chapter 7
[Jude]
I might have left out a teeny-tiny detail like the party being held three hours from Chicago in a small Wisconsin village.
I also might have purposely held back that information until the last minute because I was afraid she’d back out.
Other than one text exchange confirming her address and the time I’d pick her up, we haven’t spoken for the last week, which has been strangely unsettling for me.
Because I’d wanted to talk to her even though I couldn’t think of a single thing to discuss.
I’m not even a talker, but still, I’d wanted to hear her voice. The concept was fucking with my head.
The inn is practically suffocating in holiday garb. Twinkling tinsel and chiming bells. Lights and crackling logs. Evergreen fragrance everywhere, including our hotel room.
The one room. With one bed.
Heads will roll come Monday for this practical joke, although I’m certain my assistant will have an excuse, claiming the situation is my fault.
“You requested one room, sir.” I can already hear the sarcasm in her sixty-something-year-old voice. The same voice that knows I probably did request a single room, without knowing if I’d have a date or not.
Maxine Kelsey knows me better than anyone. She should. She’s been assisting me for over a decade. Working with her is the longest relationship I’ve ever had. Pathetic but true.
As I told Angelica in the car, I’ve never had an official girlfriend.
And under any other circumstances, I wouldn’t balk at sharing a room with a beautiful woman, but this is Angelica.
I’m trying to be a new man.
Not only is she beautiful in her EMT uniform and dorm-room drab shopping attire, but she’s stunning in a pair of jeans that perfectly sculpt her hourglass shape and a sweater that drops off her shoulder, exposing the thin strap of a tank top underneath the soft, white material.
A red tank top that suggests there might be a little naughty beneath the nice.
Then again, I’m not here to corrupt Angelica.
I need a date to impress Walt and his cronies on the board.
Angelica feels like the right fit. In fact, I’d go so far as to blame her for my harebrained idea.
She suggested needing a date first. I just took the wish-list request and ran with it, adding my own holiday desire alongside hers.
I wouldn’t say we are tit-for-tat, but I am petty enough to request that we be one for one on our deal.
I’d also like to see her tits. I keep wondering how she’d look bare to me. If a constellation of freckles highlights the curve of each breast, and if her nipples match the color of each rusty dot on her skin.
Whoa! Not happening. Internally, I scold my dick as it stiffens. Down boy.
We are not here for that this weekend. I’ve promised myself, the board, Santa, and anyone else who wants to listen that I will behave. I will be the model boyfriend, even though I have no idea how to act like one.
My entire life, I’ve dated at random but never long-term.
If anything, watching my parents’ relationship taught me to distrust the term commitment.
Actually, the concept became most confusing in my late twenties, when I learned just how committed my dad, Tucker, had been to my mother. To the family. To the Ashford name.
Unfortunately, it took me almost another decade to recognize the sacrifice Tucker made for me. And still, I haven’t always been grateful.
Selfish. That’s the term best used to describe me. My younger sister, Julia, says it all the time, even if her tone is teasing. Underneath the humor is the truth. I’m a bastard, and that’s in the truest sense of the word.
As much as I portray a tough skin, with a side of don’t-approach-me, I recognize the defensiveness of my ways.
If someone got too close, they’d see my faults, and they were pointed out to me often enough as a child by my mother.
Of course, I thought her criticism was constructive, only to later realize how destructive her words really were.
Peeling back a layer of the spoiled, entitled, selfish man I’ve become would only reveal a hollow layer within me that no one wants to see.
“So, what should I expect for drinks?” Angelica plops on the edge of the queen-sized sleigh bed and huffs while hooking her fingers in air-quotes.
“Boring conversation. Your typical my-dick-is-bigger-than-yours bullshit.”
Her eyebrows lift. The red in them almost brightens. “That’s rather direct. And I don’t have a dick.” She glances down at her thighs, like she’s double-checking.
I almost laugh. This woman has been a breath of fresh air. Quirky and quick. Mouthy, too. She isn’t like anyone else I’ve ever dated. Not that we are dating, because she is only doing me a favor, and I think . . . I hope . . . we can pull this off.
“Stand there and look pretty, is that the memo?” She folds her hands underneath her chin and bats her eyelashes, and I want to tackle her to the bed.
I’ll tell her how she can be pretty. With that vibrant red hair spread against the white pillow. And her alabaster skin exposed, letting me count every freckle on her body. Are her nipples bright red or a dusty pink tone?
