a grin splits across his face. “Did you call 911 thinking you were dying?”

“No, worse. I called Emily,” I say while opening the hall linen closet and finding it empty of towels. Not surprising since I was the only one who ever washed them.

James and I drip-drop our way down the hallway and into my room. My old room. My heart rate picks up as he steps inside. A sense of monumental change sweeps over me when I close the door behind us.

The space is clean, just as I left it. But with James in here, it’s completely different. There might as well be a crackling fire in a fireplace for how cozy I feel watching him prowl around the room. Every time I’d come in here—lonely and heart-bruised from the day—I’d hope that the apartment would finally feel like home. Like somewhere restful and warm.

It never did.

Not until now.

“Mind if I change?” he says casually. “These wet clothes are disgusting.”

“Yes, good idea.” I turn to leave the room and give him privacy, but his laugh stops me.

“I’m not shy, Madison. You can stay. Change too if you want. I won’t look.” He’s already peeling off his sopping-wet shirt and my god the muscles of his torso are something out of a medical textbook. The kind doctors in training expect to find in the real world—every muscle and ligament defined—only to realize that average bodies don’t actually look so

chiseled.

James’s does.

So I turn away and unzip my bag (also wet from having dragged it along on all our adventures tonight). I dig out the big sleep shirt I brought and toss it onto the bed. I don’t even bother to make sure James isn’t looking because 1) he’s so respectful there’s no way he’s peeking when he said he wouldn’t, and 2) I’m not scared of nudity. If someone dared me to walk through New York naked for a million dollars, I’d laugh knowing I would have done it for twenty.

My shorts hit the floor in a loud wet thud, followed by the echo of James’s jeans doing the same. Chills I shouldn’t have flood my skin. I

attempt to peel my shirt up overhead as gracefully as James did, but it’s so wet it gets stuck around my face and shoulders, arms straight up in the air.

The harder I tug to free myself, the more stuck I get. I’m a human finger

trap right now.

As much as I don’t want to . . .

“Uh, James.”

“Hmm?”

“Can you . . . help?”

“Help with w—” His voice goes dead silent.

I can imagine what I look like to him at this moment, standing here in my underwear and bra, hands sticking up over my head with my shirt covering everything from my wrists to my neck. I hope it’s sexy—but I’m betting it’s not judging by the soft laughter James is trying to hide.

“How the hell did you get stuck in there?” His voice is closer now.

“You know how we nineties kids have been preparing all our lives to get

stuck in quicksand?”

“Sure.”

“We’ve been training for the wrong situation. Sopping-wet shirts are the real problem.”

“Clearly.” He tugs at the fabric around my elbows, but it just suctions tighter around my head and neck, drawing a squeak from me. “Damn. Okay . . . let me . . .” Another tug but no freedom. “Wait, I have an idea. Come with me.”

And then his bare hands are gently wrapping around the naked curve of my hips, pulling me with him a few steps. I will never recover from that touch. Never.

“I think this is gonna be the trick.” There are sounds of James shifting his weight and then an acute tug at the top of my shirt. The fabric budges, and between whatever he’s doing and my wiggling, the shirt comes off.

Light floods my eyes as I reenter the world and blink into focus: James’s stomach. For some reason, I am eye level with his navel. I stare at his taut, gorgeous abdomen and the soft, subtle dusting of hair that leads down into his . . . gray boxer briefs.

James clears his throat, stepping down from the bed. “I needed leverage.”

As his feet hit the floor, he tosses my shirt onto the pile of his wet clothes and somehow it feels intimate. Not nearly as intimate as how

closely we are standing in our underwear, though. Neither of us attempts to step away either. James is somewhere over six feet tall—I’d guess six-three —and I’m right at five feet. So that puts me level with his collarbones.

My greedy eyes want to explore the mostly naked man terrain in front of me, but I keep my gaze pinned there, on his right collarbone, so pronounced I could drink water from the divot between bone and shoulder muscle. My heart is something wild, jumping in my chest, and for once I don’t think it has anything to do with my lack of sex but has everything to do with the man who is creating this reaction.

