chapter 22
[Angelica]
Sunday morning is the breakfast with Santa at Ashford’s, so I’m not surprised when Jude is gone, and I awake on the couch, tucked underneath the throw blanket.
I flip to my back and stare at a crack in my ceiling, replaying all that happened over the weekend, but specifically what happened last night.
The shift in his eyes from icicle chill to hot springs. The drop in his voice, seductive and low, enticing as he spelled out what he’d do to me. And then what he did. His fingers. His tongue. His mouth.
I tug the blanket over my mouth and scream into it, whacking my heels into the couch cushion, like a teenager. My smile is almost too wide and my face flushes.
What did I do? And why do I want more? The answer comes quickly. Jude.
The way he took care of me this weekend, when no one else ever does.
I’m confident in my ability to care for myself, but it was a pleasant and welcome surprise to have someone else here for me.
The most surprising thing was learning that Jude read the list I made him.
He’s attempting to complete it. He’s willing to change. Not for anyone but himself.
Reaching for my phone on the coffee table, I open the original list I made for him and check off what he’s already completed. Hope blossoms in my chest that Jude can do this. Transformation is inevitable.
On that positive note, I spring from the couch. I have laundry to do before I head to Gran’s.
Cookie baking is on the agenda for the day.
Gran has three cookie exchanges to attend, requiring that she bring three dozen cookies to each.
She also selects this date and considers it an annual cookie bakeoff, which includes the entire family.
She doesn’t always wear her glasses while baking, swearing she knows every recipe by heart; however, her memory isn’t the best either, and a few too many times, flour has been substituted for sugar. Or cayenne pepper for cinnamon.
Hence, the need for my supervision.
Her three-story building consists of a garden apartment; the raised, first floor flat, and the second level, where my sister lives.
Gran’s official address is the middle floor, where her front door is open, allowing Christmas’s boys to run from the upper level to the lower one, like they are already hyped up on cookies.
“Gran,” I call out, entering her apartment.
Instantly, I am hit with a wave of nostalgia, both joyful and melancholy, while standing in her dated living room.
Decades of holidays have been held in this space.
The doors from one floor to another were always open, allowing the family to meander from one place to another, but this apartment was the prime gathering spot.
Holiday dinners were served here. Birthdays celebrated. Presents unwrapped.
Riotous laughter pulls me like a magnet through the dining room toward the kitchen.
When I reach the arched entry, I stumble to a halt.
The countertop is littered with bowls and ingredients.
Flour. Sugar. Food coloring. Sprinkle packages.
The round table to the right of the U-shape of cabinets and appliances is covered with a plastic tablecloth decorated with giant holly leaves and red berries.
However, what stops me short is the man on one side of the table.
“Jude?” What the heck is he doing here?
“Angelica, why didn’t you tell us this fine man had entered your life?”
I blink at my Aunt Gertie, wearing her stylish, dark-framed glasses that are a little too large for her petite face.
Her white hair is pinned up on the back of her head, and she has bright red lipstick on despite it being a Sunday morning with no place for her to go.
And she’s smiling up at Jude, who is nearly a foot taller than her short stature, like he invented Santa Claus.
Gran sidles up beside me. She is everything opposite her sister, standing a little taller, a little broader, but no less mischievous in her own way. Her gray hair is cut in a sharp, chin-length bob.
“You didn’t tell me you had a boyfriend.”
I sigh heavily, instantly miffed. I haven’t told anyone because I don’t have a boyfriend, and this is precisely what I wanted to avoid—lying to my family.
Glaring at the man of the moment, his icy eyes stare back at me, not a trace of chagrin that he’s crashing cookie baking. He’s dressed in a suit again, making him look sorely out of place in my grandmother’s kitchen with her scuffed linoleum flooring and scratched, wooden cabinets.
Jude circles the table, stepping into my space.
“What are you doing?” I whisper, glancing around him, catching the eyes of my entire family staring at Jude’s back before busying themselves again.
“When my girlfriend uses an excuse of baking cookies to get out of breakfast plans, I have to see what’s all the fuss.
” He smugly glances over his shoulder, causing me to catch a second round of my family eavesdropping, paused in positions that should be motions, like holding flour over a measuring cup or slicing through butter sticks.
“Can you say stalker much? Plus, you didn’t invite me to breakfast. And how did you even know where my grandmother lives?” I could add a final argument . . . and I’m not your girlfriend.
Then I think back over the past few days. How Jude has taken care of me, both when I was sick and when I was horny. Who does those kinds of things?
A friend, I guess. A friend . . . with benefits.
Jude’s mouth pops open, then clamps shut. His forehead pinches like he doesn’t recall that he didn’t actually invite me to the special event at Ashford’s. And he’s not about to explain the creepy way he knows where my grandmother lives.
Instead, I grip Jude’s suit coat lapel and tug him into Gran’s living room, away from my nosy family.
“Jude,” I grunt, then lower my voice. “I am not your girlfriend.”
Before he can comment, thundering footsteps clamber up the half flight of stairs to Gran’s open doorway, and my brother Beau skips into the room.
