CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Madison
The rest of the night has its minor bumps and hiccups, but they don't overshadow the magic this time.
I take them in stride, and when I can I jot them down in a notebook to review later—so maybe we don't hit these same bumps on the actual opening night.
(Now I just have to make sure I don't misplace the notebook.)
Soon, it's all over. I did it. I soft-launched the shit out of my restaurant and got nothing but glowing reviews on the food and the ambiance. We also completely sold out of our pottery stock. And maybe it's just because they're all friends? But you know what? Who cares? I'll take the win.
Night has fully taken over when I leave the restaurant, lightning bugs illuminating the dark.
I haven't seen or heard from James since I told him to leave, and the weight of that crashes over me.
I've never been in a relationship before, so I don't know what happens next.
Is he pissed? Should I be pissed? Is it a break-up-able offense to yell at your boyfriend and tell him to get off his own property?
Is it a break-up-able offense for him to get into a fistfight during the trial run of your restaurant while gathered paparazzi snap photos from every angle?
Still . . . something in me whispers that I know James. And I know Tommy. If James punched his brother in the face like that, Tommy must've said something awful. Something deserving.
Is that what real love is? Knowing your person so deeply that empathy wins out over misunderstanding?
I don't get to think about it more, because the moment I step out the back entrance of the restaurant, I'm bombarded by my siblings.
They cheer.
Thrust a beer bottle into my hands.
Raise a glass of who knows what.
Some of my drink sloshes out as they jostle, shake, hug, and kiss me. I'm congratulated on my success and my perseverance, and I'm an erupting volcano of love.
"Mom and Dad would be so proud of you, Maddie," Emily whispers in my ear, pulling tears to my eyes. "But not just because of tonight. Because of the person you are. So vibrant. So powerful. So warm." She kisses my temple and squeezes my shoulders. "We're all proud of you."
After a bit, I float all the way home to my cottage.
I open the door, and there's James.
A few lamps are on, casting my little cottage in a warm, cozy glow.
The air smells . . . I sniff—sweet. I locate the reason piled high on a plate, center of the kitchen table.
Cinnamon sugar toast. The place is tidied and all of my half-empty glasses of water have been replaced with one tall fresh glass, just for me.
So many little things, all adding up to: I know you.
And James—he's standing a few feet from the door, balancing a plastic enclosure in the palm of his hand.
"James . . . Is that a tortoise you're holding?"
"Turtle," he corrects gently. "It's all the pet store had."
"Pet store? Like . . . the pet store that's an hour away?"
He nods. "I was going to get you apology-slash-congratulations flowers, but that didn't feel like a big enough gesture."
"But a turtle felt right?"
His nose scrunches adorably. "No. A turtle did not." He pulls his other hand from around his back—holding another enclosure. "So I got you two."
I bark out a laugh, too stunned and delighted to speak.
He tips his head with a smirk. "Well, technically, one is mine. Because giving you two turtles to take care of felt like a lot. But I know how much you loved Sammy."
A new laugh bubbles up from my chest. "I was over here spiraling, worried we were about to break up, and you were out buying his-and-hers turtles."
That gets his attention. The turtles are carefully set aside as he straightens, all seriousness now.
"You were thinking about breaking up?" he asks. "Because I punched Tommy?"
"No," I say, voice softening. "I was afraid you were. Because I yelled at you to go away."
His shoulders relax, a knot loosening. He takes a slow step closer, and even after all that's transpired and the stress of the day, my skin hums. Anticipates.
"Madison." His voice is so steady. "I deserved to be yelled at. I still deserve to be yelled at. I'm so sorry for making a scene like that tonight. And I completely understand if you're upset with me."
"Depends," I say slowly. "Did you have a good reason for the punch?"
He nods but doesn't speak right away, like he's weighing whether to tell me the truth or protect me from it.
"Was it something mean about me?" I ask, nudging. "Were you defending my honor?"
He smiles faintly. "In a way, yeah. It was about you. He, uh, he never intended to date you. He was trying to get to me. Trying to make me admit my feelings for you."