James breathes out and I feel his breath against my forehead. “Do you”—my gaze drops to James’s hand, flexing and then tightening at his side—“have some clothes somewhere?” he says, and this is when I realize his voice sounds odd.

I look up only to find him with his chin in the air, eyes pinned to the ceiling. That gentlemanly son of a bitch.

“James,” I say on a laugh. “You don’t have to look away. I’m not shy either.”

He nods thoughtfully, pressing his lips together, but doesn’t look down

at me yet. “Yeah.”

“But you’re not going to?”

“Nope.”

“Because you’re afraid you’ll be overcome with desire when you see me in my plain gray cotton bra and panties?” The sarcasm in my tone is undeniable.

“Yes,” he rasps, and the seriousness of his tone is also undeniable.

Suddenly, I have never wanted anyone to look at me as much as I want him to. Which is a dangerous line to walk.

And yet . . . “Here I thought you were a cowboy, turns out you’re a chicken,” I whisper.

I watch a tiny smile crawl over his mouth before his eyes slowly scrape down to lock with mine. The powerful set of his jaw tells me he’s exercising all of his will to keep them pinned on my face.

I don’t know how to handle this mounting tension. I want both to throw myself against him and to resist it with everything in me . . . because James is easily the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and I don’t want to lose him. I don’t want to mess up a single bit of what we have.

No matter how sexy he looks in his underwear.

So with a willpower I didn’t realize I possessed, I lean around James, shoulder brushing the scalding skin of his torso, and snatch the oversized shirt off the bed. He watches as I slide it on, the cotton fabric falling slowly over my chest and hips and landing against my thighs.

“Nice shirt,” he says, tightly—because it’s his. The one I stole and will never return.

I can sense his desire coiling around me like a python as his eyes eat up the sight of me wearing something of his.

“You next.” It comes out breathless.

He strides over to his backpack, crouches, giving me the most achingly beautiful view of his lean, muscular back as he digs around, pulling out a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt. He tugs them both on, glides his hand through his damp hair, and makes a ta-da gesture with his hands.

We’re both clothed. We deserve trophies.

James clears his throat. “Should we get some sleep?” he asks, and I am going to need him to stop giving me that crooked grin and bedtime voice or else I will combust.

When did James Huxley become irresistible? When did he morph into the standard against which I judge all other men?

“Sleep sounds good.” I hate sleep.

He nods. “I’ll take the couch.”

“Ha! Sure . . . have fun with that.”

He faces me again with a questioning stare. “Are there spiders in it or something?”

I think back to all the noises I’ve heard coming from that sofa over the last two years. “That would honestly be preferable to what’s really there.”

His face skews. “Do I want to know?”

I give him a look. “You already do.”

He flicks up the comforter. “Well, looks like we’re bunking together tonight, Chef.”

“Totally fine with me.” Fine, fine, fine.

We both hesitate on either side of the bed for a millisecond—make eye contact, smile tensely, then slide in under the covers. We’re grown-ups. We can be mature about this. We can exist together under the sheets without having sex.

James turns out the light on the side table and I see in the sliver of moonlight that he lifts his hand above his head. “I know I should be tired,

but I’m not.”

“Me neither.”

“I also kinda want a cigarette.”

I turn my face to him, surprised by his easy admission. “Are you stressed?”

“I’m . . . something.” There’s a long pause. “I’ve got a lot on my mind.

That’s usually when I want one. When I can’t sleep, have a lot on my mind,

or . . .”

Or.

Turned on is what he doesn’t say, and what I won’t voice. Because if I do, I’ll say it while straddling him.

I turn onto my side, facing him. “Tell me what’s on your mind.”

His face angles my way and I wish the light was on. I wish I could see the lopsided grin I know he’s giving me. “Better yet, tell me about Caden.”

Is it my imagination or did James all but spit his name?

“Ugh. Caden is a nobody that I met in class and slept with on the

weekends.”

“Try again.”

“Caden is an idiot.”

“Closer.”

I breathe in and let it out. “Caden . . . hurt me.”

James stiffens. “What did he do to you?”

“He hurt my feelings, I should say. So don’t go end his life.”

