In Your Dreams by Sarah Adams - 14

It’s three P.M . when I finish spreading fertilizer on the tomato crop and check my phone for the tenth time. I called Tommy last night right after Madison left. He, of course, didn’t answer and hasn’t called me back. I even texted, It’s important. But it’s Tommy so I could have texted, My limb is dangling off and I need you to come reattach it, and it probably still wouldn’t be enough to warrant an immediate call back. I’d have to say something like, Quick, there’s a model wandering the property looking lost and lonely, what should I do? That would get an immediate ring.

Actually, should I text him that?

I stare at my phone a little too long before remembering my morality and deciding against it.

“Hey, boss,” says Archie, meeting me in the middle of the row with his comically tight Wranglers and cowboy hat. He’s only nineteen and essentially inherited this job from his dad—just like I did mine. I think every day he wakes up and hopes this place magically turns into a ranch that lets him live out his dreams of being a cowboy. Instead, he gets to wash and package the baby turnips.

“What can I do for you, Archie?”

He lifts his hat and pushes his hand through his sweaty hair. “I was wondering if I could leave a little early today.”

“You sick?”

“No.” His face reddens. “I, uh—my girlfriend is coming back into town from college for the night only. But she’s getting in a little early so I was hoping to get to spend as much time with her as possible.”

“I see,” I say, but what I mean is, Must be nice.

Nice to have someone waiting for you. Nice to have a night off. Nice to have a life that doesn’t revolve around crops and weather and the price of fuel.

I want to say no. God, I need to say no. But I see the nervous way he’s rubbing the back of his neck, the way he keeps glancing toward the barn like he might bolt if I give him half a chance.

My dad wouldn’t hesitate to say yes and give him the day off. But when my dad ran this farm, he had double the crew that I have now. Working on a farm doesn’t pay like it used to. Because back then local farms still mattered. People walked into stores and asked where their tomatoes came from.

A guilt-ridden thought strikes me. If I were to take the contract with AFD, I’d be able to hire more help again. I wouldn’t have to contemplate whether my day can absorb more work to compensate for Archie’s absence. But I’d also be part of the problem. Just another farm cranking out mediocre produce to hit our target quantity in time.

Even though Dr. Macky’s voice rings in my ear, reminding me I need to cut down on my work and prioritize rest, I say, “Yeah. Go ahead.”

He grins, thanks me, and jogs off toward his truck. Just like that—gone.

And I’m still here.

Still watching the sun crawl over a sky that doesn’t care how tired I am.

Still dragging a legacy behind me that no one asked me if I wanted to tow.

Sometimes I worry my grave will be dug beside the green bean crop. Maybe I’ll decompose and make the next harvest sweeter. Who knows.

And it’s all because I had the unfortunate capacity to love this place. Lately, I find myself wishing I’d hated it like Tommy. That I didn’t feel responsible to keep it afloat so my dad can rest easy. Tommy drove off after high school without so much as a lick of guilt. He never looked back; meanwhile, I don’t think I’ve ever moved forward.

It’s dinnertime before I hear from my brother.

“Hey,” he says cheerily, like I haven’t been waiting on him all day.

I dump a can of hearty beef stew into a pot. The sound is not appetizing. “I’ve been waiting on you to call me back all day.”

“Have you? That wasn’t clear in your one hundred texts.”

“And voicemail. I said it was important there too.”

He chuckles. “Sorry. But last night you called while I was out on a date—it would have been rude to answer a work call.”

“Of course you were on a date.” I fire up the gas stove and stir my pot of stew a little more rigorously than needed. “And let me guess? That date spilled into the morning, which led to the afternoon, and that’s why you’re just calling me back?”

“No, asshole.” He’s not chuckling anymore. “Well . . . it did spill into the morning because I’m a grown man and that’s what usually happens when two adults like each other. You should try it sometime and maybe you wouldn’t be so grumpy. But no—I didn’t shirk my responsibilities like you’re implying. I had three back-to-back client meetings today and an on-site observation.”

