In Your Dreams by Sarah Adams - 13

“I’ve been wondering how long it would take you to destroy my kitchen,” says James while hovering somewhere behind me.

“Hush it, you. I’m tired of your kitchen jokes. Especially when I’m about to blow your mind.” I point a clean spoon in his direction. “And no, I don’t mean sexually. Though I bet I’d blow your mind in that area too.”

He swiftly plucks the spoon from my hand. “ Okayyy, what ingredients do I need to gather for this meal that will cure my smoking addiction?”

I lean my hip against the counter, balancing on one foot while the other perches against my left like a flamingo. “For legal reasons, I must officially state that this is not a cure for addiction. But unofficially, it is pretty damn comforting and you might crave it more than a cigarette.”

He smiles. “Said like someone who has clearly never smoked a day in her life.”

“I’ve smoked!”

“Weed doesn’t count.”

“Oh.” I go to the dreamy walk-in pantry and grab a loaf of bread. “Just for the record, what you’re doing right now . . . really makes me want to smoke. I don’t like knowing I haven’t tried something. Especially when I’m challenged.”

“Let me try a different approach then.” James twists so his lower back is against the counter now, crossing his arms and ankles. “Madison. My mom called, she says you have to smoke a cigarette tonight or you’ll be in trouble.”

“Reverse psychology?” I poke him in his big shoulder and he tracks my every move with amusement. “Don’t play mind games with me, James, or you’ll make me fall in love with you.”

The moment the words are out of my mouth, I regret them. I don’t even know why—they just seem to have more weight than I expected. Like picking up a paper bag you think is empty, only to find a gallon of milk inside.

“Can you get out the sugar and cinnamon?” I scurry away like a squirrel dodging a car to preheat the oven. Next, I lay a few pieces of white bread out on a plate.

James is back with the cinnamon and sugar containers and sets them near me on the counter. I spot a butter dish on the other side of the large island and lean over to reach it. My fingertips are just short of making it, but a second later James’s chest is pressing over my back as he gets the dish for me. His heat against my spine is warmer than tanning on the beach.

But he’s only there for a millisecond before he slides the dish closer and then returns to an upright position, stepping aside.

“Thank you,” I say, but it comes out like a stupid squeak.

Suddenly I’m having all kinds of fantasies that include me, James, and this countertop. I’ve known him my entire life, and I’ve never imagined sleeping with him. So why now? Is it because I’m celibate? Practicing a sexless lifestyle the last year has definitely had an effect on me. I thought it might dull my senses, but it’s only brightened them. The touch of a hand, brush of a shoulder, lingering eye contact—it’s all enough to work me up these days.

“Okay, so.” I rub my hands together like a maniacal scientist. “This is one of the first things I learned to make as a kid, and it’s been my go-to treat ever since.”

“Teach me, Chef.”

His words zing down my spine.

I force my attention on my knife, dipping it in the room-temperature butter and smearing it across each piece of bread. “With this dish, you are an artist. The bread is your canvas, and the butter is your paint.”

“That’s a lot of paint.” His eyes are glued to the bread.

“Crust to crust. Don’t leave a single dry spot.”

Next, in a little bowl, I combine the cinnamon and sugar until it’s the right ratio and then sprinkle it across the butter-slathered bread. Once they’re coated, I take each slice to the oven. “The trick is to lay them directly on the oven rack so they get toasty all over. And also because it’s like a fun game of Operation when you’re getting them out with your fingers. You have to try not to burn yourself on the rack.”

“I like a good challenge.”

A few minutes later our treats are finished and we’re hovering by the oven, each taking a huge bite. I watch James closely to see how he’ll react. He chews thoughtfully, jaws working and head nodding. He’s making the appropriate amount of moaning noises. But then, all at once, his mouth splits into a huge smile, followed by a laugh. The kind of laugh that is born of an inside joke.

“What?” I ask, mildly annoyed. “Is it gross or something?”

His laugh is a simmer that slowly builds into a full boil. He’s laughing so hard now he has to set his toast down.

“James! What are you laughing at?”

“You.”

I gasp. “Rude.”

And then he does the most strange, incredible thing. Still shaking with barely restrained laughter, he lazily reaches out his arms until his hands curve behind my shoulders, scooping me to him. He cradles me right into his chest and then wraps me up.

James is hugging me.

