In Your Dreams by Sarah Adams - 29

Guess what sucks? Finally getting to date the woman you’ve loved for years, only for you both to be so busy launching a restaurant and running a farm that you don’t actually get to date.

It’s been two weeks since the most incredible night of my life, and I’ve seen Madison twice, only briefly: Once when she was rushing out of the house to hold interviews with her potential kitchen staff at the coffee shop. I didn’t even get to kiss her because a couple of my crew were around. And another time when we “accidentally” met at the Diner for lunch. I did kiss her then, but it was in the hallway on the way to the bathroom and so quick it barely counts.

We’ve talked on the phone every night for a few minutes, but I’m always exhausted from my early mornings and she’s distracted with restaurant prep: cooking, writing something down, or researching on her laptop. It’s okay, though. When we agreed to keep this under wraps until after the restaurant launch, it was also an unvoiced decision to let it stay on the back burner (no pun intended) for now.

I’m content to wait for her as long as needed.

But tonight I got off work a little early, and after showering I put my new skills to work and whipped something up for us at my place. Her cottage lights are glowing against the night as I walk over, hoping this surprise appearance will be okay.

She opens the door, eyes wide to find me here, then launches herself at me. Kissing me into her house.

The door clicks shut behind us and her lips haven’t left mine yet. It’s not passionate or sexy. It’s the best clumsy, giggly welcome I’ve ever received. I need to pinch myself to make sure this is real.

“It’s okay I’m here?” I ask against her mouth.

She smiles, all teeth. “Never leave.” Madison snatches the reusable bag from my arm and takes it to the counter, poking her nose inside. “Did you bring me presents? Smells good.”

No contacts tonight. She’s wearing her at least eight-year-old teal-framed glasses, black leggings, and a Culinary Institute of New York shirt. It swallows her whole. My socks on her feet.

God, I’m gonna lose my mind she’s so cute. And I get to be here. See her like this.

Wildest part: She wants me here.

Dislodging the words from my throat, I meet her at the table. “I tried my hand at cooking. Don’t expect much though.”

Not a second is wasted.

Madison drags everything out onto the wooden surface. Two wrapped tomato-and-mayonnaise sandwiches. A container of fresh blueberries. And a bag of chips, because I know BBQ is her favorite. Lastly, on a gasp, she reveals the chocolate chip cookies. The recipe she taught me.

“They’re a little burned,” I say.

She cuts a scolding look at me, opening the lid. “They’re perfect.”

“They are far from—What are you doing? You can’t eat the cookie before dinner!” I lean across the table, trying to snatch it from her hand, but she dips away, crumbs raining from her mouth as she all but shoves the whole cookie inside.

“Dessert before dinner is always the best!” she says through a full mouth.

I’ve experienced a lot of different moments, modes, and situations with Madison now. But this—eating a casual meal together in her cottage, swapping stories about our week—might be my favorite. I’m tired. She’s tired. Being together though . . . it’s peaceful. It’s perfect.

After we eat, I go lie on her bed, boots hanging off the side so I don’t dirty her blankets. This might seem like I’m trying to start something up, but in reality I’m so tired I can’t keep my eyes open. She curls up beside me, and I listen, eyes shut, while she reads me her notes from the round of interviews she just held.

“I don’t know,” she says, paper crinkling in her hands. “I really like Jeremy. He has a lot of experience. But Amiya . . . we jived. She even finished my sentence at one point. An ideal trait in a sous-chef.”

“I think you have your answer then.” I stroke her head, leaning back against my chest.

I feel her head tilt up and then a poke in my cheek. “Are you asleep?”

“Nope.” But pretty damn close.

“Am I boring you?” she asks, an edge of insecurity in her voice. A history of too many people discarding her if she wasn’t entertaining them, giving them something, fills the air.

I crack an eye open. “Being comfortable enough to doze off with you in my arms is not a bad thing. It’s the dream.”

“The dream,” she repeats, like she’s mulling it over. “ Monogamy. ”

I laugh. Like it’s our code word now.

She sits up, leans over, and tugs at my boots until they hit the floor with a loud thud. One and then the other. A blanket gets tugged from the foot of the bed up over our bodies as she settles close to me again. She’s warm and her hair smells like girly shampoo. I love everything about this.

I love her.

The words are balancing there on the tip of my tongue, but I don’t say them yet. It’s too soon, and I don’t want to scare her away.

We laze here together, snuggling and kissing every now and then until there’s a firm knock on Madison’s front door. She tenses, then shoots upright. Neither of us says a word, but we share a glance like maybe the unwelcome person will go away.

