In Your Dreams by Sarah Adams - 30

3 DAYS UNTIL I FAIL . . .

“Okay, but why does mine look like a pile of weeds and y’all’s look like wedding-worthy bouquets?”

“Because you can’t be a masterful chef and a florist,” Annie says, completely unbothered, sliding a bold orange ranunculus into a short vase already brimming with chamomile and something pale and elegant I think is called delphinium.

At least that’s what I’m told they’re called. To me, they’re the round orange ones, the tall cone-y blue ones, and the little daisy guys.

Which is why I’m eternally grateful Annie offered to handle the flower arrangements for the soft opening. (Sibling discount included.) My sisters showed up tonight to help prep, and once we’re done Annie will cart the arrangements back to her shop until Sunday.

“I would agree with your theory,” I say, eyeing my green foam brick packed with floral mastery, “except . . . look at Amelia’s.”

We all glance toward her. She’s in a striped boatneck tee, her brows knit in concentration as she gently inserts a stem, sculpting a work of art. Annie gave her one of the big centerpieces for the hostess stand. Which feels like favoritism, but okay.

I pout. “Not fair that she can be a Grammy-winning singer-songwriter and a floral prodigy.”

Emily haphazardly stabs a flower into her own vase. “Just like how I’m an exquisite teacher, a thriving author, and an incredible florist, right?”

She gestures dramatically at her bouquet, which looks . . . honestly, like it’s been through something traumatic. The stems are uneven, there’s no balance, and even I can tell she’s overdone it on the cone-y ones.

Annie bites her lip, physically holding herself back from fixing it or blurting the truth. Amelia suddenly becomes very interested in her own arrangement, pretending she didn’t hear.

It’s up to me. I reach out and pat Emily on the back. “You are absolutely two of those three things.”

Her mouth falls open. “Rude!” She smacks me on the shoulder with a long-stemmed something.

I predict she’ll spend the rest of the night trying to master floral design out of pure spite. If I’m used to failing, Emily has no concept of it.

“Hey,” Annie says, gently taking the stem from Emily’s hand like she’s disarming a toddler. “Let’s not hurt the flowers. They didn’t do anything to you.”

Amelia props her chin in her hand, zeroing in on me. “So, about the restaurant. You’ve been training all week, right? How are you feeling about the staff? Ready for Sunday?”

Sunday. I can’t believe the soft opening is already here.

Part of me feels the responsibility and wants to strap on my running shoes and take off. But a larger part—the bit that’s now outgrown and outsized the other—it’s ready for this. Champing at the bit to get this show on the road.

“It’s gone . . . surprisingly well.” I shrug, leaning back in my chair and letting the weight of that truth settle proudly in my chest. “We’re a small but mighty crew. Everyone’s talented and catching on quickly. It actually feels”—I search for the right word—“functional. In a good way.”

I glance at the vase in front of me, letting my fingers trail along the rim while I think of the last few weeks. “There’ve been a few hiccups on the line, stuff I hope will work itself out with more repetition. But overall, it’s working.”

I’ve been tempted more times than I can count to give in to insecurity. Let the voice in my head win, the one that whispers I’m not enough, not ready, not deserving. But I shoved those thoughts away to make room for what Chef Brookes said, about fear being a sign of how much I care rather than a sign of my inadequacy.

And it’s true. I do care. Deeply. Which is why I’ve been twisting and stretching those chef muscles lately, testing how I want to lead that place.

I’m not Chef Davis, and I’m not Chef Brookes. I’m . . . something in between. Or maybe something entirely different.

I care about plating—not fussy, but intentional. Our meals that resemble the comfort of home must look just as beautiful as the memories they are inspired by.

I care about collaboration—wanting my staff to have a voice. I care about saying please and thank you and making sure no one’s tank is running on empty by the end of the night. I won’t coddle during service—we’ll have to move too fast for that—but at the end of every night we will decompress together. What worked, what didn’t. What could’ve gone smoother. They know they can come to me privately too. Those are the things that matter to me.

“That’s so amazing, Maddie,” Emily says, her voice warm. “I guess Tommy picked the right candidates.”

I look up. “Oh, no. I picked them.”

Her brow lifts. “You did?”

I don’t like the surprise in her tone. Those two words, packed with so much meaning they come with a U-Haul.

“By yourself?” Annie asks, and that’s the nail in the coffin.

Even though I’ve done more than enough to earn some credit lately, their surprised expressions make something small inside me shrink even more. I feel like Sammy, longing for a shell to disappear into.

Normally I would meet a feeling like that with even more shame. But this time I hold it with compassion. Gentleness. A sprinkle of pride. I’ve earned the right to look my sisters in the eyes and show them my strength.

“Yes. Me,” I say firmly, wishing I had some liquid courage to say the rest, but of course we’re all not drinking again tonight. “I chose them. Because it’s my kitchen. And only I know what kind of people will work well in it.”

Each sentence is a shot, cracking through the air.

Emily raises her hands in mock surrender. “Whoa. Okay. Sensing some hostility. Want to unpack that, Maddie?”

