Chapter Thirteen Veronica
Chapter Thirteen
Veronica
I’m actually glad I don’t have much time to agonize over what to wear—and it would be useless anyway, given that Jude has seen me in pajamas in the lobby, sweaty exercise gear after I’ve gone to the gym, and just now in my Couch-Nomad-in-Residence getup.
I choose a pair of black cigarette pants, some cute heels, and a green silk blouse that brings out the color in my eyes. Blow-dry the hair, give a few quick swipes of some blush and mascara, a pop of lip color, and I’m ready.
He’s already downstairs waiting when I step into the lobby, and at the sight of him in pressed black trousers and a gray button-down shirt, his hair a damp mass of curls over his forehead, his eyes crinkled in that addictive smile . . . it takes me a second to be able to catch my breath.
“Wow,” he says, walking toward me and meeting me halfway to the elevator. “You look . . . incredible.”
“So do you.” I reach up, unable to resist touching his curls. They’re so unbelievably soft. “God, I’ve wanted to do that forever.”
“Forever?” he asks with a smile, his gaze searching mine.
I shrug. “Well, ever since you moved in here.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, man, you’ve got good hair.”
“Thank you.” Jude tilts his head, considering me. “Me too, actually.”
“You’ve wanted to touch your hair?”
He laughs. “I’ve wanted to touch you. Hair, neck, hands, whatever.”
I feel the way the blush crawls up my neck and into my cheeks, and Jude bends at the waist, coming in for a closer look.
“Veronica, are you a blusher? I would never have guessed this.”
Pressing a hand to my cheek, I admit, “I might be.”
“Smart, funny, hot, and adorable.” He shakes his head, murmuring a soft, “Fuck me.”
I roll my lips between my teeth, biting back the urge to say, Tell me when.
“I have to admit,” he says, taking my hand and leading us toward the exit, “once I got back to my apartment, I worried you’d decide all of this was too absurd and opt to stay in with the chocolate ice cream tonight instead of letting me take you out to dinner.
You looked pretty settled in for the duration. ”
I pretend to look offended. “One, I knew I should have kept you blindfolded! The only way you knew about the ice cream was because of the stain on my shirt. And two, I did consider just staying in with Mr. Darcy and H?agen-Dazs, but then I figured . . . free dinner.”
Jude laughs. “I’m like Postmates, but with better hair.”
“Please. Postmates never tries this hard to win me over.”
“My competition for your affection is a food delivery app.” Jude holds open the lobby doors and follows me out into the frigid February chill.
“There’s no competition, sir. Postmates also never holds the door open.”
He smiles at this and steps to the curb, hailing a cab. “I have a car in the garage but figure it might be nice to share some wine tonight.”
“I heartily concur.”
We climb in, and when Jude gives the driver an address, I look over at him, frowning. “There’s no way,” I say. “That’s Cindy’s Rooftop. There is absolutely no way you got us in for tonight.”
“In fact, I did.” He smiles and looks so adorably proud. “I told my family group chat about everything and how it turned out to be you, and my sister, Hailey, gave up her dinner reservation with her girlfriend tonight so we could have it.”
“She did not.” He nods, and I take a deep, appreciative breath. “A queen amongst women, that one.”
“I’ll tell her you said so.”
“Please do, and also tell Hailey and her ladyfriend that I will fight to the death for them now, should they ever need it.”
His laugh rumbles in his chest, and I find I’m already addicted to the deep, joyful sound of it.
I’m also addicted to his crinkly-eyed smile, the way he listens so intently to my answer whenever he asks a question, and the way he answers my own questions with such thoughtful openness and sincerity.
Jude proves to be—without question and perhaps unsurprisingly—the best first date of my life.
Cindy’s Rooftop has arguably the most stunning views in Chicago, but we barely notice them as we talk about everything from our travel bucket list to the worst haircut we’ve ever had to foods we pretend to like but secretly don’t.
He admits that Jason once told him that thunder was the sound of God bowling, and he believed it “far too long for me to feel confident you won’t mock me if I tell you.”
I counter by admitting that I used to think if I ate a watermelon seed, I’d wake up pregnant with a watermelon.
We find that neither of us believes in love at first sight, but we do believe in love at first kiss.
His green flags are having a hobby, enjoying the outdoors, and smart and funny people who love dogs (a win for me).
