That protective look is back on his face. “Madison. What did a typical day look like for you here in New York? You never talk about it back home.”
“Because there isn’t much to tell.”
“Tell me anyway.”
I sigh, turning to face the street, letting my mind rewind. “Okay, um . . . I’d wake up around 5:50, maybe six. Get ready. Grab a breakfast sandwich and coffee by the train station. I’d be at school by eight for my first block, then classes and labs until lunch. Then more classes. Service simulation after that.”
I cringe. That part was a huge struggle approaching graduation. “Classes ended around six, and then Monday through Friday I had my internship at Chambre Blanche until midnight. Sometimes on the weekend too.”
A man in a suit rushes past and clips James’s shoulder, but he doesn’t even flinch. He’s locked in on me. “What about the days you didn’t have your internship? Did you go out?”
“Move, please!” a woman snaps as she breezes past in a white silk blouse and running shoes, phone pressed to her ear.
I grab James by the wrist and pull him off to the side, out of everyone’s way. “Define ‘out.’ ”
“Did you date?”
“Define ‘date’ . . . ?”
He scoffs, rolling his eyes. “So you worked yourself to the bone every day, lived in a permanent state of sleep deprivation, and had booty calls on the weekends? Did I miss anything?”
I blink, trying to read his tone. “You forgot tortoise rehab. His shell had to be retaped every weekend. And I took him to the park for sunlight. What’s this about?”
His jaw tightens as he looks away, then he meets my eyes again. “You didn’t live at all while you were here, Madison.”
That fact hits me square in the chest. “Why do you sound upset about it?”
“Because I am,” he says. Then his expression softens. “Upset at myself, I mean. For not seeing it sooner.”
“Seeing what?”
“You were basically sealed up in here with no air.” He echoes what I unearthed on the plane. “No wonder you hated it. No wonder you had constant anxiety and came back to Rome completely burned-out. You didn’t have a single moment to feed the best parts of yourself. The messy parts,” he adds with a smile, like that’s a compliment. “Your adventurousness. Your laughter. I haven’t been able to figure it out, but ever since you’ve been home, you’ve seemed . . . off. Like you’re still wearing that lid.”
I huff a confused laugh. “I’m not following, James.”
He steps closer, eyes scanning mine. “What if you needed more of New York—not less? What if you came home too early? What if . . . without the brutal schedule and the chef from hell”—he shrugs, helpless—“you actually love it here?”
I narrow my eyes. “Are you trying to fire me?”
“No. Not at all. But I am changing my terms. You can’t have the job at the Greenhouse unless you give New York a real shot before we go home.”
I lean in, stage-whispering, “Hate to break it to you, Cowboy, but I already signed a contract.”
He smirks. “Then humor me.”
I shift, thinking. Then stomp my foot once. A petty outburst. “Why can’t we go back and watch a movie? I really do hate this city. I don’t want to go out and explore it.”
“Are you sure you hate it?” he asks, gently. “Or were you just lonely here before?”
I shrug, suddenly feeling raw. “Maybe.”
His fingers brush mine, and my skin prickles. “Well, you’re not lonely now. You have me. And together, we’re going to do the most Madison Walker shit anyone has ever seen tonight.”
I search his eyes and take a deep breath. “This is important to you?”
“It’s important to me that you’re making the right choice about coming home.”
The way he says it . . . it makes me think he overheard my conversation with Josie. Is he worried I’ll grow restless again, just like her mom? That in a few years I’ll want to run?
