chapter 9
[Angelica]
Sharing a room with a stranger should not be this complicated. Especially when Jude isn’t entirely a stranger, although I still know very little about him.
The rest of the evening passed with me sitting on the barstool, looking pretty, smiling at creepy old men, and nodding at the wives who were talking about other wives who were absent.
To Jude’s credit, he never left my side.
Those necessary, occasional touches he mentioned in the car were constant, almost as if he needed the reassurance that I was here for him.
His hand on my back. Or the backs of his knuckles tickling down my arm. And once, he even reached for my hand, giving it a squeeze and then holding tight.
That perfected smile was in full bloom, and I wondered a time or two if his cheeks ever grew tired. Or if his soul did, because keeping up appearances developed a whole new meaning after watching Jude interact with the people affiliated with his company.
Hell, I was exhausted for him.
The entire evening reiterates how Jude and I are so different. He is all social media and flashing cameras. False smiles and big words, and I just wanted a cheeseburger and the fireplace in our room.
“Thanks for putting up with everything tonight,” Jude says once I exit the bathroom.
He graciously offered me the bed and suggested he’d take the floor.
Something tells me Jude has never willingly slept on carpeting in his life, but I don’t argue with him.
I don’t suggest we share the bed like grown adults who have silently agreed not to touch one another.
Because Jude had a difficult time keeping his hands off me tonight, which was confusing.
Every movement made by me was countered by him.
His hand on my back or his arm wrapped around me.
He tugged me closer if one of his board members came near us, like he was afraid I’d be snatched up like the Burgermeister Meisterburger hunting for forbidden toys.
“Of course,” I say, rubbing in the hand cream I put on every night before I sleep. The vanilla and citrus lotion reminds me of my mother somehow. Her absence hits profoundly at this time of year. Especially as Gran has grown older and more of the holiday responsibilities fall on me.
I tug back the covers on the queen-sized bed while Jude stands in front of the built-in fireplace. The soft crackle of flames behind the protective glass casts a romantic glow around the room.
Ignoring the pinch in my chest, because this is not a romantic getaway, I slip beneath the blankets while Jude continues to stare at the flames.
“What did you miss out on this evening?” he asks, his concentration focused away from me.
“What do you mean?”
“A date, maybe.”
I scoff. “If I had a date, I wouldn’t be attending my brother’s wedding with you.” Or be tucking into this bed with him in the room.
He shifts his upper body to glance at me. “Seriously, then. What would you have been doing tonight instead?”
“Actually, I missed out on a fundraiser. It’s called A Snowball’s Chance. One of the guys at the firehouse has a daughter with a congenital limb defect.”
“What does that mean?” Jude shifts to fully face me, while his hands slip into his pockets. He removed his jacket earlier and unbuttoned a few buttons on his shirt.
“Her legs didn’t fully develop while she was inside her mom.
” I smile softly. “But she’s amazing.” I wave a hand and swallow hard, thinking about how fun Tamarra Scroggs is when she comes around the firehouse.
“Her dad is a former pro football player turned firefighter, and he started this annual fundraiser to raise money for families who might need financial assistance if their child has a long-term medical condition. A snowball’s chance—”
“In the hell of their life,” Jude finishes.
I sit straighter, defensive and prickly. “Her life isn’t hell, Jude. In fact, I bet her life is more fulfilling than yours or mine. Richer even. And not because she has money or can spend, spend, spend,” I mock Walt’s tone and his accusation, like I’m interested in Jude for money reasons.
Say gold digger much?
“She’s well-loved, adored, even admired, for her spirit and spunk, and she’s only eleven. She’s going to do great things in this world.”
Jude’s mouth falls open, hopefully not misinterpreting the chastising I’ve given him, because I am scolding him. Shame on him.
“Don’t be that guy, Jude.”
“What guy?” He asks, slowly lifting his head. His shoulders stiffening.
“The mean guy in the room.” Maybe he was like that in high school. Not a bully so much as just condescending with a comment and demeaning with a glance. We should be past the point in our lives where others need to be put down to bring ourselves up.
Jude scoffs and glances back toward the fire. “The problem is, I’ve always been that guy. I get what I want when I want it.”
I don’t feel threatened by his statement. I’m confident Jude Ashford does not want a bite of me. He’s playing an act. I’m his fake girlfriend. He was handsy, protective even, but it’s all pretend. For show only. At least, in front of the others.
