CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Madison
I wake up with James today, too jittery to sleep a second past the first rays of the sun. While I shower, James says he'll make coffee and put a bagel in the toaster for me. I get a soft kiss on the temple, and I wonder if that will ever stop feeling like heaven.
I doubt it.
Everything has been leading up to today: the Greenhouse's soft opening.
Our friends, family, and most of the town will be coming out for a free meal. The goal is to build buzz and smooth out any kinks before the real opening, which is a week from today.
James is going to take the contract with AFD, which takes a lot of pressure off me to make this restaurant boom immediately, but now I feel a little competitive. Maybe I can make it boom? Why not try? For James. For me.
So I took Josie's advice. I pulled the nepotism card—aka I called my super-famous pop star sister-in-law and asked for a favor.
Of course she was willing (eager) to help and had her manager leak it to the press that she'd be attending the soft opening and paparazzi were encouraged to attend.
Since they'll be there foaming at the mouth to catch a glimpse of Rae Rose walking in and leaving the restaurant, she's called in more bodyguards.
All of this will help put the Greenhouse on the map, and I'm just trying not to hurl.
After showering, I tie my navy-blue bandanna around my hair, cottagecore style. Later, I'll slick my hair back in a stubby little ponytail and don my chef's coat, but for now I'm in my comfy cutoffs and James's baggy T-shirt to gather produce.
When I come out, he's at my table eating breakfast. Hat on, word search open, too big for the table, coffee steaming. It's a sight to cherish.
When he looks up he smiles, and my heart flips. I think I might be glowing. Or blushing. Or melting.
I pad over to the coffeepot, pour a cup, then take the seat across from him at the table. "It looks like coffee," I say, staring down into the cup. I sniff it. "Smells like coffee."
He lifts a brow, smirking. "Taste it, I dare you."
I stare at him as I sip. The flavor that hits my tongue is . . . "Delicious."
"Mm-hmm." He sits back, proud. "I got a fancy coffee at the store. And I even watched a YouTube video on how to actually make it instead of just dumping a shit-ton of grounds into the basket."
I bat my eyes. "For me?"
"For you." He smiles, bumps my knee under the table.
Fireworks explode in my belly. "Hey, do you live here now?"
He laughs. "I've stayed with you two days."
I grin over my cup, shrugging slightly. "Longest anyone has ever stayed over."
"I have my own house," he says, but it's not really an answer. After a short pause, he adds, "I like yours better, though."
I look around. "Mine is pretty great. But arguably yours is better."
He doesn't look like he agrees. "Mine is too big and empty."
"Ah." I had wondered. It's a large space that used to be filled with family. When he's in there alone, I imagine it's gaping.
"Doesn't feel like mine either. Feels like my mom and dad's."
"For now maybe. But maybe one day you'll fill it up with a wife and kids."
"Do you want that? Kids?" he asks, like I'm the wife in question. And I have no idea why but it fills me with so much joy I want to go give him a lap dance.
I shrug. "I don't know actually. I've never really seen myself that way."
"Me neither."
"Really?" I'm shocked, eyes wide and bugging. I thought for sure James pictured himself driving a tractor with a James Jr. in his lap.
"I'm not big on kids. But I could be, if that's what you want."
I'm so pleased by this answer I could pop. Pleased with this whole conversation, actually. This whole relationship so far.
I sip my coffee, face warming with tinges of pink delight. "We'll see. For now, you can stay here with me in my cozy cottage as much as you want."
He gives me a smile that feels like a sweet, lazy kiss. And then he rips out a page of his word search and slides it across to me.
And there it is. I think I've found the secret I've been looking for: I'd like to be restless with adventure, go out and see and do and be, and then come home.
To this.
To him.
I think this is what I've always wanted.
I should have known the easy morning was a red herring.
I'm greeted with chaos the moment I step foot through the kitchen doors.
"The stove is out . . ." says Amiya, my sous-chef.
Her dark brown eyes are wide, and don't be fooled by her nose ring and sleeve of tattoos—she is the most type A, pleasure-to-have-in-class person I've ever met.
