I don’t realize my poor choice of words until Jack raises his brows. “ ‘In the ring’? Does that mean there’s a ring to toss a hat into?”
I scramble to clarify. “Yeah—only in the sense that every man out there seems to want to date her.”
“Not me,” states Will.
Jack doesn’t help. “Me neither.”
“I definitely don’t,” says Noah as he leans back against the bench, staring at me. “But what about you, Jameson?”
“I don’t, either,assholes.” And I don’t. Even if she found me attractive in my towel—a thought I can’t seem to shake. But also . . . it’s Madison. She finds most men attractive. This is not exactly a boat-tipping declaration from her. “I just don’t want Tommy dating her, and you really shouldn’t either, Noah.”
He shrugs. “I have no issue with my sister dating who she wants to date. You’re the only one who ever has a problem with it, actually.”
“Okay, you can go right ahead and fuck off.”
“Ooh,he’s throwing around the explicit language.” Will shivers. “Someone is triggered.”
I don’t like this. If the guys find out how I feel about Madison, she’ll know too. They’ll blab to their partners and then their partners will blab to Madison. It won’t take more than twenty-four hours for our working relationship to go to hell.
She needs a safe place to get her feet on the ground, one without my unrequited feelings getting in the way. I came to terms a long time ago with the fact that Madison will never think of me the way she does other men, so the last thing I need is for these idiots to start something up that doesn’t exist.
And judging by whatever happened yesterday in the kitchen, Madison needs all the support she can get right now. I still don’t understand what happened. She went from totally fine to a full-blown panic attack in a second, like she’d seen a ghost when she stepped foot in the kitchen. She seemed better by the time I got her back into the cottage and sat her at the table with a glass of water. But she didn’t offer much explanation other than saying she wanted to rest for a bit. I got the feeling I shouldn’t push her, so I made sure she was okay and then gave her space.
It’s hard not to ask Noah if he knows any more about her experience in New York, but I don’t want to say something behind Madison’s back that she might not want spread around. And the same principle applies here that applied to them knowing my feelings. They’ll blab the second they get the chance.
Our attention momentarily goes to the diner door when we hear the bell jingle (because in a small town, we’re perpetually nosy). The door opens, and if you didn’t live around here, you’d think a ghost floated inside, because there is no head visible over the five-foot-tall booth back. And that’s how we know exactly who just came through the door.
A pair of wisdom-filled eyes framed by dark, softly wrinkled skin peeks up over the booth’s wall. She’s definitely standing on hertiptoes. “Oh good, you’re all together,” comes the voice of our favorite midseventies town matriarch, Mrs. Mabel.
Mabel is everyone’s grandma, and she was best friends with Silvie Walker (Noah’s grandma who raised them) until the day she died last year. Mabel is frighteningly all-knowing, does not possess a filter, and would step in front of a moving bus for any of us. And we would do the same for her.
Without invitation, she rounds the booth and scoots in beside me, her yellow capri pants contrasting nicely with my jeans. It’s a tight squeeze, but she doesn’t seem to mind as she picks up her menu. Mabel has historically been a very guarded person, but she’s started opening up more about her life. Last week she recounted a painful memory from her younger years, before the civil rights movement, when this diner refused to serve her.
I want to hear everything she has to tell me, but a huge part of my heart clenches at the realization that she’s probably sharing now because her husband died six years ago, because her best friend recently died of dementia, because aging is happening to her too and she doesn’t want these stories to go forever untold. I should have been terrified of loss when Noah’s parents died, but it didn’t really sink in until about two years ago. When I almost lost my dad.
Now it’s a terror I’m constantly hiding from.
“I’ll cut right to it, children,” says Mabel. “I’m sure you’re all aware of the town’s summer display competition coming up in a few weeks?”
“Ah, yes. My favorite town event. I have a calendar on my fridge, counting down to the beloved day,” says Noah dryly.
Mabel rolls her eyes and waves him off. “Fine. Be a scrooge and don’t decorate the Pie Shop. Less competition for me that way.”
I lean toward Mabel. “He’s surly because we intruded on his alone time.”
“Fooey nonsense. Quit acting high-and-mighty, Noah, or I’ll bring out the picture of you running around town in your Batman undies and frame it over this damn table.”
He shrugs. “You’ve been threatening me with that for years, but I’ve never seen any evidence. I think you’re full of hot air.”
She grins. “Care to try me?”
They have a stare-down for a few chilling moments and then Noah’s expression softens. “How can we help you with your display, Mabel?”
“That’s more like it.” She looks pleased as punch. “I need a few muscular people—I’m not picky on the gender—to help me move a few hay bales onto my front porch sometime over the next couple weeks.”
“And where . . . ?” I begin, already knowing the answer. “May I ask, where are you getting the hay bales from?”
She looks me dead in the eye. “Your farm. I need three. And now I won’t be paying you either, so don’t ask for it because I’m just a broke old lady.”
