Emily looks me straight in the eyes and over-enunciates, “I. Don’t. Know.”
I bang my hands flat onto the desk like a skilled interrogation officer. “Then what do you know, Emily Walker!” I’m sure my eyes resemble a cartoon character’s when they bug out of their head.
My sister, who could make a bull cower, only smiles at my outburst. “Not much, Madison. James is a pretty private person, as you well know—especially, I would imagine, as of late.” She sits forward and rests her forearms on the desk. “Now tell me a few things. . . . Why are you so interested?”
“Because we’re business partners. I deserve to know if a Mrs. Huxley is going to swoop in randomly and change everything.”
“Seems like a question you should ask him then.”
“Um, no.” I pivot away.
“Well, I don’t have the information you’re looking for.”
“That’s fine. I bet Mabel knows.” I snatch the menus from Emily’s desk and start backing my way out.
“Or you could justask James.”
I scrunch my nose. “Doesn’t sound like me. Hey, by the way,sorry about taking up your grading time. I’ll buy you a few extra minutes.”
“How?” She’s frowning, skeptical.
I raise and lower my eyebrows.
“No. Madison! Halt your ass right there. I forbid you from doing whatever it is you’re considering!”
“Oh, Emily,” I say at the edge of the door. “Don’t you realize by now the more I’m forbidden from doing something . . .” I let the sentence dangle, daring Emily to finish it for me.
“The faster you do it,” she says with a resigned sigh.
I’m grinning, showing my teeth. “Don’t say I never did anything for you!”
Again, Emily senses danger. She stands quickly. “Maddie. . .”
And that’s the last word I hear before going into the hallway and pulling the fire alarm.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Madison
26 DAYS UNTIL I FAIL . . .
The door to the Greenhouse’s kitchen is humongous. I mean, in reality it’s a normal height, but in my mind—the land of anxiety—it’s a freaking castle door. And just on the other side? A fire-breathing dragon. Or at least that’s what my brain seems to think every time I step in there.
Since my initial introduction with James, I’ve avoided this kitchen and only cooked at the cottage or his house. Logically, I know everything will be okay in there. There is a less than two percent chance Chef Davis will pop out of a cabinet and scream at me for being worthless. But the thing is, my nervous system doesn’t seem to operate on the same wavelength as my logical brain.
Which is why even now just thinking about going in there and feeling the sterile countertops and squinting against the fluorescent lights has my lungs pinching and heart thundering.
I back several steps away from the door until I land in a puddle of sunlight, beaming in through the overhead windows. The warmth is enough to keep me from running from this place completely.
Like a cat, I sit down on the concrete floor, soaking in the rays and staring at the kitchen door. Maybe if I sit here long enough, it’ll become less intimidating. But after an hour passes and the pool of sunlight shifts completely away from me, I am no closer to stepping foot in that kitchen.
Movement at the restaurant entrance catches my eye, and I sigh with relief when James walks in. His brown boots gently thud across the floor as he comes to stand in front of me, frowning down at where I’m sitting, surrounded by tote bags of ingredients and produce.
“I think in order to have a picnic you’re supposed to unpack the food and eat it,” he says with a lopsided grin.
“Ohhhh. My bad. Want some?” I dip my hand into a tote and pull out my middle finger, flashing it up at him.
He laughs and then lowers himself to sit beside me, so close his shoulder presses against mine. I haven’t seen him much since New York, but apparently the easy air of affection still lives between us. It’s . . . soft. Life turns into a land of marshmallows when he’s around.
