His head dips, mouth hovering over mine for an excruciating length of time.
“What are you waiting for?” I ask, sounding breathless. Desperate.
“I’m not waiting. I’m savoring.”
Oh my god.Why would he say that?
Then he closes the gap. His mouth presses into mine.
The first touch is heady.It’s James,my mind screams. But instead of it being a warning, it’s a victory cry. I’m alert. Tuned in to every detail. His hands. His body heat. His scent. The way my body melts into him because somehow I feel both safe and alive.
He pulls away just enough to lean in again, mouth soft, head tilting to explore a new angle, but our lips don’t part. I get the sense it’s intentional.
This is only a sample. A little taste to curb my appetite.
Little does he know, it’s got me starving.
I want to run my tongue over his soft lips. Bite them into my mouth. I want those hands, still holding my face, to slide down and scrape over every inch of me. I am burning alive.
And just as I’m about to loop my arms around his neck and beg him to kiss me harder, he pulls away.
His breathing is even, but his pupils are blown wide. He swallows, eyes dragging to my lips one last time before his hands fall away. I want to whimper at the loss of his touch.
“There.” His voice is a rasp. “Cured?”
I press my lips together and nod. I can’t talk. I might never be able to again.
“Good.” He backs away, eyes lingering on me for another moment like he’s assessing whether or not I’m okay, and when he’s satisfied by whatever he’s seen, he pulls his hat forward again and goes to the door.
“Good night, Madison.”
“Good night, James.”
I sigh and sag against the wall the moment the door closes behind him, because now I know without a doubt that I am not just attracted to James; I have a gigantic thing for him. And that makes this twice as complicated.
CHAPTER TWENTY
James
I lied to my parents again last night.
They called to see how things were going with the farm and restaurant, and instead of telling the truth—really stressful, financially tight, I have to lower my blood pressure, and I can’t stop thinking about the chef—I said, “Really great.”
I fed them every happy detail I could think of, because the last thing I want is for them to take on the weight of concern and come home to help. Because they would. I know it. And no matter how much I try to shake it, the memory of my dad falling to his knees in the greenhouse plays on a horrifying loop in my mind.
If I have to lie my ass off to keep them happy and relaxed in Florida, so be it.
Which is why I’m currently running.
Following Madison’s instructions to look after myself, I’m using cardio to relieve stress. Or at least . . . I think that’s what it’s supposed to be doing? Instead, I’m just ruminating.
I’ve been putting space between us over the last week becauseever since I kissed Madison in the cottage I haven’t trusted myself. She was vulnerable, curious, sorting out whatever attraction she’s been feeling, and I pushed a line I shouldn’t have.
When I offered her this job, I made a promise to act in her best interest. That kiss—however incredible—was not that. She’s confused, and in her wordhorny.
I want her to feel what I’ve felt for years. But she deserves the time to figure that out without added pressure.
She’s my chef, my best friend’s little sister, and most important, she’s my friend. And I won’t hurt her.