“Oh.”

“Oh? That’s all you’re going to say? You know what? No. I’m so tired of you being a condescending dick to me. Call me back when you’re ready to treat me like a professional.”

He hangs up.

I stare into the pot of stew and watch as it simmers around the edges. I’m pissed off—as I usually am after talking to my brother. But the thing that really bothers me is that he seems to think I’m chronically grumpy. Ask anyone in this town and they’ll tell you my personality is sunshine. But yeah, all he’s ever seen from me is anger.

And damn it, he’s right. I was a condescending dick to him just now. He is a professional and is known as someone important in his industry and is therefore doing me a massive favor by helping me with this restaurant. But every time we talk, angry shit flies out of my mouth and I don’t entirely know why. It happens every single time.

After taking a minute to breathe and move my stew to a bowl, I call him back, determined to put a lid on my anger, mostly for Madison’s sake. I need Tommy to not hate me while I ask him for more time.

“Hello?” he answers like a smug ass.

“Hi,” I say and then steel myself to keep going. “How are you?”

“Oh, I’m great. I had an incredible coffee this morning, my favorite suit was clean, and I learned that my biggest project is coming in under budget by ten percent. Thanks for asking.” He says all of this like there’s a studio audience waiting to laugh their asses off.

“Great. Happy for you.”

“Thanks. What can I do for you, brother of mine?” It’s weird to hear him say that phrase. It’s what our dad has said our entire lives. What can I do for you, son of mine? And he says it in this deep comical tone like Tommy just did. It’s one of the few pieces of evidence that we did actually grow up in the same family.

I rub the back of my neck. “I need you to hold off on confirming all the choices we made with Madison the other day.”

There’s a long pause. “Why?”

“Because she might want to go another route with the concept.”

I hear Tommy take in an audible breath in the way someone does when they’re trying not to blow up at you. I imagine he’s pinching the bridge of his nose—preppy-boy hair falling back against his neck. “James. It’s too late.”

“No, it’s not. The restaurant isn’t open yet.”

“That is not at all how it works. Everything needed to be completed like last month. We’re already behind, and now you want me to delay more? Possibly affecting the opening date?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve already locked in media coverage for the opening. Some incredible food journals—we can’t move the opening.”

“Okay, then we’ll figure it out, but she needs more time.”

“Why though? The designs are good. They’ll work.”

I sit at the table next to my abandoned word search from this morning with my bowl of disgusting stew and a glass of sweet tea. “They might work, but they’re not right for Madison and she needs a little time to get it sorted out. Give us a week.”

“A week?!”

“Seven days.”

He’s silent a minute. And then, “James . . . I’m worried about this decision.”

“Don’t be.”

He stops and breathes again, but this time it sounds different. “But I am. And shit . . . I’m just going to say it. You need this to work for the farm. There’s a lot of money on the line. And it seems like you’re making a risky choice all for a girl with no actual experience.”

I rest my spoon against the side of the bowl. “Don’t ever call her a girl again. She is a woman, and a trained chef that I very much believe in. When she says she needs more time to consider the restaurant that her name will be tied to, she gets it. And by the way, you don’t get to start caring about this farm after an entire lifetime of not giving a shit. And you definitely don’t get to comment on how I run it.”

I hang up first this time, willing to live with the consequences of my brother mistyping me as “grumpy” a little longer.

Except he calls me back. “Got that chivalry off your chest?”

“You’re annoying.”

“Thank you. You can have the extra week. But no more.”

“Great.”

“Unless you want to heed my advice and take a look at one of those other chefs’ résumés?”

“I don’t.” I singsong it even though I’m not in a good mood.

“Fine. Onto the next. You’re still not going after Madison romantically?”

“Why the hell do you keep bringing this up?”

“Because I just want to make sure there’s nothing you want to tell me.” Why does he sound like that?

