In Your Dreams by Sarah Adams - 31

Which brings me to now, parking, diving out of my truck, stumbling in my Hunter boots across the gravel driveway. I don’t stop until I’m up on James’s back porch and standing outside his door. The lights are on so I know he’s still awake.

My momentum falters when I reach for the doorknob. Dramatic entrance abandoned, I knock—mainly because I haven’t actually planned out what I’m going to say to him and I need the extra thirty seconds to prepare.

But he opens the door immediately, ruining everything.

“No,” I blurt in lieu of a greeting.

He was stepping out, but at my command, he rocks back. “No? Should I go back inside?”

I’m going to hyperventilate. “If you could close the door, count to thirty, and then come back out, that would be great.”

He doesn’t even hesitate before saying a simple “Okay,” then softly closing the door in my face just as I’ve requested, giving me a handful of time to come up with a way to tell him: Hello sir, I love you.

Last time I laid my heart on the line I was practically laughed at. Even though I know James is nothing like Caden, a sliver of fear gapes open. What if he’s gotten to know me more over the last month and doesn’t like me as much? What if that’s really why he hasn’t tried to have sex with me? I still don’t even know why he and Jeanine broke up! Is there a chance he’s harboring feelings for her still?

Shit, this was a bad idea.

I should have thought this through longer.

Far too soon, he opens the door. I’m not ready, and I’m preparing to tell him this when he comes out, stopping in front of me. He raises his hand and his finger brushes the bottom of my ear.

“Are these new?” He’s referring to my earrings. Which, yes, are new. They’re silly little whisks, handmade from clay and ordered from a small shop online.

They were a little present to myself. A “Good job, Maddie, you’re kicking ass” gift.

“You look really cute in them.” An adoring grin underlines his words.

Somewhere between him immediately noticing my earrings and calling me cute in them, all of my protests melt away.

“James . . .” I adjust on my feet. “I have something to tell you. A big something. But I don’t know how to say it or if I even should. I only know that if I keep it inside any longer I will explode like a confetti cannon.” I’m somehow both breathless and nearly shouting.

Which is probably why James suddenly presses his finger to my lips. For a second, I think he just wants me to shut up because he can read my mind and knows this is a terrible idea and wants to save me from myself.

But then he leans in, angling his face like he’s going to kiss me, mouth hovering just in front of mine and whispers, “I want to hear whatever it is, more than you know. But not right now, because my family is sitting right inside that door, most likely listening to everything you’re saying, and I’m guessing you don’t want an audience for it.”

My eyes widen and his finger slides away. “Impeccable timing, Madison,” I say, taking a step away from him. “God, I’m sorry! I’ll leave you to—”

He catches my wrist. “Where are you going?”

I blink. “Back to the cottage.”

“Yeah, but why? You don’t want to stay?” It’s the hope I hear in his voice that has my heart clenching.

“Do . . . you want me to stay?”

His grin is all innocent dimples. We are just two kids on the playground. “I’m guessing you didn’t see my text?”

I look over my shoulder to my truck, like I can magically see all the way to my cottage and inside to my phone, which I accidentally left on my kitchen table. “No. I haven’t had my phone on me all night. What did it say?”

“That Tommy surprised me and brought my parents in for the soft opening—and that you should come up to the house and hang out.”

“ Oh. ”

I have to let that invitation digest. It’s a lot to comprehend. Layers and layers of past hurt and insecurities crumble off of me.

I rock a little closer to James’s chest and tap it right in the center of his hunter-green cotton T-shirt—just to make sure he’s still real. “Are you sure you want me to crash your family time?”

He catches my hands, clasps them together, and tugs me in close to him by my wrists, resting them against his chest, forcing my chin up as I try to look him in the eyes. “I hear what you’re not saying . . . and Madison Walker, I need you to know . . . you’re someone I would always want to bring home to meet my mom.” His thumb glides against my skin. “Come inside. I really want you here.”

And then the door behind James is flying open and Ruth steps out. “Is that Maddie I hear? Girl, get in here!” And by “in here” she means her arms.

James is hip-bumped out of the way, and then for the first time in years and years and years, I’m being squeezed to death by someone who feels like my mom.

Ruth dumps a cup of chocolate chips into the brownie batter she began whipping up nearly the minute she pulled me inside. “Well, I would ask how New York was but I feel like I already know so much.”

“Really? How?” I lean my hip against the counter, studying her recipe but trying not to be overt about it.

“From James. He’s been keeping me informed during our weekly phone calls.”

I don’t know what prompts me to clarify, but I ask, “You mean he’s filled you in since I’ve been home?”

Ruth swirls the wooden spoon around in the batter. “Lord, no. He’s been keeping me informed since”—she pauses, shoulders resting, and looks up like she’s thumbing through her mental calendar—“heavens, since you started culinary school, really. I heard all about that awful roommate of yours—Bryce was her name?—and that time you were late to class and someone smashed right into the front of you and knocked your bagel to the ground! Shoot, I was never so mad as when I heard that.” She shakes her head and resumes her mixing, expression turning mischievous. “I reckon I’ve heard all the stories. Even the ones you probably wouldn’t want me to.”

Ruth is glowing and tan as a biscuit from her days at the beach. She seems thrilled to be standing here with me, but I’m reeling.

James has been talking about me? Not just since we became friends, but . . . for two years.

“Well, I’m sorry he’s apparently been yapping your ear off about me. You probably didn’t want to hear half of it.”

“Oh, honey, I love to hear it all.” She smiles, warmer than a cast-iron skillet off the stove. “I love your wild heart. Reminds me of your mama. I miss her every day.”

“Wait. My . . . wild heart reminds you of my mom?” This is the first time I’ve ever heard anything like that. I’ve heard my mom was passionate before, but the word wild has never been used.

“Heavens, yes. Do you know how many times that woman got detention growing up?” Sometimes I forget that Ruth knew my mom even longer than my dad did. She and Ruth had been close since seventh grade. “I thought Char was never going to settle down. But then she met your sweet dad in college, and the rest was history.”

“She settled down after that?”

“Hell no!” Ruth says with a laugh. “But she did marry Daniel and have babies. They were so happy. And honestly, I think her stories make yours sound tame.”

It’s nice to hear that. The other side of Zora Brookes’s coin.

Sometimes love doesn’t work out—but sometimes it does.

“How am I just now learning this?” I ask, having to lean over the counter for support. I’ve often felt so other in my family and in this town, and to know that I get this fire from my mom is a treasure, a gift I’ll always hold close.

“When y’all were little, it was hard to talk about your parents without upsetting you. Especially Emily. The more we brought them up, the sadder you all got. So we all started keeping stories to ourselves until you asked about them, to protect you from that pain. But now . . .” She meets my eyes and covers my hand with hers. “I think we did you all a disservice. All we protected you from was grieving. And as I’ve gotten older, I’ve learned a heart is gonna grieve no matter what. We just learn to keep it from everyone so we don’t make them uncomfortable. I’m sorry for my part in that.” She squeezes once. “But anytime you want to know anything about your mom or dad, give me a ring and I can tell you some stories that will make your head spin.”

I am warm, head to toe. “Thank you. I’d really like that.”

Ruth pours the batter into a glass baking dish, attention drifting somewhere in her mind. A moment later she says, “But as for James telling me all your stories, I’m used to it by now. He’s been talking about you for years and years.”

Now my stomach jumps into my throat.

And judging by the way Ruth has stopped working and cuts her eyes up to me meaningfully, she just intentionally let me in on a secret. A big one.

James has been talking about me—not since culinary school but for years and years.