Chapter 17
Chapter seventeen
EMMA EASTON
The kitchen smells like garlic, basil, and butter, pretty much comfort in its purest form.
The sauce simmers on the stove, bubbling softly, and Heather hums the melody of some song beside me as if nothing in the world is wrong.
She pours us both another glass of wine, her pale pink floral skirt swaying around her legs in these effortless little movements.
Of course, she manages to tie her hair up in one of those perfect, messy knots.
Whenever I attempt to tie my hair up like that, I just look like a gremlin.
I try to match her calm, but my mind won’t stop circling back to those marks on his arm.
God.
The moment flashes behind my eyes, and I see the bruised, angry dots trailing along the inside of his left elbow. Track marks. Old ones. New ones.
My stomach tightens, the wine turning sour on my tongue.
I’d told myself I wouldn’t spiral, and that I’d stay steady and rational.
But I can’t stop seeing his face in that clinic room, the way he avoided my eyes and tugged his sleeve down just a little too fast afterward. It was like he was ashamed.
I stir the sauce just to keep my hands busy, pretending the steam rising from the pot is what’s making my eyes sting.
Heather keeps singing in light, sweet tones, completely unaware.
And for a second, I really wish I could slip into that world with her.
Because I can’t shake the fear that he’s unraveling faster than I can stop him.
I’m scared.
“Okay, remind me again,” she says, propping a hand on her hip and pulling me back from my thoughts. “Why haven’t we opened a restaurant together yet? I think we’d kill it.”
I laugh, stirring the pasta. “Because you’d spend the whole time flirting with the customers.”
Heather grins, unbothered. “Hey, charm is part of customer service. Not ashamed about that one bit.”
My phone buzzes on the counter, and I don’t even have to look to know who it is.
JUDE
On our way.
My stupid little heart skips. I try to play it off, but Heather sees the look on my face instantly.
“Oh my god,” she teases, her voice rising an octave. “You’re so fucked. Honestly? I always liked you better with him. He makes you less...vanilla. No offense.”
I glare at her. “Shut the hell up. I am not vanilla.”
“Oh, she cussed at me,” she says, taking a sip of wine.
“Come on. So he disappears from your life seven years ago, breaking your heart to pieces. Then he turns up, but now, he’s wildly damaged.
And of course, being you, you can’t stop yourself from trying to help him.
The vanilla in you can’t stay away from the spicy mint flavor he gives off. ”
I shake my head, trying not to smile. “You’re ridiculous.”
She smirks. “I’m right. And you’re a kind soul that could very well be putting yourself in a position to get hurt again. You’re smart. I know you know that.”
The oven timer dings, saving me from responding.
I pull out the garlic bread, the smell filling the kitchen like warmth itself.
My heart’s racing a little faster than it should.
It’s just dinner. I glance back at Heather, who’s adjusting her gold necklace in the reflection of the microwave.
She looks nervous, which makes me pause.
“What about you?”
“What about me?” she asks quickly.
“You’re awfully dressed up for a casual dinner,” I say, feigning innocence. “Pretty skirt, lip gloss…”
Her brown eyes widen slightly, and she waves me off too fast.
I raise a brow. “Heather.”
She sighs dramatically, then laughs. “Fine. Maybe I think Micah’s kind of cute, okay?”
I can’t help but grin. “Kind of?”
“Okay, he’s fucking hella hot. Happy?” She laughs, her cheeks turning pink. “He’s sweet. Shy, but funny. And those blue eyes, Em. Like, come on.”
I laugh so hard I nearly spill the sauce. “Oh my god, you’re blushing. Haven’t seen you this dumb over a guy since Bradley.”
“Ugh, don’t mention that asshole,” she groans.
“Fine,” I throw up my hands jokingly. “But Micah is a hottie.”
She glares playfully, pointing her spoon at me. “Don’t you dare tell him.”
“Girl, Jude and I already talked about it,” I say, still smiling. “Both of you were obviously googly over each other. And guess what? Micah thinks you’re pretty.”
“Shut up, he does not,” she gasps, and we’re both laughing when there’s a knock at the door. The sound makes us go quiet, and my stomach does that stupid flip again. I wipe my hands on a towel, breathe once, and try to compose myself.
Heather, now even more excited than before, chucks the roll of paper towels at me with a quiet squeal.
I roll my eyes, but there’s no hiding my smile as I walk toward the door.
When I open it, the cool evening air drifts in, and with it, Jude.
He’s standing there beside Micah, one hand tucked in his black jeans pocket, the other holding a brown paper bag.
