chapter 17 #2
“Disappointed.”
“Disappointed?” I question next, tilting my head.
“You know, like spilt milk. I spilled the eggs.” His eyes are focused on mine, as if trying to read me, searching for something.
I shrug. “I mean, it sucks that the eggs are a lost cause, but your hand is more important.” I glance back at his palm, noticing the cut runs clean.
Industrial-grade brown paper towels aren’t soft, or particularly absorbent, but will have to do until I can find the first aid kit.
With a wad in my hand, I press it into Jude’s palm.
“Hold this.” I force his fingers to fist around the clump of paper towels.
Thankfully, the kit appears on the counter beside the sink, and I glance up, giving Holliday a grateful look. “Thank you.”
She nods and steps back, and I inspect the kit for antiseptic ointment and a large bandage.
“I’m useless,” Jude whispers.
My head snaps upright at the downtrodden tone. “Don’t say that.”
“But I ruined it.”
“You ruined nothing, Jude. They’re eggs. We have more.”
“I’ll pay for them.”
“No need.” I try to reassure him, wondering where this sudden vulnerability is coming from. This man exudes confidence, so there is no reason to be upset about a dozen eggs.
“Angelica,” he states, eyes locking on mine.
“Jude.” I exhale. “What’s really going on here?”
I reach for his palm and remove the wad of paper towels. Instantly, his hand bleeds again, but I don’t think he needs stitches. I dab at the wound with fresh paper towels and apply a healthy layer of antiseptic ointment.
“When I was a kid, my mother would go ballistic if I spilled something. Milk at the table. Dropped a cookie on the floor. Anything that soiled the counter or carpet.” Jude shakes his head, watching me work on his palm.
“And I’ve spent years in therapy discussing the aftereffects.
How accidents happen, especially child ones, but I can still remember how mad she’d get.
Angry. Disappointed. Because I wasn’t perfect. I was useless.”
Useless in his mother’s social media portrayal of a perfect family.
“That’s awful, Jude.” Not that I want to speak ill of the dead but it’s a terrible thing to make a child feel incompetent over spilled milk. Not to mention, Jude still carries these triggers as an adult.
“And this . . .” I point at his palm. “Was an accident. Which happened because you were trying to be useful.”
I reach for a large bandage and place it over the cut.
“But now I’m of no use in this kitchen.”
“I’ll find you another job.” I smooth over the bandage, then place my hand on top of his. “And I’m thankful that you’re here.”
Jude scoffs.
With his hand still beneath mine, I squeeze. “I don’t want any of that.”
“What?”
With his gaze lowered to where my hand covers his, I reach for his chin, lifting his face back toward me.
We all have vulnerabilities but somehow seeing them on such a confident man softens my heart toward him.
I imagine the courage it must have taken to come here.
To step out of his pristine palace and his comfort zone, and give up whatever he had planned for a Sunday morning in December.
“Why are you really here, Jude?” If helping out a small church community breakfast is his answer, so be it, but Holliday’s words ring through my ears like the toll of church bells.
He wants to eat you alive.
Could that be true? Is Jude here for me?
“I wanted to help.” His icy eyes hold firmly on mine, but I drop my gaze, realizing we are still holding hands.
Gently tugging my hand free, I say, “Right. Okay. Let’s get you something to do outside the kitchen, then.”
I’m still happy he’s present, but my chest aches for the sad child inside him who was made to feel like accidents were casualties.
And a part of me wishes Jude was here for me.
+ + +
“You have a boyfriend?” My sister corners me before I reach the hallway leading to the kitchen while my arms are full of a tray of coffee mugs.
“What?”
Christmas has red hair like me, but she colors it to a vibrant scarlet shade, which matches the signature color of the holiday season and adds to the mystique of her name. She’s attending breakfast with her three boys.
“That holiday hottie is telling everyone he’s your boyfriend.” She points.
“Gran taught us it’s not polite to point,” I scold her while still turning toward the community room and following the direction of my sister’s finger, which is aimed at Jude, who is pouring coffee and smiling broadly at a seated mom surrounded by three kids.
One hanging off her shoulder, one on her lap, and one seated beside her.
