"Close your eyes," James commands from the driver's seat of his truck before we go.
Apparently the greenhouse is within walking distance from the main house, but it's a little far when also toting all my luggage . . . plus Sammy.
"Why do I have to close my eyes?"
"Because I want it to be a surprise. Come on, close 'em."
I comply but also drape my arm out the window because I can't get enough of the fresh air. Dogs have the right idea—I need to hang my body out and feel the wind tug at my skin.
As we amble down the gravel drive, I relax with my head against the headrest. "I didn't think you were a surprises kind of guy."
He's silent for a beat, then, "One year at Christmas, when I was like ten years old, I snooped in my parents' room and found all my Christmas presents because I couldn't stand the wait. But then when Christmas rolled around, I opened everything and was so disappointed because I already knew what they were. I got everything I wanted that year, but it ended up being the worst Christmas ever. That's when I realized, I like the surprise more than the present. So yeah, keep those eyes closed."
Against my best efforts, I'm charmed. How can I have known James all this time and also not know that he's a little squishy on the inside? It makes me wonder how many other things I'm missing from the James Huxley essentials.
"So tell me about the greenhouse." I tilt my face in his direction, eyes closed tight.
"What do you want to know?"
"The history? It's old, right?"
He laughs lightly. "Yeah. We always just called it Granny's greenhouse, which I think gives people the wrong impression that maybe it was some little hobby of hers. But actually the entire farm belonged to her first. She inherited it from her parents. My grandad only started working on the farm after he married her. So this greenhouse was actually the main growing hub for a long time. We only stopped using it after a storm came through and damaged it to where it made more sense to build a new one with a more modern design and better technology than to fix this one back up."
"But you never wanted to knock it down?"
He huffs out a breath and I imagine it comes with a grin. "After Granny passed, none of us had the heart to do it. What does it say about us that we'd rather watch something crumble and rot than risk losing her memory by getting rid of it?"
"That you're a family of sentimental softies." Turns out, I'm one too. When I was in New York, I missed all those little reminders of my family's history. They were keeping me warm all along and I didn't even realize it. "I'm glad you're bringing it back to life. What gave you the idea to do it?"
There's such a long pause I'm tempted to crack open my eyes.
"Necessity," he finally says, but I get the impression I could send a search party into that one word and uncover a world of meaning. "And Tommy. He suggested opening a restaurant . . . and when I finally came around to it . . . I was looking for plots where we could build it, and then I rediscovered the greenhouse. Felt like the right thing to do."
"And it was the comfortable choice." I pat my hand against the outside of the warm truck door.
"What do you mean?"
"Just that you like your new experiences wrapped in a familiar, comfy old quilt. You know? To keep your sentimental squishy heart warm and safe."
He makes a wincing noise. "Cool. That sounds sexy."
I laugh, not at all expecting him to say that. "Is sexy your goal?"
"Of course sexy is the goal. It's everyone's goal. If they say it isn't, they're lying."
"Fair enough," I reply because confessing I found him very sexy in his towel isn't an option.
I sit patiently while James comes around to open my door and help me out. His truck is high off the ground, so he wraps his arm around my waist and hauls me to the ground.
And apparently I'm now collecting new experiences with James like it's my latest obsessive hobby. See him mostly naked. Check. Admire the tone of his voice when my eyes are closed. Check. Know what it's like to have my body pressed against his. Check.
This feels dangerously close to kindling a crush, which is why I absolutely have to get a handle on this and stop looking at him with googly eyes. IT'S JAMES, the harmonious choir bellows in my mind.
My normal mode for curing infatuation is to ask the man, very politely, to bang my brains out. After that, I'm good to go and rarely think of him again. But I'm not operating in that mode anymore. If I want to know what's below the surface of this life, I have to quit floating on the top.
So these days I'm just a celibate little horndog looking for my happily-ever-after. And getting involved with James would be one complicated mistake.
James gently clasps my shoulders and guides me ten steps. "Okay. You can open your eyes."
I do and have to blink to make sure I'm seeing the world correctly.
"The door is yellow." I process this another minute, then, when I look at him and see his smile, I clutch his arm in a desperate hold. "James. The door is yellow!"
"Do you like it?" His tone implies optimism, but his expression is cautious.
"It's yellow!" I say, like, Duh, of course I like it.