I gasp. "That little dill weed! Go punch him again. How insulting." My face falls in sudden mock horror. "Wait. Does that mean I'm losing my touch? Oh no. Does this monogamy make me look ugly?"
James's eyes spark with mischief. "I don't know. Take off all your clothes so I can find out."
He's getting closer, but I hold up a hand. "Not yet. You're still in the doghouse."
"Okay." He folds his arms like he's prepared for bad news. "Tell me what I need to do."
"I have a very specific atonement."
"How long do I have to stay in here for?"
James is wearing nothing but his boxer briefs, boots, and a smile as he stands in my shower, water cascading down his ridiculously sexy body. Not totally naked—because I like a tease.
I'm perched in a chair I dragged in here and I'm munching on cinnamon sugar toast like this is my own personal show.
"Until I say you can get out." I slowly suck the last bit of sugar from my fingertips. "You're not done atoning yet. Rub that loofah over your neck again."
His boots slosh as he steps forward, stopping at the edge of the shower door. He plants his hands on the frame and leans out, water dripping from every sculpted inch of him. Good lord, this man is massive. His rib cage alone is the size of my truck's engine. And his shoulders? Edible boulders.
I drink in the sight of him. Wet hair slicked back. Muscle and sinew showing off. Powerful thighs and brown boots. The man is a work of art in boxers and Timberlands.
This started out as a joke but has quickly evolved into an actual boots-and-underwear shower kink. One I'll be revisiting again and again.
"Get in here," he says, voice low and rough.
"You're not in charge," I say, sinking back against my throne. "I am."
Softer now. Deeper. More dangerous. He says, "Get in here, Madison."
A full-body shiver rolls through me, but I hold my ground. "No."
That's when his wet boot steps out onto the tile.
My gaze travels up his thigh, over his absurdly chiseled torso, to his face, his eyes dark, locked on me. He's dialed in now. Predator mode.
I squeal and bolt from the chair, but I'm not fast enough. His drenched body presses against my back, arms locking around my waist. He lifts me, flipping me over his shoulder as I squirm and laugh.
He carries me under the stream, and even though the water is warm, I'm still squawking like a bird. He sets me on my feet and makes short work of peeling the soaking-wet layers off my body.
"Finally," he mutters, pulling me close. Every inch of us presses together, skin to skin. But he doesn't push this moment past a hug.
Because one thing about James Huxley: He loves a naked hug.
"Hey," he says, brushing wet hair from my face. "I need to tell you something."
I tilt my chin and rest it on his chest, looking up into his eyes, waiting.
"I love you, Madison." His voice is warm. "And when I said I'm all-in on you, I meant all-in. You'll never have to wonder where you stand with me. Be mad at me. Tell me when I'm being a jackass and make me sleep on the couch. Chase your wild heart—and when you come home, I'll be here. Always."
My throat burns. "And what if I want you to chase my wild heart with me sometimes? Will you go? Or is this where you stay—home?"
He cups my face, leans down, and kisses me so deeply I already know the answer before he says it.
"You're my home," he whispers. "I'll go with you anywhere."
We kiss in the shower like we're rewriting that night in New York when I fell in love with him in the middle of a storm. I tell James I love him at least forty-two times and make sure he knows he's my home too. He hoists me up, and we have sex against the wall—sexy boots still on.
It's absurd. It's incredible. It's everything.
Later, when I'm practically asleep standing upright from exhaustion, James gets me into a big T-shirt, slides his generic white socks onto my feet, and tucks me into bed like I'm precious to him.
"I forgot to tell you," he murmurs as I drift closer to sleep from the sound of his heart beating against my ear.
He picks up my hand and lines our palms together, fingertip to fingertip, like it's instinct.
"You were amazing tonight."
"At sex?"
He laughs, warm and low, and pinches my side. "The restaurant, Chef. You were incredible. Everyone was raving about the food." A beat passes. "But yes, also at sex."
I thread my fingers through his, and in a deliriously happy, half-asleep state, I float a few turtle name suggestions.
James Jr., obviously. (He hated it.)
And Turtellini. (Big fan.)