Mine are people who love to try new restaurants, who never yuck anyone’s fandom yum, and being adventurous on vacation but also loving a good nap (he looks pleased at this).
When I ask Jude what his exes would say about him if they all got together to dish, he said, “That I’m habitually running late, but I’m never late when it really matters. ”
I nod appreciatively. “Not bad.”
“What about you?”
“Probably that I have the worst sense of direction but make the best pancakes.”
He smiles at me over the rim of his wineglass. “I can get on board with that.”
I push away my dessert plate, absolutely stuffed, and lean back in my seat. “Okay, here’s an important one: Where did you go to college? And for the record, there’s only one wrong answer.”
“Ohio State. What about you?”
My expression crashes. “No.”
His dark eyes wide with concern, Jude leans in, nostrils flaring. “Tell me you didn’t do your undergrad at Michigan!”
I drop my head onto my folded arms on the table, groaning. “You’re a Buckeye? How could I have missed this?”
Several moments of silence pass where it occurs to me that .
. . maybe he’s not kidding. Big Ten people take this shit seriously.
But then I remind myself: This is Jude. He remembers things his nieces say over dinner and takes calls from them even when they interrupt what might be a great conversation with a neighbor he ostensibly has a thing for.
He argues with flat-earthers, for Christ’s sake.
He’s not going to bail on this date because of a college football rivalry.
Finally, I feel his hand curl around my bare forearm. It’s so warm, his grip is so strong. “Listen.” His voice carries a note of delightful mirth, and my blood flushes hot. “I truly believe we can get past this.”
Shaking my head, I fake-sob. “We can’t.”
“Look at me.” Jude’s voice is dramatically urgent, and I stifle a laugh. “Look at me.”
With feigned reluctance, I lift my head.
“Veronica,” he says with deep, playful sincerity, “everything else is perfect. Even if you are a Wolverine, and I’m a Buckeye, we can coexist in harmony.”
“I want to believe you.” After a beat, I nod once, resolute. “Let us never speak of it again.”
He clucks his tongue regretfully. “Unless it’s a Saturday in the fall and the Game is on.”
“We could just stay in our own homes and not interact, not discuss, not taunt?”
Jude winces. “What if we live together?”
My heart does that lurching thing again. “Date one and we’re talking about cohabitating?”
He shrugs. “If you suggested picking out china patterns tonight, I wouldn’t protest.”
Laughing, I shake my head at him, whispering giddily, “We can’t be there yet, Jude.
We haven’t even kissed. Didn’t we agree on love at first kiss?
What if it’s awful and the chemistry just evaporates, and we realize all this time the stars were just spelling out ‘Be serious, you’re terrible for each other’? ”
“That’s a pretty complicated constellation.” With a smile, he crooks his finger at me, beckoning. I lean forward, and he meets me halfway across the small table.
It isn’t cinematic perfection. There are no fireworks over the lake, no swelling soundtrack.
But even still, it’s the kind of moment that pales everything in my life before.
Our soft laughs turn into smiles and then our smiles straighten, our lips meet, warm and full.
Fire blooms in my veins, I feel euphoric all the way down to my toes—but the kiss isn’t wild.
That will come later, I’m sure of it. I can feel need simmering, hot and electric, beneath his skin.
But this first kiss is unhurried, languid, and sweet. It’s chaste enough for a restaurant setting on Valentine’s Day, but intimate enough to carry the promise of something deeper, something hungrier, something I think I’m going to start to crave desperately.
With my heart pounding in my chest, I slowly settle back in my chair, and we stare at each other with giddy smiles.
Jude rests his forearms on the table, clasping his hands together and grinning smugly. “Well.”
“Well, indeed.” I reach for my water glass with a shaking hand, taking a sip, feeling overheated. Setting it down, I say simply, “My vote is something in a deep cobalt blue with gold filigree trim, the kind of pattern that makes even burnt toast look regal.”
Jude bursts out laughing but quickly composes himself to play along. “Really? I was thinking more along the lines of crisp ivory with a single thin band of matte gold. Something clean and understated.”
“I suspect we have some time to come to an agreement . . . that my selection is best.”
“Veronica Cochran, my beautiful neighbor, my brilliant Zoom crasher, and the most perfect first date of my life.” He reaches across the table, taking my hand. “I suspect we have all the time in the world.”