She moved here from Birmingham, Alabama, to take this job and came with a glowing recommendation from the restaurants where she previously worked.
I can't help but think she should be the executive chef instead of me.
Point being, she was here before me this morning.
But she said that's never been her dream. She feels strongest in this role, and I feel stronger with her in it, so I won't fight her on it.
"Actually, the stove is out and Bradley called out sick," she adds.
But instead of panicking I take a calming breath and look at my phone, noting that I still have eight hours until opening.
No problem. I'll call a handyman for the stove and see who else from our alternate staff is available to cover for Bradley tonight.
Or better yet, I'll have our manager, Tess, find someone!
I like her. To quote her from her interview, she's "menopausal and brash. Just the lady to get stuff done."
So this is no big deal.
And it isn't . . . at least it's not compared to when she tells me we are having software issues and our POS system isn't working. And then again to say no one is available to cover Bradley's shift—oh, plus we have a walnut allergy reservation to look out for tonight.
But I keep my cool. I don't let anyone see the panic on my face, because I can do this.
I can do this, I repeat to myself as I head for the back door, planning to go outside and scream in my truck.
I can—AH!
An arm snakes out from the pantry and loops around my waist, pulling me into the giant food storage closet.
But it's not any old arm. It's James's. And with my heart racing and panic hovering under the surface of my skin, I'm pressed gently back into the shelves and kissed.
One of his hands slides against my jaw and the other is holding my hip.
"Sorry. Just wanted to say hi," he says, voice gravelly.
"I'm glad you did. Hey, question: When's your brother getting here?"
"Not really something a man likes to hear while kissing his girlfriend's neck."
Despite the chaos swirling in my head, that new title is a wind chime in my ear, making my skin prickle with pleasure.
"What did he do now?" James asks.
"Nothing." I breathe out. "But it would be nice if he were around. To make sure this is all going like it should be going? I'm worried I'm doing it wrong already."
Neither of us has seen Tommy since the incident the other night. He did email me the next morning, though, saying, I hope I didn't hurt your feelings. It was nothing personal—just business. But hey, I'm still up for that date if you are:)
Only Tommy would possess enough self-delusion to think a woman would ever consider dating him after the things he said. But again, because it's him (and because I never harbored a smidge of feelings for him), I laughed it off and responded: You're dreaming.
Tommy is uniquely Tommy.
James pulls away to catch my gaze. "Madison. You can do this." He pauses, a soft smile growing. "But if you want me to, I'll call him and get his ass down here."
"Yes, please."
Eventually, I leave the pantry and James's safe arms and I put out what seems like a thousand fires (including one real one—small at least).
Tommy is nowhere to be found.
In a blink, it's go time.
Guests are arriving, and we're short-staffed.
Guests are being seated, and we can't find the box of our custom linen napkins, so we're scrambling with paper.
Guests are trying to sneak back into the kitchen to say hi—the ones who have known me since I was in diapers—and suddenly I feel like I can't breathe.
I'm informed by a bodyguard who swoops into the kitchen and checks the storage closet that Rae Rose (Amelia) is on the premises and about to exit her vehicle.
Paparazzi are apparently swarming outside.
It still catches me off guard to see her like this: as a celebrity.
The version of her that belongs to the rest of the world.
But I don't have time to dwell on it. Life is moving at warp speed around me.
Tess plays bouncer at the kitchen door. Every now and then I hear her, over the clatter of pans, telling Mabel or Phil or even Emily to go back to their seats—Chef Walker will greet everyone after service. I could kiss her.
As the night goes on, I expect to find my rhythm. I never do.
We're moving too slowly. My kitchen hand is working double duty—plating and washing dishes—and it's dragging down the whole line.
It feels like a haunted house where everything is a warped version of what it should be, and I want to scream around every corner.
Something's scorching. Something's boiling over.
Counters are a mess, and even though someone's yelled "BEHIND!" at least ten times in the last twenty seconds, we're still colliding like bumper cars.