“There’s nothing.”

I hear the back door open and the woman in question walks in holding a big bowl. She waves when she sees me at the table and walks closer. I tell myself not to notice how pretty she looks in her all-denim outfit, but dammit, it’s all I can focus on.

She’s got on a fitted, medium-wash chambray button-up with the sleeves casually rolled to her elbows and unbuttoned low on her chest. There’s no way she’s got a bra under there. The shirt is tucked into a pair of form-fitting dark blue jean shorts, frayed at the edges, stopping mid-thigh. And she has a navy-blue paisley bandanna tied around her head, Rosie the Riveter–style.

She somehow looks both feminine and tomboy at the same time. So sexy it hurts.

She’s also a little thief. After noticing the half-finished word search, she rips out the page, folds it, and stuffs it in her back pocket. I receive a challenging look, to which I raise my hands in surrender. She seems appeased and then plucks my bowl of beef stew out from in front of me, scrunching her nose like it disgusts her, before replacing it with a giant salad. And I don’t mean a salad in the bland, bagged supermarket sense. I mean salad that is definitely from the farm.

Three different fresh greens. Pecans. Feta. Shaved Brussels sprouts. Berries. And what I’m betting is a homemade vinaigrette, drizzled over the top. I don’t particularly like salad, especially not Brussels, and even I think this looks delicious.

“Because it’s important to what happens next,” says Tommy, irritating voice reminding me he’s on the line.

“Why? What happens next?” I ask my brother while also looking up at Madison in question.

The doorbell rings and she and I both look in its direction.

“ That is what happens next,” says Tommy, so ominously it runs down my spine.

Madison mouths, I’ll get it, and then goes to the door.

“Tommy. What’s at the door right now?”

“You’ll see. Tell me how she likes them later!” And then my asshat brother hangs up.

I hear the door open and Madison’s gasp. When I turn the corner, I see why. There’s a delivery guy at the door holding a bouquet so large you can barely see him behind it. It’s a rainbow, bursting with every color of rose under the sun.

She squeals and then looks over her shoulder at me, eyes bright and sparkling. “Are these for you, James?”

I grunt a laugh. “Doubt it.”

The delivery guy speaks, voice muffled from behind the arrangement. “Is Madison Walker here?”

“Me! I’m her!”

“Oh, great.” He shifts the bouquet so he can peek around it. He looks fatigued. “These are for you.”

“Who are they from?”

“I’ve got a good guess,” I say dryly.

She goes up on her tiptoes to pluck the little card from the top of the blooms and then reads it out loud. “ The roses are rainbow, your nails are too. This bouquet is to prove, I’m still thinking of you. From Tommy. ” She gives a pouty lip and presses the card to her chest. “Oh my gosh, Tommy used ChatGPT just for me!”

I roll my eyes, wondering if he sent these flowers before or after his date last night. The guy is a prick and doesn’t deserve the beaming smile on Madison’s face. Especially after voting against her working for us—repeatedly.

“Do you mind bringing them inside for me?” Madison asks the delivery guy.

“Su—”

I hold up a hand, staying him. “You’re not actually going to accept these, are you?”

She shoves my hand down. “Why the hell wouldn’t I?”

“Sorry, but . . .” The delivery guy hikes the flowers up higher in his arms. “These are heavy.”

“Shit. Yeah, you can put them on the kitchen table,” she says, disregarding my glare.

He plows his way through the entry and into the kitchen, Madison on his heels and me on hers. “Are you actually entertaining the idea of dating him?”

She laughs. “No.”

“Then why are you keeping these?”

“Because they’re flowers. And I love attention. What’s the problem?” Her hands go to her hips.

The delivery guy points toward the way he came. “Okay, I’m just going to . . .”

“Sit down.” I tell him and then look at Madison. “You should send those flowers back. Reject them so Tommy will get the message.”

