chapter 17
[Angelica]
To cry over a fake relationship breakup would be ridiculous, so I bolster my inner strength, allowing only a brief wallow for the loss of what could have been.
The hope that Jude was different.
The wish that his kisses meant something.
The desire to be his friend.
Letting out a deep breath, I tamp down my disappointment. I’ve been disappointed before, so I recognize the sensation, but Jude doesn’t warrant the sluggish energy.
I’d done the right thing. Among all the other reasons I could list for Jude and me not being compatible, top of the list is that I wouldn’t be able to explain him to my family.
How could I be attracted to a man so clearly self-absorbed he didn’t give of his time or offer apologies.
My family just wouldn’t believe I’d be interested in him.
And like I told Jude, I didn’t want to lie to the most important people in my life.
Physically, I was drawn to him. He even had rare moments of playfulness and humor that also endeared him to me.
But one laugh and one afternoon do not turn a lie into a truth.
The truth is I could fall for Jude. His sad soul spoke to mine, but I was also smart. He wouldn’t be good for me, and I was trying to live my best life.
Even if it was lonely.
On that note, I check my phone as I gather my things for breakfast with Santa.
I’d gotten a few texts yesterday and quickly tackled them before powering down my phone for the evening to focus on Jude’s party.
How many red tablecloths do we need again?
Erin Cumbers can no longer volunteer.
Is Nick Santos confirmed as Santa? Want to share his number with me so I can double-check?
I chuckled at the last one. Some women are ruthless in their pursuits, even though Nick Santos is a happily married man. He plays our Santa each year because he does such a convincing job in the role, but the moms among the parent volunteers know he’s a local fireman.
Mix fireman with naughty Santa fetish, and, well . . .
Thank goodness, his wife, Holliday, is good-natured about the lust for her husband.
She once told a woman her chimney is the only one Nick goes down on, and I might have laughed a little too hard at Holliday putting that aggressive cougar in her place.
When Holliday is the first person I see upon arriving at the church community room, I’m relieved. I need a second to get my head into the spirit. The spirit of hosting two hundred families with eager children hungry to see Santa.
The lovely blonde gives me a concerned look. “Girl, you do not look well.”
“I’m fine,” I lie, waving my hand to dismiss her concern. I will be fine. This morning’s activity is the distraction I need to wipe away the question in Jude’s eyes. Did he really not see our incompatibility? Plus, Jude needs to work on himself, and I am not a life coach.
Seriously, what was I thinking by making a list of self-improvement questions based on a classic Christmas tale about transformation and giving it to him like an assignment?
Beauty and the Beast might have been a better study of change. However, neither reference matters. Jude didn’t need me anymore. My part in his act was complete. He should be relieved. He’s off the hook and doesn’t need to attend a stupid wedding days before Christmas.
I inhale to calm my racing thoughts.
“Well, put me to work,” Holliday says, continuing to give me a puzzled look, like her mom-senses know something isn’t right, but as my friend, she won’t pry.
“Follow me to the kitchen?”
Holliday has already put in time volunteering when her children were younger. Now, she’s present more to keep the cougar-moms in line around her husband, but she’ll be happy to have something to do. Nick is a good sport about the extra attention. Holliday is a freakin’ saint.
Once inside the industrial-sized kitchen, I check my iPad for the list of things to be done. The community center is already set up with tables and chairs, and a crew of people arrived last night to decorate the tables with disposable tablecloths and plastic wear.
This morning, mini donuts will be placed on each table along with a carafe of coffee and a pitcher of juice.
For now, coffee is brewing, hot water is boiling for tea, and containers of juice and cartons of milk are ready for distribution.
Making scrambled eggs and sausage will be up soon, and I glance toward the commercial-grade stove where a volunteer dad leads a team of other men who will assembly-line cook the protein portion of breakfast.
While glancing at the group of men, the kitchen door swings open.
A man walks in looking a little lost and I’m frozen in place as I take him in.
Like viewing an animal outside its natural habitat, he looks confused, almost frightened.
His hair is mussed up. His dark jeans, thin sweater in dark gray, and the hint of a white tee peeking out of the collar sets him apart from the other men in the space.
“Who is that?” Holliday whispers beside me.
“Jude.” My voice cracks and I clear my throat, trying his name a second time, a little louder. “Jude Ashford.”
Holliday is looking at me, but I cannot pull my gaze from Jude. How uncomfortable he looks. How good-looking he is.