In here . . . it’s getting a little too real.
“Well, you can always change that,” I state, flinching a little bit as I look down my nose at him. “’Tis the season for transformation. Haven’t you ever seen A Christmas Carol?”
Jude chuffs and points at his chest. “Scrooge here. I don’t watch that shit.”
“You cannot hate Christmas.” My mouth falls open. “It’s the most wonderful time of the year.” I practically sing but then I lower my voice. “Seriously, Jude, isn’t this your season? Spend, spend, spend,” I mock again.
Cha-ching, cha-ching. Although cash registers now make more of a beep-beep-beep.
“Yeah. Spend.” He finishes unbuttoning his shirt, tugging it loose from his pants before slipping his hands back into his pockets.
He pauses another second, staring into the fireplace.
His head dips forward, reflective almost, and his voice is low when he asks, “Ever think there’s more to Christmas than boxes and bows, ribbons and gift bags? ”
“Of course there’s more.” My accompanying laugh is sharp and puzzled.
“Like what?” Jude faces me full-on once more.
Another bitter laugh almost escapes but the earnestness in his face freezes the sound on my tongue. The deep well of his eyes honestly questions what all the excitement is about.
The other thing tying my tongue is the expanse of Jude’s chest revealed by the two halves of his shirt spread wide because of the way his hands rest in his pockets. That side tattoo is peeking out at me again like it did the day we were called to his office.
Finally, words filter forth. “It’s about love, Jude. Not just romantic love but love of family and friends. Compassion for others. Hope for the future. Christmas is simply . . . believing in magic.”
“So, it’s pretend, too? Santa. Angels on high.” He tilts his head, like I’ve only proven his point.
“No, Jude. It’s not pretend. Maybe it’s make-believe, but that’s different than pretending. Pretending covers up something false. Believing is faith in the unknown.”
Jude stares at me. I don’t think I’ve argued my thoughts well, and I’m about to offer more explanation when he lowers his head and steps around the foot of the bed.
“I’m going to use the bathroom quick. Then I’ll turn the fireplace off before hitting the floor.”
I’m too stunned by the ripples on his chest and the abrupt end to this discussion to realize he made a joke before he disappears into the bathroom. I’m left wondering what else I’m missing.
Who is the real Jude Ashford?
When he returns to the bedroom, he wears only his boxer briefs. My mouth falls open at the walking underwear commercial. His name is a whisper from my lips, but Jude doesn’t hear me.
Instead, he says, “Going down.” Then he lowers his body in increments like he’s actually riding down an escalator. He disappears at the foot of the bed before I register what he’s done.
“Oh my God.” I laugh, covering my mouth. “How did you do that?”
“Do what?” His voice travels up to me from the gap between the foot of the bed and the fireplace, which he hasn’t turned off.
“Did you just take an escalator ride to the floor?”
“The escalators are always more fun.”
I lunge toward the end of the bed, glancing over the curved footboard. “Jude Ashford, do not tell me you have a sense of humor.”
“What’s wrong with a sense of humor?” he counters, staring up at me from his nest of blankets on the floor.
I shift and cross my arms over the rail across the bottom of the bed. “Depends. You trying to be funny or charming?”
Jude tilts his head, that apostrophe by his mouth twitching, spreading deeper. “Whichever gets me up there.”
Laughing in earnest, I tug at the blanket loosely covering him from the waist down, exposing that firm chest and the unidentified tattoo on his side. “You might need to work on both, Mr. Grinch.”
Jude captures my fingers as I pull them back from his blanket, stroking the pad of his thumb down the length of my middle finger. That cool sensation spreads over my hand yet surprisingly warms me. This touch isn’t accidental or an act for the board members. This feels real.
He holds just a little too long, but then not long enough before slipping down my hand and dropping his to his belly.
“I’m good under pressure,” he murmurs, tucking his other arm beneath his head.
I raise a brow, ignoring the skip in my pulse. “Is that what this is? Are you trying to seduce me from the floor?”
He scoffs, like it’s the most ridiculous notion he’s ever heard. “Of course not.”
“Good,” I state, swallowing down the pinch of hurt and disappointment.
Then I scramble back to the top of the bed, grab one of the extra pillows, and toss it toward Jude, pleased when I hear him emit a small oof.
“But . . .” Jude pauses a second, his voice lowering, but still reaching me. “If I were going to seduce you? You wouldn’t have to question if I was or not.”