These are questions I should not be considering, and I slip my hands into my pants’ pockets, attempting to subtly adjust myself. Sighing, I focus on the freckles on her cheeks. One, two, three, and that fourth near her mouth.
“Look,” I swipe a hand through my hair and tug my gaze from those marks on her face. “This is really important to me, and I know you’re doing me a solid by being here. Just—”
“Doing you a solid?” she scoffs. “Okay, bro. We aren’t in high school anymore, dude.” Her tone mocks me and our arrangement.
Maybe we can’t pull this off after all.
Angelica abruptly stands, forcing me back a step at her sudden nearness. “How long do I have?”
I glance down at the watch my great-grandfather gave me. The same man who left me Ashford’s, hoping I could bring the family vision into a new era. The last decade has been a struggle, but we’re doing it. His dream is my reality, but I’m slipping. And I need Angelica to help me.
“Twenty minutes.”
She nods. “Okay, then. I’m going to freshen up.”
We stare at one another for a minute. Her welcoming eyes have more definition than I’d initially thought. The coloring is almost two-tone, vibrant cool and softer blue, reminding me of a brilliant flame. One that might burn if I got too close.
Her mentioning time to freshen up is my cue to exit the room. There is only so much close proximity a guy can take, and knowing she’s changing her clothes on the other side of the bathroom door is more than I can bear to imagine.
My imagination and I need a drink.
“I’ll be at the bar,” I call out toward the closed bathroom door. The inn only has one watering hole.
“Be right on it,” she hollers back.
I close my eyes for a second, wondering if she knows she’s torturing me, or if she’s sweetly unaware of how incredibly enticing she is.
+ + +
The bar looks more like an English pub with dark panels and tons of plaid accents, and while I sit on a stool at the thick wooden counter, I’m approached by Walt.
Fucking Walt Witticker, whom I’ve jokingly called dick-icker behind his back.
The seventy-something man with snow-white hair and a paunch belly is old school, preaching family first while occasionally dipping his wick on the side. He’s another example of my resentment toward commitment. His behavior matches my mother’s past actions.
On that note, I take a sip of my whiskey neat and brace for Walt’s onslaught of questions.
What’s your vision, Jude? Where’s your head lately? What would your great-grandfather think?
I don’t know what he’d think. He was an old man when I was young and an even older one when he died, leaving me too young to run a company. By then, my father had stepped away from Ashford’s, finding his own footing in marketing and branding with his half-brother.
Impact Media is proudly owned by Tucker Ashford and Machlan Wright.
I’d like to tell Walt what I really think about my great-grandfather. As for where my head is at . . . I just don’t know anymore.
The one thing I do know is I fucking hate Christmas and—
My thoughts screech to a halt like Santa’s sleigh skidding on a rooftop when I catch a glimpse of a vision in the reflection of the bar mirror. Needing to see for myself if I’m imagining her, I spin on my stool, continuing to ignore Walt’s questions, and take in the lady in red.
I swear a tune plays in my head, accentuated by trumpets blaring like announcing royalty.
Holy . . . “Angelica?” My mouth gapes as I take in her red hair, folded around itself and pinned against the back of her neck.
The same place I want to cup my hand to pull her closer to me.
I want to breathe in that cherry-red lipstick on her lips and inhale whatever that sweet scent is she wears. An odd combination of sugar and spice.
Walt’s voice drowns out, or maybe he’s as gobsmacked as I am.
Slowly, I slip off my bar stool and approach my date, who is wearing a form-fitting, garnet-red dress that accentuates the paleness of her skin and the heat in her eyes.
“Angel,” I whisper as I approach her, like she’s a mythical creature, but she’s made me a believer.
“Jude.” The sharpness in her voice is like someone snapped their fingers, and I flip out of hypnosis. At the same time, I blink, wondering what the attitude is all about, while Walt approaches behind me.
“Angelica, you are a vision,” Walt mutters while I’m coming out of my stupor. Without looking at the old man, I sense his eyes wandering over her form. Her breasts, emphasized by the slight dip in the top of her dress. Her hips are the perfect curve for my hands.
Instantly, I feel obsessed. That Clara sensation returns. This new toy is mine, only I’m the toy soldier, and she’s my human.
I slip my hand around Angelica’s back.
“Baby, you look beautiful,” I mutter to her, pressing a kiss to her temple.