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 meantall-in.You’ll never have to wonder where youstand 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.)
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Madison
6 DAYS SINCE I FAILED . . . BUT KEPT GOING
It’s been a long week of prepping for the official restaurant opening tomorrow. Ishouldbe there right now, double-and triplechecking everything. Does the stove work? Is the fridge staying cold? I’m tempted to call each and every employee and make them swear to me with a Bible in their hand that they’re not feeling the slightest bit ill.
Instead, I’m at Hank’s, gathered around a table with my family.
As if James can sense my growing restlessness and predicts me hurtling out of the bar any second, he lays his hand on my thigh. Squeezes once, tenderly. Grounds me.
I breathe in deeply through my nose and release it.
Everything is going to be okay.
But then Annie gasps and looks into her full beer. “A bug just flew in here! Gross.”