Emily and I are no strangers to fighting. As sisters closest in age and also relationship, we have had some knockdown drag-out feuds in our day. But I don’t want this to be a fight. I want her, and my other siblings, to understand me.

I take a breath, then another.

“I know I don’t have the best track record. I know I’ve started things and not finished them. But I’m really trying here, and sometimes I feel like . . . like you all are waiting for me to fail. Preparing for it. And I need you to be my biggest fans, not my biggest critics.”

“Oh, Maddie,” Amelia says softly.

“I’m so sorry,” Emily chimes in, shoulders slumping, because if there’s one thing Emily hates more than anything, it’s herself if she thinks she’s hurt us. “I didn’t even realize—”

“I know you didn’t,” I say quickly before she can take on too much. “I know you love me and want to see me succeed. But there’s already so much pressure. I don’t need reminders of all the ways I’ve failed before. I need what James gives me—someone who sees what I’m capable of, not just what I’ve screwed up.”

There’s a long pause, the kind that makes the air thrum.

“You think James believes in you more than we do?” Annie asks.

I nod. “I know he does. He doesn’t leave space for doubt. He sees me as strong. And somehow, being around him . . . I see it too. I don’t have to shrink. I don’t have to apologize for who I am. He makes me feel”—I pause, heart suddenly racing—“inspiring. And he’s funny. God, I’ve never laughed so hard in my life. And he’s . . . affectionate like me. And—”

I stop, realizing I’ve lost the thread.

My sisters are all staring at me. The silence, tangible.

Emily leans in, blinking slowly. “Uh, Madison . . . ?”

I blink back.

Oh no.

I just launched into a monologue about all of James’s incredible qualities, and they didn’t even know we were dating. My heart races. A flush creeps up my neck as a decision takes root in my chest. This thing I wanted to keep hidden between us now feels very impossible to conceal. Don’t even want to conceal.

“I . . . I’m in love with James.”

Screams. Chairs. Pandemonium.

The room explodes as they launch to their feet and swarm me like I just won the championship game.

“I knew it!” Emily shrieks.

“We all knew it.” Annie grins. “But does James know?”

“Not yet,” I say, cheeks flaming. “I mean, I think he has an idea. We’ve been secretly dating for a month.”

Emily gasps like I slapped her. “What! Have you—have you slept together?!”

Amelia elbows her. “Weren’t you working on being less invasive?”

“To hell with that! I want details, Madison!” She jostles my shoulders.

I laugh. “We . . . haven’t.”

Emily stumbles away, collapses dramatically onto the couch. “I need a moment.”

“Is he too scared of you?” Annie asks, totally serious, making us all frown curiously. “What? You’re a sexual goddess. It could be intimidating.”

“He’s not intimidated,” I say, and it’s loaded enough to make them all perk up. “But it is intentional,” I add quickly. “I didn’t tell you all, but I’ve been celibate this past year.”

Emily throws her hands in the air. “The secrets never end! This is Jack’s fault, isn’t it? I’m breaking up with him. He takes up all my space and now you don’t tell me things.”

I slide onto the couch beside her, leaning into her shoulder.

“I kept it to myself because it was something I needed to do. Just for me.”

“I hate adulthood,” she admits, kissing my head.

“Me too. And this change was so uncomfortable at first. I was ready for more out of relationships, but it felt like sex kept getting in the way.” It’s the simplest answer I can give without launching into Caden and that hurt.

They’re all quiet now, which rarely happens, so I go on.

“James knows about the celibacy thing. Knows how important it’s been to me. So he’s never once pushed. He just . . . shows up. Over and over. Like that’s enough.”

Emily’s eyes are glistening. “You deserve that.”

Annie wipes at the corner of her eye. “So why keep it quiet?”

“I didn’t want the town in our business. And . . .” I glance at them. “Maybe I was nervous you guys were going to encourage me to stay away from James or something.”

They all groan and launch throw pillows at me.

“We’re going public after the opening,” I say, laughing and batting them away. “One big event at a time.”

“Mabel’s going to be livid that she wasn’t in on the secret,” Emily says.

“Not as much as Tommy when he realizes all his efforts were in vain,” I mutter.

They freeze. “What does Tommy have to do with it?”

And so, I launch into the story—the airport pickup, the declaration to woo me, the flower deliveries and e-card flirting. Amelia jumps up midsentence, eyes glowing.

“This is perfect. I have just the movie for this.”

Five minutes later, Sabrina plays quietly in the background. We’ve seen it a hundred times, but it hums along behind us, Audrey Hepburn and Humphrey Bogart gently falling in love while I answer every nosy question my sisters ask.

And somewhere between “When did it start to change for you?” and “Was your first kiss weird?” my heart burns with love.

He needs to know. Now. No more waiting or going slow. James has proven he is more trustworthy with my heart than anyone I’ve ever known.

I stand abruptly. “I’m sorry, but—I’ve got to go.”

I shove my feet into my shoes, grab my keys from the table, and bolt for the door.

Because I’m in love with James.

And I’m done keeping it quiet.