“You say that like hurting your feelings is not still a murder-able offense.”

I chuckle and James’s hand brushes mine, resting above our pillows. His fingers shift to lightly grasp a lock of my hair. “Remember when I told you I was lonely here? That I realized I wanted someone who didn’t just want to have sex with me but wanted to spend time with me too? Well . . . I hoped Caden would be that person.”

“Did you ask him?” His touch is still gentle against my hair, delicately running it back and forth between his fingers.

“Yes. One night after we—well . . . you know—I was getting ready to leave his place, and I asked him if he would want to date me for real. Be something. Outside of the bedroom.” I cringe thinking back to that raw moment. “I really laid it all out on the line like I was in a rom-com movie,

and it was my grand gesture moment. I was cute and witty and listed out all the ways I’m fun to be around. And he said . . .”

“What did he say?” James asks so quietly it’s almost like he’s scared to hear the answer too.

“He said I was cute and really great in bed . . . but that he was looking for someone he could take home to his parents. Someone put together and professional. He said he didn’t think I was that kind of woman—and even worse, said it with a laugh like I should be in on the joke with him.”

“Shit. And what did you say?”

“Nothing. I just stood there like an idiot and laughed along because it hurt so bad, but I wasn’t sure why—he didn’t say anything that was untrue or that I hadn’t thought about myself before.” I pause, jolted back to feeling disgusted by Caden’s smile for the first time. “So then he gave me a kiss, and a pat on the ass, and said he’s always down to fuck though.” So vulgar.

I’d never once felt cheap in all my days of hooking up with guys, but I felt cheap and used and discarded in that moment. I’ve been carrying that

feeling around ever since.

“Madison . . .”

“No. It’s okay. I don’t need you to say anything about it. But honestly, that was how my entire experience was here. Lonely. Belittling. And suffocating.”

No sooner than the words finish leaving my mouth do we suddenly hear Bryce’s door slam shut, followed by her giggle and the low hum of a man’s voice.

“Oh and there’s that,” I say, less than thrilled by what I know comes next.

I guess Bryce wasn’t alone in that shower like I assumed.

James is going to say something but cuts off when he’s suddenly treated to the groans and grunts of the Caveman. “Oh god,” he whispers, horror drenching his voice. “You weren’t kidding about them.”

“It’s gonna get worse too.”

“How could it—” He cuts off because sounds that humans don’t usually make begin filtering through the room. James and I lie here in tense silence for a minute as the violent thud of Bryce’s headboard bounces against the wall.

James covers his ears, but I know that’s not doing much to muffle the sound. “This is the furthest thing from sexy I could ever experience.”

“It’s bad. It’s real bad,” I say, making us both laugh. And that laugh tumbles into another one, and before I know it we’re both shoving our faces into our pillows to stifle not screams of ecstasy but rolling, belly-aching laughter. And this, I realize, is the first time I’ve ever lain in bed with a man

and laughed.

It’s wonderful.

Finally, Bryce and Caveman climax and things quiet down, along with our laughter.

“There. Finally, it’s done,” James says on a relieved sigh.

“Oh, James . . . sweet, naïve James.”

“It’s not done?” he asks with dread.

“It’s only begun.”

With a groan, James swings his legs over the side of the bed, rounds the bed to my side, and holds out his hand. “Come on.”

“Where are we going?” I ask, sliding my hand easily into his and

standing.

“Somewhere we can breathe.”

“How have I never thought to come up here before?” I ask after James opens the door leading to the roof and I step through. The rain has finally stopped, and it’s turned into a beautiful night. Humid, but beautiful.

I don’t think we’re supposed to be up here (which gives me a jolt of delight), but also there’s no one around to actually care either. This isn’t the kind of apartment building that comes with security and a doorman.

“I’m surprised you didn’t either. I would have thought the DO NOT ENTER sign would have been a flashing green light for you.”

I laugh and follow him to a dryish spot on the ground, where he spreads out the comforter we snagged from the bed and drops the two pillows on top next. We settle onto the blanket and James immediately lies back against the pillow, arm above his head again, eyes closed. Cowboy sleeping pose. He just needs a campfire and a horse.

