Chapter 2
2
[Judd]
F rom the moment I saw Genie Webster a week ago, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her.
Normally, I don’t notice the crowd around the ring. My intention is to get lost in the motions of my body and out of my head. However, for a brief second, no more than a blink, I saw her in the backroom of The Boxer. Like the flash of a firefly in the darkness of night. And that blip surprisingly blinded me.
Or rather, awakened me.
Even though my mind has been full of Genie, I wrangle my concentration into submission. The beautiful, blonde woman sitting across from me in Curmudgeon Bakery deserves my momentary attention. Especially with how this conversation is about to go.
Our small town is located on Milton Peak, and the woman across from me is a local celebrity, recognized as the pin up girl for Remington Autos annual calendar. Her daddy owns a set of successful car dealerships in the area, and she’s his pride and joy. She’s also been my girlfriend of sorts for two and a half years.
And we are breaking up.
As we sit at a small bistro table in the front corner of my brother’s bakery shop in the business district of Sterling Falls, we have a clear view of the crossroads of Main and Corner. The few other tables near us remain empty. The long, wooden bench taking up one full wall hosts several tables in front of it. Another customer is tucked in the back. My brother Sebastian is behind the counter along with his newestbaking assistant.
I already ordered a coffee for myself and the complicated iced caramel macchiato with one pump of caramel and an extra splash of milk that Heather likes.
This will be my last act of kindness.
Our relationship has been unsettled for a while. As in, Heather wants to settle down, and I’ve been uncertain she’s the one for me. She’s beautiful but bossy. Sexy while stubborn. And brutally honest while not always polite or considerate with her opinion.
I’d be the first to admit I’m not perfect. Heather would be the first to tell you she is.
“So, I’ve been thinking, maybe today, during the Buttercup Society Garden Party, we could…”
I internally groan, tuning Heather out at the thought of the local women’s club and their garden affair. Even though Clay begged me to go in his absence, I had no plans to attend.
“It’s good business,” my older brother by eighteen months said.
As the Sylver Seed I’m the books. Accounting and financial advising, actually, which includes Chief Financial Officer as my official title, although I feel strange about the label.
“I’m not attending the party.”
“But, Judd, we need to?—”
“Break up,” I interject.
Heather rocks back in her chair and stares at me. Her icy blue eyes are frozen for a second. I’ve seen those eyes be seductive or stone cold, with rarely a shade in between.
She wants us to get married. And I don’t. At least, not to her.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” I admit.
“But you will.” Her voice grows louder as she sits taller. She’s wearing a flannel shirt over a bandeau top, a term I only know because of her, but she has each shoulder pulled down to her elbows, and I just don’t understand the appeal. Dangling her shirt in the crook of her elbows looks uncomfortable, but what do I know about women’s fashion? I have one sister, and Heather has been my longest relationship.
I do know she’s wrong for me. We’re missing that sizzle I see between my brother Sebastian and his wife, Enya. Or the solid fountain of Knox and Halle. Or the unbreakable ease of Clay and Mavis. We definitely lack the electric energy of Ford and Cadence.
My family has never liked Heather. They never understood our relationship. And in the last few months, I’ve noticed what they’ve seen.
Heather and I don’t fit.
“Don’t tell me you don’t feel it,” I say, certain she must be aware of the disconnect between us. I’m quiet; she’s loud. I’m reserved; she’s not. I want communication and connection; she just wants to come, yet she’s quite critical about how that happens.
“The attraction?” she states.
I choke. “The differences.”
“What differences? Is this because I come from money?”
Another contrast. One not easy to ignore when it is continually put in my face. I was once poor. Very poor.
“Heather, I don’t—” A cold sweat breaks across my forehead. I don’t want to say I don’t love her, but I want her to know that I don’t love her. And shouldn’t love be the basis of a marriage? Through all the hell my father put my siblings and me through, at his core, he loved our mother. You wouldn’t have known it after her death, but he had. Once upon a time.
“What’s love got to do with anything?” she states, like she read my mind. “You have money now,” she adds, like that’s the heart of the matter. “And we make a beautiful couple. Everyone says so. We’re perfect.”
“But we aren’t.” I swallow hard. As I’ve never really had a girlfriend, I’ve never had to break up with someone, and this is difficult.
Ford suggested I have this discussion someplace public. Sebastian offered the bakery.
“Judd, you’re going to buy me a ring . . .”
I’m already shaking my head.
“And then, you’ll get down on one knee in front of my family,” she continues, lifting her plastic cup toward her mouth while giving me her ice-cold glare.
“I’m not,” I argue keeping my voice low, and side-eyeing the bakery which thankfully remains mostly empty.
“And you’re going to ask me to fucking marry you.” Her command cracks like a whip before she sips her complicated drink and stares at me over the straw. Her cackled demand does nothing to change my mind.
“No,” I say a little louder. “I’m not asking you to marry me.”
Stillness fills the bakery. My voice carries. Sebastian pauses his movements behind the counter. The woman in the opposite corner, whom I can’t see from my position, probably heard me as well.
“Don’t be a coward, Judd.”
The very last thing I want to be accused of is being a weakling. I never want to be considered a chicken, and it’s taking a lot of strength to stay calm right now.
Heather’s problem is Heather doesn’t want to listen. She likes to hear herself talk. About herself. About her plans for us. About our future. What I should do, buy, say for her. Without really being engaged in us. Or rather me, as the other part of we .
“I. Am not. A coward.” The cowardly thing to do would be to continue this farce of a relationship, but I can no longer pretend Heather and I are going anywhere but this dead end. “I’m sorry, Heather. We’re over.”
“We aren’t over until I say we’re over,” she says loud enough for the entire Milton County to hear. Her chair screeches against the tile floor and she stands, caramel macchiato in hand, and tosses the icy drink in my face.
“Now we’re over, Judd.”
Stunned, I swipe my hand down my face and blink the sting of a sweet drink out of my eyes. The distinct sound of the bakery-door bell jangles as Heather storms out.
Then, I sense a presence beside me.
“Sorry about that,” I mutter to my brother, my voice hushed and hoarse. Heather made a mess. I’m a fucking mess. My eyes burn. My shirt is soaked. Macchiato is dripping from my cheeks.
“Are you okay?” The voice asking is distinctly not Sebastian, not even masculine, but soft and sweet, decidedly concerned and definitely female.
And when I look up, it’s like the macchiato is surging through my veins instead of soaking my clothes. The shock is something cool, rich, and incredibly sweet.
“Genie?”