Madison folds her arms. “What if I don’t want to send him a message? What if I want him to keep sending me flowers?”

“He was on a date with someone else last night, Madison.”

She stares at me. “So?”

“So you’re a game to him. Don’t you see that?”

She smirks. “I thought you said you were going to stay out of it. That it’s my choice if I want to date Tommy.”

“Yeah, well, that was before we were friends. But now—as your best friend—”

“Oh, you’re my best friend now?”

“Yes. And as such, I’m telling you, you can’t date my asshole brother.”

“Is that an order?” She doesn’t seem amused anymore. I watch her temper flare in her eyes—and god, if she isn’t twice as beautiful. “And I’d think long and carefully before you answer that question, Jameson.”

“It’s not an order,” I say and watch her eyes soften. “It’s a command. ”

Her eyes blaze anew. “That better be a joke.”

I step closer. “I don’t want you to date Tommy.”

“Why? Give me one solid reason.”

“Because I—” The rest of the sentence tangles in my throat. I close my mouth, heart thudding. She’s looking at me now, really looking. What would happen if I just told her the truth? Because I love you. Because I can’t stomach the thought of anyone else touching you. Because deep down, I still have this absurd hope that you’ll want me back. But I can’t say any of that.

At least not with words.

My body, however, seems to have gone on autopilot. My feet carry me a step closer, and I watch her breath catch. The floor creaks under my boots and I advance toward her even more. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, but now we’re standing close. So close I can count the freckles across the bridge of her nose. I can easily see the moment her eyes flick to my mouth. Mine drop to her lips too, tracing the pronounced bow of her full upper lip with my gaze, and I watch those lips part on a soft inhale.

My pulse is a drum line, and my hands itch to touch her. It would only take one second. One blink.

But then—

“Uh, can I go now?” the delivery guy asks, clearly uncomfortable. “I’ve got . . . other stops.” We both jerk apart, having completely forgotten about our unwilling audience.

Madison blinks like she’s surfacing from water. “Right! Oh geez—sorry.” She glances at the flowers. “Could you help me carry this to my truck? It’s just outside, and then I promise we’ll let you go. And I will leave you a raving review on Yelp!”

The guy nods, looking more than ready to escape, grabs the bouquet, and follows Madison to the back door. She holds it open for him to walk through, and after he’s out she stands there a moment longer.

“I’m going to head home,” she says, and although nothing happened between us, the atmosphere is different.

“Sure. Need help with the flowers at your cottage?”

“No, thanks,” she says with a laugh and then lets the door fall shut behind her.

I blow out a huge breath and remove my hat so I can scrape my hand through my hair, worried that I’ve just screwed up something fragile between us.

But then the door swings back open almost as soon as it shuts and Madison pops her head back in, apples of her cheeks flushed. “Hey . . . I thought I might make popcorn and rewatch Sweet Home Alabama tonight. You wanna come?”

Or maybe I didn’t mess anything up. My blood rushes through my veins thinking of a night cozied up at Madison’s cottage watching a movie. How many times have I wished I could do just that with her. God, I want to. But . . . shit.

“I can’t. I let one of my employees cut out early, so I have to finish covering for him after dinner.”

She nods slowly, looking disappointed. “Oh, okay. No problem.”

She turns to go again, but this time I call after her.

“Madison.”

She pauses.

I scratch the back of my neck, heat crawling up it. “Thanks. For the salad.”

Her expression softens. “Stop eating trash. You literally have everything you need to be healthy growing in your backyard. And take your blood pressure. And go for morning runs. Google says it helps.”

“Mind your own business,” I tell her, grinning despite myself.

“Never,” she says, and the door clicks shut behind her.

I stare at the spot where she stood, the scent of roses mixed with whatever sweet fragrance she was wearing still in the air. And I realize: If I take that contract, I could afford to hire more crew. I could have nights off again. And just maybe, I could have someone to spend my evenings with too.

If only those weren’t selfish reasons . . .