I blink and breathe in, dizzy from his conflicting tangle of cigarette smoke, cinnamon sugar, and men’s deodorant. Irish Spring, I’m betting. Nothing has ever smelled better.

“Madison, it’s cinnamon toast.” He squeezes me affectionately. “I thought you were about to teach me something you learned in culinary school, because you were so serious just now, with a frown between your eyebrows. But then you made cinnamon toast. I kept waiting for the big reveal of a secret ingredient.”

“You’ve had this before?” I sound pouty, arms limp noodles at my sides as he attempts to squeeze a hug out of me.

This really sets him off laughing. I can hear it joyfully knocking around inside his sternum. “Are you serious? I ate this toast before you were alive.”

“Oh my god.” I pull out of the hug that I never really committed to. “You were only four when I was born! Don’t make it sound like you rubbed elbows with Aristotle.”

“Would it make you feel better if I said this is definitely the best cinnamon toast I’ve ever had?”

“A little,” I say, downplaying how his compliment drops into the center of my heart and fizzes like an Alka-Seltzer.

I turn away and busy myself placing the cinnamon and sugar containers back inside the pantry so he won’t see the effect he has on me. No repeats of the towel attraction fiasco. But then I catch sight of something bunched up at the far end of his countertop.

“Hey, what’s that?” I say, pointing to the little contraption.

James sees what I’m gesturing toward, then squints one eye. “I don’t guess you’ll believe me if I tell you it’s a tire inflator?”

I pivot and give him a hard stare. “Let me rephrase my question. James, why do you have a blood pressure cuff out on your countertop?”

His throat bobs as he contemplates what version of the truth he wants to give me. “Because I had an appointment with my doctor this morning, and now I’m supposed to monitor my blood pressure every day for the next two weeks while making lifestyle changes.” I guess he decided on the full damn truth.

Worry creeps up my neck. “Are you okay?”

He looks as relaxed and easygoing as always. “I’ll be fine.”

“You’ll be fine? As in you’re not currently?”

“I am fine. I just . . . I was having some symptoms. So I went in for a checkup. Turns out I have slightly elevated blood pressure.”

“James.”

“Madison.”

“Your dad had a heart attack,” I say, like he isn’t aware.

It happened shortly after I moved to New York. I hated being so far away during it. But Emily kept me up-to-date on how they were doing, and I called Ruth to check in on her and Martin a few times too. I didn’t, however, call and check in on James. A fact that doesn’t sit well with me anymore.

The look in James’s eyes tells me he’s reliving that terrifying day now. He’s the one who found his dad in the greenhouse right as Martin was falling to his knees. “I know he did. But I won’t. My doctor thinks it’s just . . . stress-induced. She wants me to try a few lifestyle changes and see if that helps—Hey, whoa, why the teary eyes?” he says, coming in close again to rub his hands up and down my arms. Comforting me when he’s the one who owns a blood pressure cuff.

“I really . . . don’t like the idea of you having a heart attack.”

“That’s good to hear.” His hands slide up and down, up and down.

I meet his eyes. “And we’re just now becoming friends. You can’t die at the start of our friendship.” Maybe that’s selfish, but I don’t care. It’s true.

Having already lost my parents at a young age, and then my wonderful grandma who raised me, death is an ever-present monster, waiting around each corner, salivating to claim everyone I love most. I’m terrified of it, always jumping to worst-case scenarios and imagining—feeling—the moment that someone gives me horrible news that changes my life forever. Even if it’s not real.

For the second time tonight, James wraps his arms around me. But this time I lean into him, quietly, tucking my head against his chest. This hug feels more intimate without laughter acting as a buffer between us. His hands even seem to hesitate a little before finally splaying against my back and pulling me in firmly against him.

I slide my arms around his waist and knit them together at his lower back, savoring how soft his worn cotton shirt is against my cheek.

There. We’re hugging.

Madison and James: two hugging friends.

I want to say it’s strange—having my head on his upper chest—but it’s not. If anything, I’m now realizing how strange it is that after all my years of knowing him, this is the first time we’ve ever hugged. I like hearing his heart beat right into my ear. It’s a soothing cadence.

Most guys are either too scared or too freaked out by my emotions to sink into them with me. I could write a magazine article titled “How to Lose a Guy in One Step: Cry in Front of Him.” And that would be the entire article. No need for bodies of paragraphs . . . because that one act alone has had most guys I’ve interacted with take off running. Or . . . yell in my face.