I want to hide in the pantry to catch my breath, but a saucepan of our citrus-infused rémoulade hits the floor. We have to make it again, while still being behind on the orders that needed it in the first place.
My confidence is a drooping sail, and life shows no mercy. The printer continues spitting out tickets like it's alive. Like it hates me.
A young waiter bursts through the doors, sweaty, pale, and wide-eyed. "Uh, Chef. Tiny problem."
"Jason," I say ominously as I bend over the heirloom and fried green tomato stack, carefully drizzling black pepper molasses sauce over a goat cheese mousse. (Della would still call this dish too fancy-schmancy, but I dedicated it to her anyway.) "I don't have time for tiny problems."
"Okay . . . how about huge ones?"
I lift my eyes and glare. "You've got ten seconds."
"Sort of like table twelve," he mutters, with a weak attempt at humor.
"What about table twelve?" I grit out.
Jason winces. "Remember how he has a walnut allergy . . . ?"
"Oh my god. Tell me he didn't get the sweet potato gnocchi."
Jason cringes. "He got the sweet potato gnocchi."
"Shit!"
I barrel past him. "Tess!" I yell, though I don't need to—she's right there. "EpiPen! Now!"
She doesn't flinch. Just reaches into her half-apron and pulls one out.
"You carry one on you?"
"I've worked in restaurants for fifteen years. Of course I carry one."
And I do kiss her this time. But only on the cheek, because HR and all that.
Then I'm hurtling through the dining room toward table twelve.
"Hi," I say to the man who I'm pretty sure was my third grade teacher, looking like something is tingling on his tongue. I smile and extend the EpiPen. "So sorry, but you're going to need this."
I turn to his wife. "We'll be sending you home with an extra dessert."
Tess appears behind me. "Go back to the kitchen. I'll take care of them."
I weave through the throng of tables. If this were any other night, I might pause to take it all in: the sight of my restaurant full of people I love.
My family and Mabel are tucked into a corner table, hidden from paparazzi lenses. They're laughing, waving when they spot me, oblivious to the shit show that's happening in the kitchen.
Phil and Todd are center room. James's parents are in the cozy booth on the far wall.
Everywhere I look, I see someone I care about. And I can't enjoy a single second because only a quarter of the tables have food, and a server just dumped water in Todd's lap, and something smells like it's burning.
And then it gets worse.
On my way back to the kitchen, I see them: James and Tommy.
They're right outside the restaurant, visible through the massive windows. I can't tell what's happening, but they look tense. Arguing.
And then bam—James's fist slams into Tommy's face.
A collective gasp ripples through the restaurant, and my stomach bottoms out.
I fly out the doors just as Tommy rips off his jacket and throws himself shoulder-first into James's stomach. They go down with a thud and flashing cameras light up the sidewalk.
The brothers are rolling, wrestling, shouting, but I can't hear them over the ringing in my ears.
I turn. Every single person—my family, my friends, Amelia, the damn paparazzi—are all watching, gathering to see what's happening. James's parents are trying to make it through the crush of bodies, but they're not going to get here fast enough.
"Hey! STOP!" I shout at the brothers. They don't.
James has Tommy pinned. There's dirt on his jeans, blood on his lip.
"You're such an asshole!" he growls.
Tommy sneers. "Please. If I am, I learned it from you!"
Noah, Will, and Jack make it outside first. Will, showing his former bodyguard roots, dives in and peels James off Tommy like it's nothing.
It's all happening so fast.
Noah helps Tommy up, and Jack touches my shoulder like he wants to comfort me. But I shake him off. I'm about to break, and I cannot do it in front of them.
She is overly emotional.
She doesn't have enough experience.
You're a disgrace to my kitchen.
Both brothers are panting, looking ready to launch at each other again. Only when I say their names do they look at me.
James's expression softens as he sees my face, sees how upset I am. He takes a step toward me.
I raise a hand. "Get out of here. Both of you."
They hesitate.
"Now."
I don't wait to see if they listen.
With tears clouding my eyes, I turn and bolt—straight to my cottage—while every person I've ever wanted to impress stands and watches me fail.
Again.