“I’ve already locked in media coverage for the opening. Some incredible food journals—we can’t move the opening.”
“Okay, then we’ll figure it out, but she needs more time.”
“Why though? The designs are good. They’ll work.”
I sit at the table next to my abandoned word search from this morning with my bowl of disgusting stew and a glass of sweet tea. “They might work, but they’re not right for Madison and she needs a little time to get it sorted out. Give us a week.”
“A week?!”
“Seven days.”
He’s silent a minute. And then, “James . . . I’m worried about this decision.”
“Don’t be.”
He stops and breathes again, but this time it sounds different. “But I am. And shit . . . I’m just going to say it. You need this towork for the farm. There’s a lot of money on the line. And it seems like you’re making a risky choice all for a girl with no actual experience.”
I rest my spoon against the side of the bowl. “Don’t ever call her a girl again. She is awoman,and a trained chef that I very much believe in. When she says she needs more time to consider the restaurant that her name will be tied to, she gets it. And by the way, you don’t get to start caring about this farm after an entire lifetime of not giving a shit. And you definitely don’t get to comment on how I run it.”
I hang up first this time, willing to live with the consequences of my brother mistyping me as “grumpy” a little longer.
Except he calls me back. “Got that chivalry off your chest?”
“You’re annoying.”
“Thank you. You can have the extra week. But no more.”
“Great.”
“Unless you want to heed my advice and take a look at one of those other chefs’ résumés?”
“I don’t.” I singsong it even though I’m not in a good mood.
“Fine. Onto the next. You’re still not going after Madison romantically?”
“Why the hell do you keep bringing this up?”
“Because I just want to make sure there’s nothing you want to tell me.” Why does he sound like that?
“There’s nothing.”
I hear the back door open and the woman in question walks in holding a big bowl. She waves when she sees me at the table and walks closer. I tell myself not to notice how pretty she looks in her all-denim outfit, but dammit, it’s all I can focus on.
She’s got on a fitted, medium-wash chambray button-up with the sleeves casually rolled to her elbows and unbuttoned low on her chest. There’s no way she’s got a bra under there. The shirt istucked into a pair of form-fitting dark blue jean shorts, frayed at the edges, stopping mid-thigh. And she has a navy-blue paisley bandanna tied around her head, Rosie the Riveter–style.
She somehow looks both feminine and tomboy at the same time. So sexy it hurts.
She’s also a little thief. After noticing the half-finished word search, she rips out the page, folds it, and stuffs it in her back pocket. I receive a challenging look, to which I raise my hands in surrender. She seems appeased and then plucks my bowl of beef stew out from in front of me, scrunching her nose like it disgusts her, before replacing it with a giant salad. And I don’t mean a salad in the bland, bagged supermarket sense. I mean salad that is definitely from the farm.
Three different fresh greens. Pecans. Feta. Shaved Brussels sprouts. Berries. And what I’m betting is a homemade vinaigrette, drizzled over the top. I don’t particularly like salad, especially not Brussels, and even I think this looks delicious.
“Because it’s important to what happens next,” says Tommy, irritating voice reminding me he’s on the line.
“Why? What happens next?” I ask my brother while also looking up at Madison in question.
The doorbell rings and she and I both look in its direction.
“Thatis what happens next,” says Tommy, so ominously it runs down my spine.