I’m not ready to lie down yet. I’m full of restless energy that I don’t know what to do with. After pulling my knees up to my chest, I tug my loose shirt over them.

“Hey.” I nudge his shoulder. “Today was fun. Thank you.”

He peeks an eye open. “Fun enough to stay?”

I pause, take in a big breath, and look around. The question deserves thought and I know he won’t accept anything less. “Fun enough to replace some of the bad memories.” I pause. “But I want to be home. I want my life to be in Rome.”

His eye closes again, but a smile opens. “Fair enough.”

And then I go out on the scariest limb I’ve ever balanced on. “Besides . . . you wouldn’t be here if I stayed.” Both of his eyes open now and find mine. “And I have a hypothesis that tonight was so much fun because you were with me.” I let the silence stretch for half a second before I chicken out. “My best friend.”

He stares at me and then stares some more. I don’t know what he’s staring at, what he’s seeing. Everything, maybe. Finally, he reaches out and gently wraps his fingers around my forearm, tugging me down so I break out of my T-shirt cocoon and lay my head on the pillow beside his.

“He was wrong, you know . . .”

I know exactly who he’s talking about. “Caden? I’m not so sure. I think he might have been more correct than I’d like to admit. I haven’t been ‘bring home to Mom’ material. But I’m trying to be now.”

“You’re too quick to believe the negative about yourself. It’s not true.

And you don’t need to change a damn thing.”

“Oh come on, James. You’ve known me my entire life. You’ve seen all the mess-ups. You’re the one who helped Noah drag my ass out of jail that night I went skinny-dipping in college!”

“Who cares? You were a kid. You were living. And you’re forgetting all the amazing stuff you’ve accomplished too. No, don’t give me that look.”

“Excuse me if I don’t believe the hot air you’re blowing at me. My track record is full of more failure than success.”

“You really don’t see it, do you?”

I frown at him.

“Madison, other people lean into the one thing they are good at and stick to it because it’s the surest way to success. Take me, for example. . . . I was raised to be a farmer, and I’m good at it, so I never quit. I just kept going with the path that was laid out for me.”

“And now you own an entire farm!”

His brown eyes slam into mine. “But at what cost?”

“James . . .”

“But you have always been brave enough to throw yourself into whatever it is you love. Even if you’re not naturally good at it. If it inspires you, excites you, you try it. You have more instances of ‘failure’ on your list because you are resilient and you’re not afraid to live—and you’ll likely never know just how inspiring I find you.”

How does he do that? How does he so easily manage to make me feel ten feet tall with pride? And it means even more to me knowing he’s not searching for the right line that’s going to get me to sleep with him. I get the

sense he’s saying what’s on his mind.

This good, kind man finds me inspiring.

And I suddenly wonder if anyone has ever given him the chance to bet on himself like he’s betting on me.

“James . . . have you ever thought about moving here to New York or someplace else and starting over?”

He closes his eyes again. “Yes. But only once in my life.”

“When Noah was here?”

“No.”

And that’s all he says about it.

I eventually lie down beside him and curl my knees up again, pressing lightly into James’s side for warmth. It’s not cold out here, but my bare legs are chilly. Without hesitation, James’s hand moves to my outer thigh and he rubs up and down it, generating heat. So much heat.

I’m delirious from staying awake all night and drunk off James’s smile and the quiet honesty that’s unfolded between us over this trip. Which is why I’m staring openly at the side of his face. Studying the slope of his nose and the angle of his jaw. The scruff and the light curl of his lashes.

And his mouth, full and mesmerizing.

I lay my face on my hands. “So, you’re not scared of what will happen if I fail and take your restaurant down with me?”

James’s head lolls again in my direction and his hand stills, flexed against my leg. “To be completely honest, Madison, I’m only scared of what will happen when you succeed.”

That is the absolute best thing anyone has ever said to me.

Feeling satisfied in a completely new way, I turn over onto my back and look up at the sky.

And would you look at that. Here in the heart of the place that nearly broke me, I finally see a sky full of stars.