Chapter 11 Jude
Six Weeks Before the Wedding
Umbrellas are available in all kinds of sizes—some for couples, some for kids, and some for chronic loners like myself.
I’m sure there are depressing statistics on what sells best somewhere, but right now, none of it matters because Gracie has transformed my lonely, party-of-one umbrella into an undersize shelter for two.
I exhale as we cross the street to the park.
I need to get a handle on myself. I know I have a habit of being overprotective of the people I care for.
In my one-night-only relationships, those tendencies manifest in ways that my therapist has a lot to say about.
But with Gracie… it feels different. She’s pulled me into her orbit, and now I spend all my time wondering if she’s gone grocery shopping, or if she’s sewing something new, or if she’s busy plotting my demise.
“So, now that I know you’re an animal lover who believes romance is ‘inevitable’ under the right conditions,” she says as raindrops begin to fall more heavily around us, “I think it would be best if you just give up pretending you’re not a secret cinnamon roll and agree to renovate Larkwood’s greenhouse as a new wedding reception area. ”
I can’t stop my incredulous smile as I look at her. “I’m sorry—a secret what?”
Her dark eyes flick to mine, and I wish for the millionth time that I didn’t find her quite so beautiful. The rain begins to fall fast and hard outside our small bubble of protection, and she moves closer to me.
“A secret cinnamon roll,” she repeats. “It’s basically a way of describing a fictional character who seems prickly on the outside but is secretly soft and gooey on the inside.”
“Wow. And here I was, thinking those were just my internal organs.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, Jude. I’m sure you’ve got a feeling or two rattling around in there.”
“I’m flattered. But you prefer what? Overexcited blond lapdogs?”
Her shoulders bunch slightly, just like they have every time I’ve thrown a verbal dart at Calvin. I should stop, but the urge to discover whether her defensiveness is purely platonic or coming from something deeper eggs me on.
“If you’re referring to Calvin—”
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll repeat what we both said earlier: it’s ancient history. If you didn’t notice, he’s getting married, and not to me.”
Her thick lashes cast downward, and the fact that she feels anything other than dislike for him is utterly confounding. Annoying, too. Deeply annoying.
“I did notice and feel it’s my right as the reluctant fourth wheel to be briefed on any history that might complicate dealings with our clients.”
“Is this just the way you talk? Like you eat contracts sprinkled with binder clips for breakfast?”
“I never claimed to excel at casual conversation. The whole lawyer-by-day, vampire-by-night thing really limits my range of social skills.”
“To spreading misery and suffering?”
“Almost exclusively.”
A laugh bubbles out of her, and it’s almost the same one I heard in the church.
More. The thought is voracious and I realize with a jolt that I’m not just attracted to her—I like her.
I like the way she holds up a mirror to all my faults and makes me think twice about them.
I like the way she was professional and kind in the face of whatever personal turmoil that meeting with her ex obviously caused.
I know from daily experience that separating your personal shit from work can be challenging, and Gracie did it flawlessly.
“No wonder you don’t see the point of keeping Larkwood as a wedding venue,” she says, brushing against me as we sidestep a puddle. “Have you never been in a serious relationship?”
“Now who’s asking the intrusive questions?”
She bites her bottom lip. “Sorry, you’re right. Too personal.”
I shrug, and—trying not to look too deeply into my sudden urge to be a sharer after avoiding the topic my entire adult life—say, “No, you’re right.
I’m your standard, emotionally unavailable one-night stand expert with baggage of every size, shape, and hazardous material class.
” I pause, trying to articulate decades of avoidance into one sentence.
“I guess as someone whose job primarily involves helping people decouple from walking red flags, I figure I should probably keep myself off the market until I’m not one of them. ”
Gracie is silent for so long, I look down at her.
She’s staring up at me with an expression I haven’t seen on her face before.
But then the heel of her shoe catches on something and she stumbles into me.
A haphazard second later, I’m holding her against my chest and fumbling to keep the umbrella above us.
“You okay?” I ask, but even after she feels stable, I can’t force myself to let go. Not with her looking up at me like this. Not with rain pouring all around us like this was the whole point of the sky opening up.
“I think the strap of my shoe is broken,” she says, eyes still wide and startled.
“Hold this,” I instruct, handing her the umbrella as guilt takes another swing at me. What was I thinking, suggesting we walk in a downpour? What if she’d hurt her ankle?
I barely hear her halfhearted “You really don’t have to…
” as I drop to one knee to examine her shoe.
Water soaks through my pants where I’m kneeling and down my back where the umbrella doesn’t cover me, but it hardly registers as I take in her bare legs and delicate ankles, slick with rainwater.
A muffled swear escapes me, but I don’t think she can hear it over the deluge.
Thankfully, the strap isn’t broken, but it has come undone, and the prospect of refastening it sends a burst of heat through me.
I swallow hard before raising my eyes to hers.
“Not broken, just undone. Can I?”
She nods, her lips slightly parted, and I can feel my heartbeat in my fingertips.
My hands get to work, slipping the thin black strap of her shoe into its minuscule buckle.
My body is chugging dopamine with every brush of my fingertips against her wet skin, and it’s indecent, what a simple act like this with her can do to me.
If she knew, she’d probably kick me away, and I’d deserve it.
When I discover a little black bow at the back of the strap, I have to stop myself from crawling on my hands and knees to see how well they go with the ones inked above the backs of her ankles. Christ, what’s wrong with me?
With effort, I finish the job as quickly as I can and stand back up, praying she doesn’t notice exactly how much I enjoyed that.
“You’re all set,” I say, voice hoarse.
“Thanks,” she says, looking a little flushed herself. “I didn’t plan on going full damsel-in-distress there.”
