“So . . . you’re saying I’m weak?”
He laughs, a deep, easy sound that rolls right down my spine. “You’re a lot of things, but muscular’s not one of them.”
“You’ve never been more wrong. Do you even know what it takes to whisk a soufflé?”
He stops midstride, turning to face me, all mock-seriousness. “Prove it.”
I raise my arm and flex, eyebrows lifted in challenge. His hand wraps around my biceps, fingers warm, and he gives it a squeeze.
“Sorry,” I say dramatically. “Did I bruise your fingers with my massive guns?” I throw in a few exaggerated poses.
He grins, hand dropping. “Spaghetti noodles. I’m getting the other box. Can’t have my chef blowing out her rotator cuff before opening day.”
“James.”
He pivots again. His eyes are still soft, but the humor’s gone. “I swear to god, Madison, if you start treating me like I’m spun glass, this friendship will implode faster than it started. Let me carry the damn boxes.”
Oof.
I wish I could say his assertiveness didn’t do things to me. But it does. And . . . I see his point.
James is not one to be coddled, never has been.
So I give in and climb inside my truck, waiting. A minute later, he joins me on the bench seat.
But I don’t put the truck in drive right away. I just sit here.
Eventually, James gives me a look—one eyebrow raised, half a smile playing on his lips. But when I slide slowly across the seat toward him, the smile fades into something quieter. Warmer.
I reach around him, tug his seatbelt across his chest, and click it into place. Then I pat his chest where the belt lies.
“I need you to be safe too,” I say with a grin.
He might not need coddling, but he does need someone to care for him. And although I’m not the most reliable person, maybe it wouldn’t be terrible for that person to be me.As his friend.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
James
I unload the boxes onto Madison’s kitchen table with her hovering right behind me.
“Thank you,” she chirps. “You can get going now.”
I don’t think so.
I mosey around her small kitchen. It’s compact but efficiently arranged. A countertop and stove line the left wall, while a wide window in the middle lets in so much natural light during the day it makes the space feel larger. On the right, a small counter holds the sink, and in the center of the room is a wooden table with two chairs positioned on either side.
There are dishes in the sink waiting to be washed. A wrinkledKISS THE CHEFdish towel hangs from the dishwasher. A slender vase with flowers (probably stolen from Annie’s flower crop) sits by the stove. Brownies are arranged on a floral plate that I recognize as one that used to belong to her grandma, who passed away last year. And above the window, lining the trim, she’s taped a row of Polaroids of her and her siblings. One of her and Mabel too.
None—I notice too quickly—of us.
But I do find the two word search puzzles I gave her (now completed), magnetized to her fridge along with several scribbled recipes, on everything from a napkin to a gum wrapper to the back of a receipt.
“Okayyyyy,” she says again, tiptoeing behind me and trying to corral me toward the door. “It’s getting late. See ya later.” She continues her campaign to get me out of her cottage, pushing me toward the door.
I hit the brakes when my gaze snags on her countertop. “Shit—did they get divorced?” I turn to her, salt shaker in hand. “Where’s Mr. Pepper? Don’t tell me that son of a bitch left her.”
The most sparkling smile blooms on Maddie’s face. “How did you know they’re married?”