He nods toward the chef's quarters, which turns out is a tiny, adorable house. "Go take a look."
I don't need to be told twice. But once inside, I freeze.
Oh no. Oh boy. That warm tide of emotions rises behind my eyes, because this . . . is perfect. It's about eight hundred square feet of charming decadence.
"James." I beam, pure awe ringing in my tone. "This is . . . an actual cottage."
It's furnished, sun-drenched, and darling. It is a country Pinterest board come to life.
There are gingham-print blue-and-white drapes hanging over the little sink window. A soft ruffle accent pillow on the bed. And . . . wait, is that my old bed?
James leans a shoulder against the frame of the open door like he's not totally sure if he should come in or not. I understand the feeling.
I've never once stepped foot in James's bedroom either. But I'd be lying if I said I wasn't curious to explore his room when I was a teenager. I tried once while he was out of the house. I had been baking downstairs with Ruth and she asked me to run upstairs and grab a fresh hand towel from the hall linen closet.
To this day I can remember taking a single look at James's open door and feeling this burning desire to go inside. To poke around where I shouldn't. To see what kind of deodorant he used. Did he throw his dirty clothes on the floor or put them in a hamper?
Crush stuff.
But Tommy—who I didn't realize was home—caught me before I could take a single step inside and I had to make up an excuse about thinking it was his room. The lie wasn't hard to come up with because I did also have a crush on Tommy. But it felt different. One of those cute, shallow infatuations that had more to do with what it would be like if he kissed me than wanting to know what he was thinking.
James speaks from the doorway. "Tommy said he told you that you would have your own cottage. Did he not actually?"
"Definitely not." I go into the little kitchen and touch my fingers to the small wooden table. There's a vase of flowers in the middle of it. "He said there would be a chef's quarters. To me that implies a tiny room to sleep in . . . possibly connected to the kitchen."
He hasn't moved. "You thought I was going to make you live in a closet?"
"I wasn't ruling out a cot."
"And still you said yes?"
I gape at him. "Absolutely! You're already giving me my dream job, which I don't deserve." I hold my arms out, face beaming, embarrassing tears bubbling in my eyes. "But an adorable Snow White cottage? This is too much. I can't wait until the talking animals arrive."
"Technically, it was a potting shed. I just—" He stops. Clears his throat. "They converted it to a cottage. It's good it's finally getting use instead of wasting away on the property." His smile dims. "Plus . . . if you weren't staying in it, another chef would be."
"Stop trying to make this less wonderful to me." I walk into the designated bedroom area and then look back at James. "C'mere."
He frowns.
"Look at this," I bait him.
Now his frown is all concern as he pushes off the doorframe and comes to stand shoulder to shoulder with me, looking toward the bed, eager to correct any flaw I've found. "What is it?"
"That's my bed," I say flatly.
"Yes."
"You brought my old bed over from Emily's house. And the matching side table."
"You needed somewhere to sleep . . . and to put your eight thousand glasses of water."
I angle my chin up at him. "My point is, would you have gone through all the trouble to bring over another chef's bed? And furnish the place? And where is this bedding from? You went through trouble—for me—and I don't know why you're trying to downplay it all, but I need you to know I'm grateful."
He's trying to hide it, but he's beaming—caught. He wanted me to feel comfy here. "Emily helped. We got the stuff from your old room over here, and then she took me thrift shopping for some of the other furniture, like the table and chairs. She's great at it."
"She really is. But she never hinted at any of this to me. I wonder why."
He shrugs, putting his hands in the pockets of his jeans. Clearly he hasn't realized yet that friendship with me means you get to take up as much space in my life as you want. "Maybe she thinks you like surprises too."
I stare at the side of his face. "I do. That's one thing you and I have in common." And then I throw myself back onto the bed. "Did Emily thrift this amazing bedding too?" It's soft as cotton candy.
"Nah, that's a gift from my mom. She was really excited to hear you were coming to live on the farm and told me to make sure you knew it's a housewarming present."
I peek up at him, aware that I'm glowing like a lightbulb. "Is it customary for the restaurant owner's mom to buy the new chef a bed set?"
"Fine." He huffs against a grin. "I guess it does have its perks to be friends with the owner."
"I knew it." I let my eyelids fall shut, feeling as close to ecstasy as I've been in a while. "You have no idea how good it is to be free of Bryce. And Sammy is going to sleep so good without hearing all the noisy sex every night."