“I promise, I’m not going to die,” James says in a quiet whisper at my ear. “Everything is fine.”

“Your elevated blood pressure suggests otherwise.”

“I think this is the antithesis of a pep talk.”

I angle my face up, resting my chin on his chest. “Swear to me you are going to take care of yourself and do what the doctor said to do?”

He looks back and forth between my eyes, seeing the ever-present shadow of loss in them. “This is nothing to worry about. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Swear it.”

A beat passes, and then he nods. “I swear.”

Satisfied, I peel out of his arms because any longer spent pressed up next to him is going to impregnate me. “Is there any way I can help with the stress part? I bet I could be a pretty good farmer. I look sexy in overalls too.”

He grins and shakes his head no. It’s hard to believe that this is the same James I’ve always known. The James who looked annoyed when I was in the same room. There’re no traces of that man here. In fact, the one looking at me with the stomach-swooping smile looks whatever the exact opposite of annoyed is.

He’s my friend now.

I track James’s hand as he lifts the toast to his mouth, taking a huge bite. “You’ve really already had this exact thing before?” I ask.

He balls up the paper towel that once held his toast and then takes mine and does the same, throwing them both away. “My mom used to make it for us all the time when we’d come in from working on the farm. But I haven’t had it in a while.”

I hop up onto the counter. “Next time I’m teaching you to make a beef Wellington.”

“Pass—I’d rather smoke.”

I playfully kick him, but he catches my foot with a laugh. Almost the second his hand comes in contact with my skin, his laugh cuts off. “Your toes are like ice. Are you cold?”

“My feet are always cold. I probably need to exercise more or something.”

He releases my foot and wordlessly leaves the kitchen. Okay, bye. While I wait to see what James is up to, I lean my palms back onto the counter. My fingers connect with paper, and I glance over my shoulder to find an open word search puzzle magazine. It’s bent so severely on the spine it doesn’t need any help staying open.

It’s lying next to an abandoned mug, and I can only assume that James Huxley does word search puzzles over his morning coffee. My heart twists at the image. I slide the puzzle over and find where he’s left off. He only has one column left to complete, and suddenly it feels like my life’s mission to find these words.

James returns a minute later with a nondescript, balled-up pair of white crew socks. They most definitely came from his drawer, and before that, a value pack. I’m tapping the pen against my lips and if he is shocked by my commandeering of his puzzle he doesn’t show it. Instead James—ever protective—slides a sock onto each of my feet. They’re so fluffy they would never fit in a pair of sneakers. These socks are made for boots and cozying up on the couch. And apparently . . . me.

I straighten my legs and wiggle my toes, taking a pleased look at my little piggies in a blanket. And then I point at the page. “I found excellent. ”

He studies where I’m pointing and nods. “Cross it out.”

I do as he says. “You’re a menace for crossing out the words you find. Everyone knows you’re supposed to circle them.”

“My puzzle, my rules.”

I can’t keep the charmed smile from my mouth. “I never would have guessed you like word search puzzles.”

“I start and end my day with them. It’s relaxing.”

I hum a sound of agreement. “I should do this too. I like it.”

James stares at me a moment, then takes the little grocery store magazine from me and rips out the page I was working on. He folds it into a neat little square and hands it over for me to take home. I pocket it, feeling like I’m stowing away precious jewels.

“By my count, I’ve now told you three personal things about me and”—he pretends to count on his fingers before closing them all—“and none about you.”

I let my legs dangle again. “What do you want to know?”

“Why you had a panic attack in the kitchen the other day.”

I take in a huge breath and let it out through puffed cheeks, preparing to say it quickly. “Okay . . . so the truth is . . . I’ve been having panic attacks almost every time I go into a professional kitchen lately.” I pause. “There was this chef in the kitchen where I did my internship in New York, and he was”—I flinch as an image of his severe expression hits my mind—“brutal.”

“In what way?” James is mentally finding his shovel.

“Very much the stereotypical high-profile chef. He demanded perfection. He didn’t tolerate any softness. And he . . . hated me from the second I walked into his kitchen. I was berated a lot in front of everyone. My sauces were always a disgrace—even though I excelled at them in technicals. And my knife skills were apparently atrocious.” It was always something. Changing every day to where I couldn’t keep up or expect what he’d hate about me next.

I wasn’t enjoying New York, but I was actually doing well in school before that internship started my third semester. My decline happened rapidly after—keeping me from class, dipping out early when my hands would shake uncontrollably, forcing me to take a zero on the assignment. That anxiety bled into all areas of my life.