As if he heard me state his name, his head turns in my direction, and his eyes catch on mine. He offers a puzzled smirk, like he’s been caught where he shouldn’t be. Then he rounds the stainless steel worktable and stalks toward me.
“Oh my,” Holliday whispers, her head swiveling from Jude to me and back.
When he finally stands in front of me, I’m tongue-tied by his sudden, unexpected presence. We stare at one another, as if an entire conversation is happening with our eyes, but I can’t interpret a single word because I’m flabbergasted by him standing here. In the kitchen of a church community room.
Eventually, Holliday softly clears her throat and sticks out her hand. “Hi. I’m Holliday Santos.”
“Jude Ashford,” he says, reciprocating her greeting, snapping his attention briefly from me to her.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“I’m just going to . . . yeah . . .” Holliday points with both her hands and steps away from Jude and me.
“Thought maybe I could give of my time.” He slips his hands into his pockets and glances around the kitchen.
“Jude.” I sigh, certain I’ve insulted him. Or maybe . . . I’ve inspired him.
Jude tips up his chin and shrugs. “I’ve got to start somewhere.” His voice is quiet while his icy eyes meet mine again. “Tell me what to do.”
The plea holds a double meaning, but I don’t want to psychoanalyze him again. Maybe I’d been too harsh earlier. Then again, he’s standing here.
Technically, he shouldn’t be. We have screenings for our volunteers, and he isn’t a parent, nor a member of this church, but I’m not about to turn Jude away when I’d accused him of never giving of his time.
“Okay. Cooking or dishes?”
“Cooking, I guess.” He glances at the loosely formed assembly line of men. Some are mixing eggs in a bowl before passing them to another who pours the mixture onto the sizzling griddle, while other men open packages of sausage and place them on cooking sheets.
I walk Jude over to the lead dad and introduce them, explaining how Jude is an extra set of hands. When I make to step away, Jude stops me by saying, “Where are you going?”
“I have other areas to supervise. This kitchen is in capable hands.” I wink at the dad, then excuse myself.
Stepping into the short hallway that leads to the community room, Holliday nearly knocks me over.
“Holy peppermint sticks! Who is that?” Her voice lowers on the question as if someone might hear us when we are the only two standing in the short hall.
“His name is Jude,” I remind her. “We . . . we went to high school together.”
“And you recently reunited?” Holliday arches a brow.
“Something like that.” I sheepishly glance away.
“Something more than that,” Holliday chuckles.
“Not more,” I argue, holding my head a little higher.
“Girl, the way his eyes latched onto you, I could feel the burn standing beside you.”
“I know his eyes are a bit icy, but—”
“Icy?” Holliday interjects. “They were fire. Pure flames. And he wants to heat your chimney.”
My face heats to inferno level. “He does not.”
“He certainly does.”
“Who does what?” The deep masculine voice behind me turns my head, and I’m met with the dark eyes of our resident Santa, Nick.
“Angelica has an admirer,” Holliday explains to her hot husband.
“Admirer?” I counter. “What is this? 1940?”
“Nope. 2025, and that man wants to eat you alive.”
Nick snorts at his wife’s brazen comment before wrapping his arm around her shoulder and pressing a kiss to her temple. “Behave.”
She wraps her arm around his back and pats his chest. “We need Miss Angelica to misbehave a little bit. With him.” She hitches her thumb toward the kitchen.
Suddenly, a loud clanging comes from the enclosed area and a muffled shout. All three of us race for the swing door, entering the kitchen with haste, where we find a bowl of cracked eggs dripping off the worktable and onto the floor. Jude is holding up his hand, blood dripping from his palm.
“Get him away from the food,” I demand, dropping my iPad on the nearest counter as I rush toward Jude and pull him toward a sink. I instantly hit the cold water, adding in the hot, and checking the temp before forcing Jude’s hand beneath the faucet.
“What happened?” I ask softly.
“Stupid.” Jude shakes his head. “I was using a knife to slice open a package of sausage and cut my hand. Overreacting, I hit the nearest bowl with my elbow and sent the eggs flying.”
Jude glances over his shoulder, noticing the crew of people working to clean up the mess and disinfect the worktable.
“Fuck,” Jude mutters as he turns his head back toward the sink and closes his eyes. “I made a damn mess of things.”
I focus on rinsing his palm and inspecting the cut when I say, “As long as you are okay.”
“But you’re mad.”
“I’m not mad.” I lift my head, meeting his eyes. What is there to be mad about?