Literally skips, despite his mid-thirties age.
He even looks younger than he is, with blond hair he colors for a beach-bum effect, which plays off his tall, lean stature.
“Never fear, Beau is here.” He waves his arms to further announce himself, although the only ones present for his entrance are Jude and me.
Belle, his petite fiancée, follows him. “Beau, you didn’t hold the main door for me.” The brunette graduate student carries a paper grocery bag that looks heavy, and Beau spins to face her.
“I’m sorry, snookums.” He takes the bag from her hands, presses a kiss to her forehead, like she’s a child, and then rushes off toward the kitchen.
Belle gives me a sheepish wave and scampers after him.
“Ah. Beau and Belle.” Jude watches the adoring couple as they head for the chaos of the kitchen.
“Jude,” I redirect his attention. “You aren’t answering my question. What are you doing here?”
He exhales and swipes a hand through his hair, looking a little unsettled. Mussing up his hair, which results in a sexy finger combing, but I don’t allow myself to get distracted.
I lick my lips to tamp down the effect, but Jude’s eyes fix on my mouth.
“I wanted to see you.” The answer is simple enough and shouldn’t have a strange effect on me. Like blowing a warm breath on cool glass and watching the vapor spread. My insides heat as well.
“You just saw me this morning,” I state, without adding how he snuck out when he didn’t need to slink.
“Look, you’ve been sick, and you work too hard.” He waves toward the living room like the space is evidence of all I’ve been doing this holiday season. “Let me help you.”
“Make cookies?” I clarify. “With my family.”
Jude shrugs, hanging his head. He practically kicks at the worn carpeting, like he really wants to participate in baking cookies, which doesn’t make any sense. He’s a busy man. He even had plans on a Sunday morning, and I didn’t barge into his schedule. Didn’t disrupt his calendar of events.
I don’t even know why I’m so worked up, but I cross my arms and glare at him.
Which is the position I’m in when Beau re-enters the living room.
“Angie,” he says a little too loudly. “My beautiful sister, Angelica. Queen of organization and family functions.”
Oh boy.
“Have you found us a wedding venue yet?”
“Venue?” I choke. “You said you were looking for a restaurant. One that holds twenty people.”
Beau slides up to me, wraps his arm around my shoulders, and tugs me tightly into his side. “And now I need space for fifty. Belle’s family is slowly getting on board with the wedding, and we need to expand our horizons.” He waves his hand outward like a snowy landscape is in front of us.
He tips up his chin at Jude, finally noticing him. “What’s up?”
As the youngest child in our four pack, this is typical Beau. He needs to be the center of attention, and he needs everything done for him. It’s a wonder he’s as successful as he is.
He extends his hand to Jude. “Beau. Her favorite brother.”
Not exactly the truth.
“Jude Ashford,” Jude counters, his jaw tight. His smile is a pinched one, not even the practiced pleasant one. “Her boyfriend.”
Beau squeals like a teenage girl, lifting his hands in front of his lips and doing a little two-step jig.
“Sister’s got a boyfriend,” he sings while pinching my cheeks.
I close my eyes with embarrassment before quickly pulling away from his fingers and punching his stomach, to which he exaggerates the effect and calls out to Gran.
“Gran, Angie hit me.” He pouts.
“Beau, quit picking on your sister,” Gran hollers back, knowing the truth.
“Rude.” He winks at Jude. “But I still love you, Gran.”
Beau claps his hands once, and with both hands joined, he points at me. “Venue. Wedding. Ten days.”
“Beau,” I sigh, exasperated by him. “We aren’t going to find a—”
“You could use the Oak Room.”
Beau swivels his head toward Jude while I blink at the suggestion.
“The Oak Room?” Beau echoes. “As in the Oak Room in Ashford’s.” Beau narrows his eyes as things begin to click in his youthful brain.
“Ashford. Like the Ashford’s,” Beau adds.
“Yes,” I snap. “We’ve established the Oak Room and Ashford’s.” I point at Jude. “But the answer is no.”
No. Absolutely not to Beau getting married or throwing a reception in that beautiful oak-paneled room with high ceilings and floor-to-ceiling windows.
“Why not?” Beau asks innocently.
“What’s wrong with the Oak Room?” Jude questions, his voice growing tighter.
“Nothing is wrong with the Oak Room. It’s perfect.” I address Jude first, then turn to Beau. “But you still aren’t getting it for your wedding.”
Beau pouts. “But why?”
“Because . . .” I stammer, scrambling to come up with a reasonable excuse when deep down I know the reason.
“Because . . .” I try again, shifting my gaze from Beau to Jude and back, still struggling. A cold sweat breaks out on my neck.
“Perfect. Then it’s settled.” Beau pats Jude on the shoulder. “Thanks, man.”
However, Jude isn’t looking at Beau but watching me.
With those intense eyes on me, my own begin to burn, and I spin away from both men, rushing for the open front door and thumping down the half-flight of stairs.
I could push out into the cold December air.
The chill might be refreshing, numbing even, which is what I need right now, when I consider my younger brother might get married in a place that holds no meaning to him.
And all the meaning to me.