Page 1 of Mud & Moxie
1
Storm Clouds & Secrets
MADISON
The storm rages outside, rain pounding the glass as if demanding entry. As I step into Jenkins & Cole, Attorneys-at-Law, the click of my heels echoes too loudly on the linoleum floor. Heads turn, eyes tracking my disheveled arrival. Wonderful—I'm late and have already turned into the main event.
Water drips from my umbrella as I struggle to close it, droplets scattering across the floor. My hair sticks to my cheeks, mascara smeared from my sprint through town from the train station. I fumble with my phone, folders, and bag strap, nearly spilling everything. Get it together, Madison, I admonish myself, forcing on that polished smile—a trademark for my Instagram life. It's a smile that insists, Yes, I planned to show up looking like a soaked cat.
The room carries the crisp scent of lemon cleaner mixed with the mustiness of old books. Adjusting my blazer, I stride to the receptionist, who blinks at me as if I've wandered in from areality TV show. 'Appointment for Mr. Wilkes,' I say, my voice even despite the swarm of nerves beneath my skin
She gestures toward the inner waiting room without a word. Thunder rattles the door behind me, shadows trailing me in. Uncle Ray always said I could make chaos look like choreography. Today, I feel more like a soggy improv act.
Two farmers in mud-splattered boots lean close, voices carrying. “That’s Madison Wilkes? The city girl?” one mutters. “Ray must’ve been softer than we thought.” Their words bite, but I force my spine straight.City girl.Like I’m some Instagram filter in heels, not someone who built an actual business. If they only knew the hours I spent hustling while they were yawning at dawn milking cows.
The clock on the wall ticks loudly, my heart racing to keep pace. I sink into a wooden chair, letting my eyes wander over the curled magazines, the flickering fluorescent light, the plaque marking Jenkins' thirty years in practice. This office remains unchanged since my teenage years—frozen in time while I've been racing to prove myself far beyond its walls.
I breathe in the tang of rain-soaked wool and coffee drifting from down the hall. It pulls me back to Uncle Ray’s kitchen table, the percolator sputtering, wet coats dripping by the door. He should be here. Not me. Him.
And worse, I feel judgment pressing in. To them, I’m the niece who left for Wi-Fi and hashtags. They don’t see the nights I stayed up, all night, to build something from nothing. They think it’s vapid, frivolous. The contracts in my tote say otherwise. But none of that matters here. Here, I’m still the girl who abandoned the farm for selfies.
As the murmurs in the room continue, I feel a tight knot in my stomach, a mix of anxiety and frustration. It's not just the storm that's unsettled the world outside; it mirrors the chaos within me. Every eye feels like it's seeing through my carefullyconstructed facade, piercing into the parts of me that are vulnerable and exposed.
***
I decide to make a quick trip to the bathroom, but I don’t get more than two steps before slamming into something solid. Not furniture. A man. My folders slip, I catch my phone before it hits the floor.
“Watch it,” a familiar, deep voice snaps. The same one that used to bark warnings when I was sixteen and sneaking into barn dances in heels.
No. Not him. Anyone but him.
“Dylan,” I breathe, the name tasting of dread and old hurt.
He stares down at me, storm-gray eyes shadowed beneath the brim of his cap. Shoulders broader, jaw sharper, but the scowl? Unchanged. “Madison.” Flat. Like an inconvenience. “Figures you’d blow in with noise.”
My pulse spikes. “Figures you’d still plant yourself in the middle of the room like you own it.” My voice cuts sharper than I intend, but I don’t regret it. Not with his disapproval radiating off him like summer heat on asphalt.
The receptionist ducks her head, pretending not to listen. Silence stretches, taut with all the words we never said. I clutch my folders tighter.
“You always this charming, or am I just lucky?” I shoot back, lifting my chin.
His mouth twitches, not quite a smile. “Lucky’s one word for it.”
“Unlucky’s another,” I mutter.
The tension hums like a live wire. Of all the rotten timing—why here, why now, whyhim?
Behind us, someone clears their throat. Matthew’s voice—my brother’s voice—cuts sharp. “You two done blocking the doorway?” He must’ve swung by because I mentioned a legal appointment to him. Typical Matthew—always protective, always wary. He wasn’t expecting Dylan either. His eyes dart between us, confusion and warning in equal measure.
“Mad, why didn’t you tell me he’d be here?” he mutters, leaning closer. Relief and tension all at once. I don’t answer, because I didn’t know either.
The waiting room has gone still, farmers pretending to read while listening. Heat climbs my neck. Small towns never miss a show, and I’ve just handed them the opening act. Somewhere, someone is already composing the gossip version, and I guarantee it will not be flattering.
Back in the city, every move is curated. Here, one stumble in wet heels and I’m reduced to the girl who doesn’t belong. My brother glaring, his best friend aka my nemesis looming, neighbors already rewriting the tale. Online, my brand is polished. Here, it’s raw, messy, humiliating.
And Dylan? He’s smirking like the universe just handed him the world’s best punchline.
***