“Instead of firing me, he made me the official mascot for what not to do as a chef. He needed someone to take his aggression out on. When I’d take my short pee break, I’d cry in the stall, and then I’d come out and deal with his condescending comments about my puffy red eyes and lack of balls.”

James’s voice is pitched down to Batman level when he says, “Tell me his fucking name.”

“No,” I chuckle, because I know James. He will get on a flight and hunt that man down to avenge me, and then I’ll have to get on one too in order to bail him out of jail. “The point is, he made sure I—and everyone around me—knew I was not cut out to be a chef and that my imperfections and tendency to cry when under stress were downfalls.”

“Why didn’t you quit?”

“Do you know how hard it is to find an internship in an elite restaurant in New York? I kept thinking I could win him over eventually. That I’d get the hang of it at some point. And then it just became a matter of determination or pride, I don’t know. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing me quit.”

“You’re really strong, Madison.”

I scoff. “I don’t feel strong. In fact, I live in terror that my confidence is gone forever. How am I going to be an executive chef and manage other people, demanding perfection when I can’t even achieve it myself ? Cooking in a professional kitchen is impossible lately because the fluorescent lights and the sterile metal countertops trigger me.” I heave a sigh. “I’m so sorry, James. I don’t want to let you down. And I should have said no to this job.”

“First”—he holds up his hand, thumb sticking up—“impossible to let me down. Second”—his index finger pops up—“maybe you can’t do it.”

I frown. “Now whose pep talk needs work?”

“I’m not done!” he says in amusement. “Maybe you can’t do it like that chef implied you should, but this is your damn kitchen. You can run it however you want. There’re no rules that say you have to be a perfectionist to be a chef. You don’t even have to expect perfection from your staff if that’s not something you believe in personally.”

His words massage a knot of worry in my chest. The one that has set up camp in there. I can run the kitchen how I want. Is that true? Could it really be that simple? I’ve never really explored that idea because perfection was so ingrained in our practice at school. But maybe he’s right . . . maybe there’s another way.

He closes in a little. “I know you can do this, Madison—but I think you should do it in a way that brings you the most joy. Which is why I hated watching you lie to Tommy the other morning about liking the direction of the restaurant.”

“But . . . I don’t think I have enough experience to voice what I want.”

“Yes, you do. Be loud. Trust yourself.”

Trust yourself. Those are two words no one has ever uttered to me. Focus. You can do it. Keep going. Those are the phrases people say to me, and even though they’re meant to encourage, they’ve always implied that I’m lacking in some way. And I’ve been so quick to believe them. But James . . . he said, trust yourself.

Maybe it’s the toast and the hug and the soft, warm lighting, but honesty pours out of me. “The other problem is, my mind is blank. I probably shouldn’t even be telling you this, but I haven’t been able to come up with a menu yet and the opening is right around the corner. I can’t find my creativity and it’s killing me.”

“But you know what you don’t want it to be . . . which is what Tommy was full steam ahead for?”

I cringe. “Yeah. I really don’t like the direction of those designs. They would be perfect in L.A., but here it feels like a mockery in a way.”

“I agree.”

“But it’s too late.”

“No, it’s not. Leave Tommy up to me. I’ll get you more time.”

“James. We just established that you have high blood pressure from stress. I don’t need you taking on even more.”

“Okay, then you can help me in another area to make up for it.”

I widen my eyes suggestively. “Now you’re propositioning me?! I’m so proud. Yes, James, I’ll be your lady of the night.”

He smiles in a way that has me wishing he was propositioning me. “Can you be ready Tuesday morning by six?”

“That’s early for sex but okay.”

“ Madison. ”

“I’ll be ready.”

James walks me to the back door, where I shove my socked feet into my thong sandals, giving them the wedgie of a lifetime, but also unwilling to take off the socks yet. When I’m almost down the back steps, I pause and look back at him. “Hey. I’m sorry you’ve been so stressed,” I tell him. “And that you’ve felt like you had to manage it alone.”

“I didn’t say I had to manage it alone.”

“But you have been. Because Tommy has never helped and your parents can’t and Noah is busy a lot now. So . . . I guess I’m saying, if the late-night cigarettes or the cinnamon toast aren’t doing it for you, I’m here to talk. Hurricane Madison at your disposal.”

The corners of his mouth tug up. “Noted.”