**A homecoming to Rome, Kentucky, sparks a new romance—and lots of drama—between two old family friends, from the Sarah Adams

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A homecoming to Rome, Kentucky, sparks a new romance—and lots of drama—between two old family friends, from the New York Times bestselling author of When in Rome, Practice Makes Perfect, and Beg, Borrow, or Steal.

Madison Walker left Rome, Kentucky, determined to make it in the culinary world. But after years of chasing success in New York, all she has to show for it is her shattered confidence and a desperate need for a fresh start. Coming home isn’t part of the plan—until an unexpected job offer lands in her lap: the head chef position at a new farm-to-table restaurant in her hometown. The only catch? It comes from James Huxley, owner of Huxley Farm, her brother’s best friend.

James has always played it safe, keeping his head down and running the family business. But when Madison’s happiness is on the line, he’s willing to take up his estranged brother’s offer to launch a restaurant. James has loved her quietly for years, knowing she’s never seen him as more than an annoyance, but now that she’s back, he’s determined to change that.

Madison and James are tasked with launching the dreamy restaurant in record time, but keeping things strictly professional soon becomes impossible, and the town can’t help but meddle in their relationship. As opening night looms closer, Madison’s fears threaten to hold her back.

When an unexpected disaster collides with a long-simmering sibling feud, both Madison and James will have to face their biggest insecurities—and decide if love is worth the risk or if some dreams are safer left untouched.

Leseprobe
Chapter One

Madison, New York

*101 days until I fail . . .

• I have a personal vendetta against the phrase give it your best and forget the rest. That motto only works for a select few—­the naturally gifted and the “somehow I always come out on top” success stories. I’ve never been a member of either club.

  Instead, here are some of life’s rules, both silly and serious, that I’ve always found to be true:

  1. If I jump off the roof of the shed with an umbrella, gravity will definitely take over, and I will end up with at least a broken leg.

  2. A good cry pairs well with almost any emotion: happy or sad.

  3. Nothing beats a classic chocolate chip cookie.

  4. Every family has one person who is considered The Failure—­and in my family, that person is me.

  No matter how hard I have tried to shake off the label these past thirty years, it always seems to pull me back in. (Or more honestly, I jump headfirst right into its comforting embrace.) And though my three siblings would never call me that to my face, I know that deep down they think it. (Because it’s true.)

  At first, my inevitable misdeeds always present themselves as sparkling, hopeful opportunities. A bright shining star on the horizon. Cut your own hair, little six-­year-­old Madison. It’ll look so cute. (It did not. I looked like Weird Barbie.) Improvise your lines on the opening night of your theater performance, twelve-­year-­old Madison. It’ll take everyone by surprise and make you look so funny and creative. (It was a disaster. No one laughed and my fellow castmates were furious at me for weeks for ruining the production.) Spike the punch at prom, seventeen-­year-­old Madison. Everyone will love you for it. (Well, they did love me for it, but it also got me detention for the rest of the school year and community service on the weekends.) And last but not least, Quit your secure elementary school teaching job, adult Madison. Go to culinary school in New York and wow everyone with your high-­profile chef position. (Or develop anxiety and panic attacks that keep me from ever wanting to step foot in a professional kitchen ever again.)

  And when I fail, which is often, the fallout is almost always bigger than the big bright idea that started it.

  I should have listened to my gut and quit culinary school a year ago, like I’d planned before I got everyone’s hopes up that I’d actually follow through with something. The city was panning out to be nothing like I’d expected, and I missed my little small-­town home in a way I never anticipated.

  I went back to Rome, Kentucky, intending to stay for good. But Emily, in her wise older-­sister love, encouraged me to stick it out. She reminded me of my dream and how much I’ve wanted this, adding that I would be full of regret if I quit halfway through. It was a classically moving pep talk from someone who always succeeds in the end.

  But I am The Failure—­so even after returning to New York with a motivational speech under my wings and warmth in my heart, I still messed it all up.

  I hoped to graduate as a badass chef like my idol, Zora Brookes. She was a small-­town chef who cooked her way to two Michelin stars in New York City. She’s basically the Catwoman of chefs, if you will. Efficient. Cunning. Outfitted in full leathers. (Just kidding about the leathers—­though, from the photos of her in the Bon Appetit feature, she could pull off the look.) I had dreamed of following in her footsteps.

  Instead, I’m a lost alley cat, emerging from behind the dumpster with matted fur, a broken spirit, and a fractured heart.

  For possibly the first time in her life, Emily was wrong. This dream might not be for me—­and I don’t know how much longer I can keep hoping it is.

  Reading my mind, Josie, an early-­twenties classmate sitting beside me, leans in and whispers, “What are your plans for after graduation?”

  My metal chair squeaks as I adjust to find a comfier position. “Red wine and a sexy book. You?”

  “I didn’t literally mean after this graduation,” she says with a laugh, gesturing to the ceremony we are currently part of.

  What Josie doesn’t know, and what I’ll never admit to anyone, is that I barely made it here. I was one percentage point—­really let that sink in—­above failing my final evaluations. The only reason I get to walk across the stage tonight? Early in the semester, my instructor offered extra credit: Anyone willing to scrub down countertops and mop the kitchen floors after labs for a month would earn bonus points toward their final grade. If I’ve learned anything in my thirty years, it’s that if your name is Madison Walker, you always take the extra credit. And this time it kept me from flunking out altogether.

  Well, that and the lemon thyme risotto I cooked in the third semester that made Chef Cobalt stop talking for a full sixty seconds. Which, if you knew Chef Cobalt, was basically a standing ovation. That was back before the panic attacks really started.

  “I mean after the ceremony,” says Josie, her amber eyes sparkling as she pulls her warm-­brown, waist-­length box braids over one shoulder. “Did you decide on a restaurant to work at?”

  I nearly laugh at her implication that I have choices. As if restaurants all over the city are clamoring to have me work in their kitchens.

  Aside from a weeklong lab exercise we partnered on early in our second semester, Josie and I haven’t interacted enough to be friends. And we didn’t intern in the same kitchen either. If we had, she would have known better than to ask me that question. Because as it currently stands, I’m considering walking away from the culinary life altogether and finding yet another career path. Now I can put *former f…