“Well, to be fair, I didn’t save you from a dragon or anything—just an undone shoe,” I reason to her and myself. “But I do feel like I should be acknowledged for my self-sacrifice.”
“Oh yes, the trials of buckling shoes should never go unrecognized.”
“I was actually referring to my ass, which somebody neglected to cover with the umbrella.”
She gasps as she grabs hold of my arm and looks down behind our shoulders to see my sodden pants. “Oh my god, I’m sorry! I swear I didn’t realize.”
“It’s okay,” I say as all my focus snaps to her grip on me. Knowing I shouldn’t, I loop her arm through mine. “I know you secretly wanted to make me explain to my colleagues why it looks like I pissed myself.”
She laughs. “I’d like to point out that you were the one who insisted on this walk in the first place. If it were up to me, I’d already be halfway back to Larkwood.”
Discomfort squirms in my stomach. “If you’d driven with those tires in this weather, you’d be in a ditch right now.”
“Wow, worry much?” she says as the rain begins to let up as quickly as it came.
I let out an exhale. “Trust me, I’m well aware of my capacity to overthink things.”
She’s quiet for a minute. “You know, you’re surprisingly… self-aware,” she finally settles on. “And kind of tragic.”
“Some would say anxiously considering every possible outcome is a superpower.”
“Sure, but I don’t just mean your overthinking,” she muses.
“What you said earlier. About choosing not to be in a serious relationship because you don’t want to saddle anyone with your issues?
It’s weirdly considerate but also… everyone has baggage, Jude.
Relationships are meant to help us grow, and I’m a firm believer that everyone deserves to find their person.
I’m sure there’s someone out there who’d be willing to, you know…
” She swirls her sandwich in the air. “Deal with you.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“I’m serious! I’m beginning to think these wedding planning tasks are exactly what you need to see what’s possible if you just open yourself up a little.” She gently hits my shoulder with the sandwich. “A hoagie fetish doesn’t need to be your only option.”
“Please—don’t start feeling sorry for me. I’m not celibate, if that’s what you’re thinking, and I have more than enough on my plate between work and my family.”
“That’s right, your mom is a pretty big deal,” she says slowly before smiling at me. “I can’t imagine what that’s like. The only thing my mom is famous for are the teenie-weenies she microwaves for Patriots games.”
“Can’t say I’ve ever tried a teenie-weenie, but that honestly sounds nice. The obscurity—not the mini hotdogs,” I clarify.
Gracie’s eyebrows pinch together. “Trust me, feeling obscure isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be.”
The way she says it feels like a knot in a thread that I want to untangle. “So, you’d rather have notoriety?”
She lifts her shoulders. “I don’t crave fame, if that’s what you mean. But I wouldn’t hate it if I were someone’s most important person someday.”
I think of Gracie, holed up in that cottage day in and day out. How fiercely she’s trying to hold on to it. Something’s not adding up. “I hate to break it to you, but living in an isolated cottage probably isn’t the most direct path toward a Happily Ever After. Maybe you should get out more.”
“I get out!” she protests. “I’m out right now, aren’t I?”
“A work meeting doesn’t count as ‘getting out,’ ” I respond. “That’s like listing laundry as a hobby because you technically do it in your free time.”
Her gaze narrows. “Staying at Larkwood isn’t just about living my best homebody life. It’s about fighting for what one of my closest friends wanted for their home and trying to protect myself and my colleagues from losing our jobs.”
“Gracie, my grandmother left the estate to me. She knew my views. If she wanted it to continue running as is, she could have left it to my mother.”
“So, your mom thinks it should remain a wedding venue, too?” she asks, eyes going bright with validation.
“She thinks it should be kept in the family,” I confirm. “She’s not a huge fan of change.”
Understatement of the century. For a moment, the lid covering every messy feeling I have about my mom is lifted, and I have to force it back down. This isn’t the time or place, but I make a mental note to call and check on her later.
“Well, I guess that makes two of us,” Gracie responds. “If Agatha really didn’t care what happened to Larkwood after she passed, then why would she have left the cottage to me? She clearly wanted me to continue working there.”
We’re approaching her car, but the rain has started back up again with a fresh roll of thunder. I stop in front of it with a fresh twinge of doubt about my grandmother’s wishes. “I don’t pretend to know what Nana’s grand plan was. But now that it’s mine, I know what I intend to do.”
Gracie glares up at me. “Only if I don’t change your mind first.”
“And what if I said staying with a friend overnight would put you on my good side?”
“I would say you’re lying,” she replies, opening her bag to fish out her car keys, which have a key chain of the pretty zombie lady from Corpse Bride attached.
“Gracie, please. I have a spare room if you need somewhere to stay.”
“Wow, I tell you to open your heart once, and you’re already propositioning me.”
Heat scrapes up my neck. “That’s not what I’m doing.”
“Then just let me risk my life and good driving record in peace, okay?”
“At least let me follow behind you. If you break down, you’ll have a ride.”
“No need for that, I’ve got a kayak right here,” she says, waving the sandwich.
“I’ll get my car. It’s not far away.”
“Stop. You’re going to give yourself an ulcer. I’ll text you when I make it back.”
I bite back another argument, knowing I’m edging away from concerned and into controlling. “Fine.”
“See? Was that so hard?” she asks, opening the driver’s-side door.
Yes.
“I’ll text you when I make it,” she assures me again when I don’t answer her.
“Bye, Gracie.”
She closes her door and starts what sounds like a hamster-powered engine. As she drives away with a wave, I grab my phone, check the GPS, and set a timer for fifty-six minutes—the exact amount of time it’ll take her to get from here to Larkwood.