He glances in our direction as if he can sense he’s being watched. Quickly, I look at my sister. Her blue eyes are wide. Her smile is deep, but hesitant.
“When did this happen?”
“Nothing’s happened.” I don’t have time to give my sister details, like I normally would, because one kiss and a weekend away does not make Jude Ashford my boyfriend. He was only pretending for the sake of his board members.
I spin for the kitchen, but Christmas does not let up. She follows me. Her boys are seated at a table with a single-mom friend of hers.
“Angelica,” she groans, as I rush into the kitchen and set the tray of mugs near the dishwasher.
“Chrissy,” I counter as she hates her full name, especially at this time of year.
“Why would he say he’s your boyfriend if he’s not?” She stops right beside me. Her hands work faster than I can speak, and I watch as my younger sister takes over, lifting mugs, rinsing them, and then setting them in the dishwasher.
“What are you doing?” I chuckle.
Christmas glances down at her hands like she hadn’t even noticed that she’d taken over filling the dishwasher. “I don’t even know most days.” She sounds weary, and I want to ask if this is about her husband, but she holds up a hand.
“But we’re talking about you.”
“But . . . we don’t need to talk about me,” I argue, gently pushing her out of the way and taking control of the coffee mugs.
“Let’s start with how hot he is,” she continues as if I didn’t just suggest the topic should be closed. “Where did you meet him?”
“Not answering,” I say, forcing the hot water pressure to high as if that will drown out my sister’s questions.
“And how is he so good-looking? He must have a ridiculous moisturizing regimen.”
“It’s called Neutrogena.”
Both Christmas and I shift, glancing at the man standing close behind us.
“Over the counter. Any pharmacy or Target sells it.”
Something tells me Jude doesn’t shop in a Target or use the famous facial cleanser, but still, he’s humoring my sister, who is almost simpering beside me. Dreamy best describes her wide eyes.
“Stop that,” I snap, and Christmas turns her attention toward me.
“What? I’m allowed to look.”
“Not at your sister’s boyfriend,” Jude defends, and I swear I could kiss him. Not that my sister has ever stolen my boyfriend, or lusted after the rare ones I’ve had, but the way Jude refuses to let my sister ogle him, like he really belongs to me, has my pulse racing.
Feeling chastised, Christmas holds her head higher. “You’re right. I’m Christmas, by the way. Angelica’s sister.” She extends her hand, and Jude glances at me first before shaking hers, like he wants my permission to touch her, which is all kinds of strange and a little bit hot.
Then I remember the single mom in the community room and Jude’s smile at her.
I turn away while Jude introduces himself to my sister.
“I guess I’ll be seeing more of you,” Christmas says it like she’d love to see more of Jude’s body, but I know she doesn’t mean it that way. Not after Jude just put her in her place. She’s acting so weird.
When she steps away, I apologize. “Sorry about that. That was just . . . not like her.”
“So that was your sister,” he states, like he’s checking off a list. “Next comes Dane and then Beau, the brother getting married.”
Nope, not happening. “I’ve let you off the hook. Be happy. Take the win.”
His brows severely pinch. “By forfeit, and I’m not letting you quit.”
“Deals can be broken. Let’s just say coming here today makes up for whatever guilt you are feeling. Consider us even.”
“This isn’t a date, Angel.” Jude steps closer to me, swiping back a strand of hair that’s come loose from my ponytail. “And our deal was a date for a date.”
Actually, our deal turned into a two-night stay for two dates, but po-tay-to, pa-tah-to.
“Well, whatever this was, we can be done.”
Jude lets his finger glide down the side of my neck, watching the trail he makes. My body trembles beneath the tender touch.
“I don’t want to be done,” he quietly says. “And whatever this is . . .” He pauses to glance at my eyes. “Is me trying to make a better impression on you than the one you have.”
My breath hitches, and my gaze drops to his mouth. A mug slips from my hand into the stainless-steel sink, bouncing against the side.
Jude chuckles. “Back to work, little elf.” The fingers along my neck drift over my shoulder before he spins for a fresh coffee carafe and heads for the five-gallon percolator to refill the container.
With a wink in my direction, he exits the kitchen, leaving me stupefied.
Why would Jude Ashford want to impress me?