His hair is slightly damp, like he’s just showered, and his hoodie sleeves are pushed up to his elbows.
He smells faintly of rain, smoke, and amber cologne.
“Hey,” he says, a beautiful smile on his lips.
“Hey,” I breathe, stepping back to let them in. My pulse flutters.
Micah grins, taking the brown bag from Jude. “We brought reinforcements.”
“Is that wine?” Heather laughs from the kitchen. “Smart man.”
Jude follows me inside, his eyes sweeping over the warm lights, the flowers in the vase, the half-set table. “It smells incredible,” he murmurs.
“Thanks,” I say, leaning over to pet Nova, who runs over toward Micah. “Just pasta.”
“Oh, who is this beautiful gal, huh?” Micah extends his arms out, getting Nova so excited that she prances in place. Heather giggles.
Jude gives a faint smile, one corner of his mouth lifting. “Just pasta, she says. You forget how good you are at this. You were always my favorite chef.”
My cheeks heat. Heather shoots a wink at me before turning to Micah and talking like they’ve known each other for years.
She teases him about his wallpaper background, and he fires back with playful sarcasm.
Within minutes, she’s laughing that full, beautiful laugh that fills any room.
I can’t help but glance at Jude, wondering if he notices too.
He does. His mouth curves. “Matchmaking pro.”
“Maybe,” I whisper, and his quiet laugh sends heat through me.
Dinner is loud and warm, with an energy that makes a house feel alive.
Jude sits across from me, and every time I look up, he’s already watching.
The way he looks at me pulls memories to the surface—things I shouldn’t be thinking about right now.
When Heather tells a story about a disastrous date, Jude’s laugh joins mine, and for a moment, it almost feels. ..easy.
After dinner, we drift to the couch. The lights are low, and an indie track is humming softly in the background. Heather and Micah sit shoulder to shoulder, talking about his experience on the road. Jude’s beside me, his knee brushing mine now and then.
He glances around the room, then back at me. “This feels...weird.”
“Weird how?”
“Like everything we could’ve had.” His gaze lingers on my lips before meeting my eyes. “Years ago.”
My throat tightens. “I don’t know what to say to that, Jude.”
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.
Something in his expression makes my eyes burn—like he’s seeing every version of me he’s ever loved. Then Micah laughs, and the moment fractures. Jude leans back, clearing his throat, eyes flicking toward our friends. I do the same.
Later, when it’s time to say goodbye, Heather and Micah are still laughing as they head out. The porch light catches in her hair, and for a second, she looks genuinely happy. Micah winks at me before following her toward the car.
Jude lingers by the door as I lean against the frame.
“Oh, um, I got the call from the doctor,” I say softly. “You’re clean.”
Relief breaks across his face. “That’s...really good to hear.” I incline my chin, searching his eyes.
His gaze drops to my mouth, then lifts again, conflicted. “Emma,” he says quietly. “I shouldn’t—”
I step closer before I can stop myself. “Then don’t,” I whisper. “But don’t look at me like that if you’re not going to.”
His jaw tightens. His hands flex at his sides, like he’s fighting himself. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me.”
I open my mouth to say something, until I realize I have no words. The tension is nearly suffocating.
Until something in him snaps.
He closes the distance in one swift step and kisses me. It’s hard and desperate and...everything. His hands slide up my back, down to my hips, pulling me flush against him. I gasp into his mouth, fingers fisting in his hoodie as heat floods between us.
Everything about him is familiar and overwhelming all at once—his scent, his strength, the way he knows exactly how to touch me.
It’s just like old times, and that realization makes it worse.
I arch into him without thinking, a quiet sound slipping from my throat as his grip tightens, like I’m pushing him.
God, I’ve missed him.
When he finally pulls back, we’re both breathless, foreheads pressed together. Neither of us speaks.
The door opens, and Heather pokes her head back in, grinning. “Well,” she says. “I was wondering when that would happen. Should I, uh, leave?”
Jude laughs, stealing one last kiss before heading out. When the door closes behind him, the silence rushes in. I press my back against it, heart racing, lips still tingling when I bring my hand to them.
Heather watches me, her smile soft. “You love him.”
I glance out the window, watching the taillights disappear. “Yeah,” I whisper. “I always have.”
The house is quiet except for the faint hum of the fridge and the slow ticking of the antique clock on the wall of my bedroom. I’m sprawled in bed, still wide awake, staring at the ceiling. The moonlight slips through the white linen curtains, painting my periwinkle sheets in pale silver.