"I'm glad for Sammy."
My palms drift over the soft fabric, realizing I have never had my own place before. I went from sharing a house with my sisters to living with the roommate from hell. There are a million things I can do alone at home! Walk around naked. Sing as loud as I want at midnight. Use up all the hot water in the shower. Arrange the fridge exactly how I want.
"Look away for a second," I tell James, who is watching me with a bemused smile.
"Why?"
"So I can kick my feet and squeal like a child without you judging me."
"I won't judge you."
"You might. Turn around."
He complies with a dramatic sigh, and after doing exactly what I promised, I sit up and collect myself.
"All right." He turns back. "Get up. We're on to the next."
"No." I hug the ruffle pillow to my chest. "I want to stay here forever. I'm never leaving. You can't make me."
He tilts his head, watching me closely. "Okay then. As long as we're just sitting around, we can talk about what happened back there in the meeting."
My arms slacken, pillow falling to my lap. "You noticed?"
He gives me a look that says it all. "You were pretty obvious."
"Really? I thought you didn't see me."
"I saw you."
Oh god. Now what? Deny it all and make everything weird, or confess and also make it weird? Since it's going to be uncomfortable either way, I decide the truth is better. I already have too many lies weighing on me.
"Okay, look. It just confused me for a minute. I didn't know you'd be getting out of the shower when I came upstairs. And then I guess I was acting weird downstairs because . . . well, I . . . I didn't expect you to look so damn hot in a towel." His brows pull together. "But can you really blame me? Look at you! Have you always had these muscles? Good lord, you're a sex pistol, James. But don't worry, it doesn't have to be weird. I was just . . ." My head teeters back and forth. "Okay, I was a little nervous that I haven't had sex in a very long time because of my celibacy and that I might feel tempted to take things too far with you when we're alone. But I swear, I'm good now! I won't let my weird moment of attraction—"
"Madison . . ." James butts in, shifting on his feet, a tight smile pulling his full lips. "I should tell you I was referring to you lying to Tommy about liking the direction of the restaurant so far."
"Oh." And then, "Oh. Oh shit. I'm so sorry." A wave of crimson rushes over my face, and suddenly I can't stay seated any longer. I shoot up and splay my hands over my heated cheeks. "Please forget I said any of that, okay? Because I promise . . . that attraction meant nothing. You are and will always be just James to me. This will not get in the way of our working relationship. Besides, it's gone now. It was only a silly little moment."
He stares at me a beat, looking uncomfortable and on edge before he exhales. "Okay. Great."
"Yeah?"
He nods silently, looking like he's shoving down nausea now. Is that really his reaction to me thinking he's hot? Well, that's one way to cure my crush.
"Yeah." Another big sigh. "We're adults, Madison. Attraction here and there is a part of life. We don't have to make too much out of it."
"Exactly! And I think I just got confused because I'm . . . well, I'm not used to having guy friends. Platonically. But as you heard me tell Tommy back there, I'm sort of in a different season."
"A season of celibacy—I heard."
"Yes. And so after our phone call, and then our pinky promise . . ." I shake my head, wishing it would Etch A Sketch this moment away. "This is unfamiliar territory for me. But I like it a lot. I'm glad we're friend-friends now."
He gives a half grin and most of the tension in the room dissolves. "Is that our official title?"
"Yes. And I'm going to overuse it but you're going to have to be okay with it because we're . . ."
"Friend-friends?"
"Bingo!"
He scoffs. "You're dreaming if you think being friends with me absolves you from any roasting or complaining." He turns and waves for me to follow him to the door.
Once out of his view, my shoulders sag with relief before I shuffle along behind him. I feel like I just outran a train. "Okay, but like eighty/twenty, right?"
"Which is which?"
"Eighty percent lavishing me with compliments and kindness. Twenty percent complaining and/or roasting."
"Oof. You're in for a shock."
"No," I breathe out. "The reverse?"
He winces. "Afraid so."
"Is it too late to rescind my friend-friends offer?"
He clicks out the side of his mouth in an aw shucks way. "Sorry, yes. We pinky promised."
"Damn."
And then I almost run into his expansive back as he suddenly hits the brakes and turns to face me again. "You know the drill. Close 'em."