But then: “Madison Walker. Let this old lady in. It’s dark and scary out here.”

Wild eyes connect with me over Madison’s shoulder, and not even a second later she’s shoving me out of the bed. “It’s Mabel! Hide!” She raises her voice above the sounds of me sliding to the floor, elbow knocking into the bedside table and knee slamming into the bed frame while trying to unhook the blanket that’s snagged around the ankle of my jeans.

“I’m coming! Just a second!” Madison calls.

I would crawl under the bed, but my shoulders don’t fit. I have no choice but to lie here on the floor and hope Mabel doesn’t walk this way.

Madison cracks the door open, but that doesn’t deter Mabel. She pushes her way in. “I was home tonight and realized . . . I haven’t seen your new place yet!”

“So you just popped over.” Madison is reaching for a positive tone, but lands a little shy of it.

Something is digging into my shoulder. I reach behind me to dislodge a pair of sunglasses.

“I did. And you should have invited me sooner.”

Madison laughs. “You’re right. I’m sorry, I’ve just been busy with the restaurant.”

“No excuses.” I hear her clap, then watch Mabel rock back on her black leather therapeutic loafers. And then I realize . . . shit. My boots are right there on the floor. Sitting in plain sight.

“I like the kitchen,” Mabel says, voice wandering in that direction.

Madison must notice the boots because she scurries over and plants herself in front of them. “Me too! James did an excellent job with it.” She’s kicking at the boots, trying to shove them under the bed. I reach through and grab them.

“How’s it going with you and James?” I know Mabel’s tone. It’s her kick-back-and-stay-awhile one. She’s intending to set up camp. Which is so odd for her at this hour. Normally, she’s hunkered down in her recliner watching TV by now.

“It’s . . . going well.”

“You two are getting along?”

“You could say that.” I wonder if Mabel can detect the laughter in Madison’s voice as well as I can right now. I wish I could see her face. Would she blush at the memory of grinding against me in the kitchen? Oof—nope. This is not the time to relive that moment.

“I heard about what he said to Phil in town the other day,” Mabel confesses, voice scratchy from smoking years ago.

I wince, knowing she’s about to throw me under the bus.

“What did he say to Phil?” I don’t need to see Madison to know she’s crossing her arms. I do, however, see one of her feet point in my direction. Who knew an angle could be so accusatory?

Mabel huffs a laugh. “Scared him shitless after he gave him lip about making sure you don’t burn down the restaurant. Jameson made sure that Phil and them would never disparage you again.”

“Lord.” I love how Madison’s accent comes out thick when Mabel’s around. “I told him not to do that.” Her foot taps. “You’d think he’d listen.”

“I think he’s more interested in making sure you’re taken care of.”

There’s a long pause, and I imagine Mabel is waiting for Madison to fess up. Maybe she knows I’m under the bed.

When Madison doesn’t offer up any juicy info, Mabel continues, “But I wanted to set the record straight so you know that I’ve been on your team since the get-go. Your restaurant is going to be big stuff, mark my words.”

“Thank you, Mabel.” Madison floats around the bed, stopping just at my feet but never looking down at me. “Now . . . Mabel, I know you better than to believe you suddenly had a hankering to see my place.”

I lean forward and touch Madison’s ankle, running my finger up the length of her outer thigh. When my hand almost reaches her hip, she swats my fingers down.

“You’re right,” Mabel says from the kitchen. “You caught me. What I had a hankering for was some of your cookies.”

“Perfect! I can box some up for you and—”

“And it’s nice over here,” Mabel says, quieter. Almost like she doesn’t want to say it but knows she has to. “My place is so quiet sometimes. . . .”

There’s a sharp stab in my gut. I worried that Mabel had been lonely, and this confirms it. I’ve been so busy with the farm and Madison that I forgot to check back in on her and—

Almost as if Madison can sense my thoughts, her eyes cut down to me. Gaze intent on mine. Her eyes say: Don’t take this on. And then she smiles: Let me help.

She breathes in and then out. “Uh, Mabel. While you’re here . . . can I actually get your input about whether you think a shelf would look good in my bathroom?” She gives me a regretful “get out of here” nod, then her voice trails off as the two ladies go into the bathroom. As I’m stealing my boots back from beneath the bed and tiptoeing out the door, I hear Madison invite Mabel to stay for a while and have some tea and cookies.

And it’s hard to put a finger on what I’m feeling right now.

But I think it’s something close to relief.