Chapter 13 #2
I settle against him with a sigh, and his soft laugh puffs in my hair, spreading warmth in my belly with the hum of his voice.
“You’re less snarky when you’re sleepy. Almost cuddly.”
“I’m a jellyfish. Soft but can still sting the heck out of you.” I yawn.
“Terrifyingly accurate,” he mutters as he walks me through the door, arm still around my waist, half carrying me.
He’s pretty much at home in our kitchen. The guys will do all sorts of menial labor in exchange for leftovers. I don’t know if I’ve ever taken our trash to the dumpster or picked up our mail from the lockbox. I don’t even have the key.
Our motley little family eats together often because I don’t know how to cook for two. Jace and I have more adventurous tastes, so we call a truce to cook together once in a while, and leftovers are never wasted.
Jude puts the bag on the counter and opens the fridge to put the whipped cream away.
Huh. Not many guys would think to do that.
I prop myself against the counter waiting for him to retrieve the food so I can get something to drink. “The wings are in the white box. You can put the whipped cream anywhere.”
“Anywhere?” He turns to me with an evil gleam in his eyes and an open can of whipped cream. “You sure about that?”
I bite my lower lip to keep my expression neutral as I slide away along the counter and inch slowly around the side.
Anticipate his actions.
No sudden moves.
“Do you really want to make a mess this late? It’s all fun and games until there’s whipped cream on the ceiling.”
His eyes widen, and he purses his lips fighting a grin. “I disagree. Whipped cream on the ceiling sounds like lots of fun. But was that a euphemism, or are we still talking about this?” He lightly shakes the can in front of me.
Oh, that devious grin. I’m in so much trouble.
I snort a laugh and shuffle backward until I hit the wall, letting out a squeal when he lunges and corners me.
He raises the can lightning-fast, and I instinctively cover my face and eyes when I hear it gurgle. I brace for something cold and wet, but only a little sputters out over my hand and cheek.
“Not fair! Where’s my sweet Jude? I want him back!”
The air stills around us in deafening silence until I hear the metal can clink onto the counter.
He peels my hands from my eyes and never looks away when his hot open mouth takes the splattered whipped cream from the back of my hand.
My skin pebbles instantly, confirming what he already knows.
Brushing away some fluff from my cheek with his finger, he briefly touches it to my mouth, causing me to lick my lips. He squeezes his eyes shut with a harsh exhale and quickly dries the rest on his pants.
Good call.
He threads our fingers together and lifts our hands, pressing them over my head against the wall. He dips his forehead down to mine, bringing us nose to nose.
“I’m right here.” His voice is stilted and tight.
The lingering wintergreen on his breath begs my mouth to find his, and the clinch in my stomach indicates interest in the proposal.
Dear heavens, tell me that wasn’t a contraction.
If either of us were keeping secrets, the heat between us just told them all.
I’m shaking when his grip relaxes, and I bring my hands to his face.
“I know,” I whisper. “I see you.”
His breath drags in harder, as if he’s trying to control it while he searches my face. I wish I knew what he wanted to see.
“I think the only thing keeping you with Nathan is misplaced responsibility. You see something broken, and you need to fix it or stop him from making it worse.” Jude’s body radiates frustration as his stare bores through me.
“You could, without a doubt, take all the broken pieces and make them something beautiful. But you can’t love someone who won’t let you.
” He pauses before irrevocably piercing my soul. “And neither can I.”
He holds my hands over his stubbled cheeks and closes his eyes until our breathing slows together.
Warm hands drop to my bare arms, gliding over them once, and again, then slowly up over my shoulders to my neck and into my hair as my hands lower to his sides.
Mercy.
There’s nothing but a thin layer of cotton separating my hand from that stimulating reading material I’ve thought about all day. My shivers fight the heat of his touch as he slides a thumb across my cheek, skimming faintly over my lips until he reaches my chin, tilting my face back up.
I can’t … words.
Our eyes lock again, and I can’t look away. My trembling hands slip around his waist, holding on for dear life.
I want to freeze time. We’ve blown through caution tape all day, but anything beyond this point is strictly off-limits. I don’t think I can turn back. Something I dismissed as my imagination months ago has returned.
We can’t kiss, but I could never make myself stop him.
He wouldn’t, would he? No, the guilt would eat him alive.
Doing things the right way is important to both of us, but it’s the essence of his identity.
I’m the weak link here.
I try to read his eyes, but they’re dark caves with indeterminable depth.
“Are you okay?” he whispers.
Am I okay?
No, I’m not freaking okay. I WILL NEVER AGAIN BE OKAY.
“Fine. You?”
He nods. “Yeah. We need to talk soon but not tonight.”
Whatever just happened went far beyond his baseline sweetness or the usual ambiguous flirting. I’m trying to reconcile his actions with his words, but I can convince myself of too many opposing theories right now. I have to stop before my thoughts spiral out of control.
He pulls back to place the softest kiss on my cheek and then my forehead, then wraps me in the tightest hug, pulling us out of the corner.
My limp jellyfish body is fully pressed against his warm, firm one, and my ear rests against his chest where the sound of his heart resonates.
Nothing against the mouse, but this is the happiest place on earth. Right here. Right now.
His fingers comb through my hair, then trace an invisible pattern on my back for some immeasurable stretch of time. Comforting as it is, my grip on the back of his shirt is nothing short of desperate.
We need to talk is the scariest phrase known to man. Or woman.
What is he trying to say? He wants me? He wants me to stop blurring the lines so we can move on with our lives?
His words sound like we need space, but his touch says anything but.
I don’t know how to do any of this without hurting someone. Him, our family, that other guy. Myself. Something has to give. I see that.
I’m living some ridiculous melodramatic version of “Should I Stay or Should I Go,” and that’s not nearly as amusing as it sounds.
Every breath is more of him … some sporty deodorant, night air, coffee, strawberries, those infuriating Tic Tacs.
I can almost taste them.
I want to.
Just as I decide never to move again, he loosens his grip and musses my hair, then turns to put the food in the flipping microwave like he didn’t just tilt my world off its axis.
I tell him I’ll be right back and bolt down the hall. I need to wash off my makeup and review every decision of my life that led to this moment.
Grabbing my oversize Braves T-shirt, I head to the bathroom to wash my face, brush my teeth, and change clothes, too dazed to think about anything. I shuffle barefoot back to the living room, where Jude has sports highlights on the TV and is almost done eating.
“Want anything?” he asks, studying me intently as I come back into the room.
This is probably a bad time for me to answer that. His gaze is palpable. As if his hands were still on my skin. Opening my mouth would be a game of Russian Roulette.
I shake my head and take a drink from his water bottle while he watches. “Just sleep.”
I should check my phone and see if Nathan replied.
I should make sure Annie’s okay because it’s around one and I don’t know if she’s with the guys or upstairs asleep.
I always check on everyone. But tonight, I just can’t.
Why is he staring at my shirt? I’ve worn this a million times. Does he want me to say something? I imagine his teasing voice asking if I have any confessions, comments, or complaints, but we’re way past that tonight.
Jude puts his plate on the coffee table and reaches for me, tugging the hem of my shirt with his eyes focused on the night’s baseball scores.
I curl my legs beside me as he wraps an arm around my shoulder and guides me to lay my head on the throw pillow in his lap where his plate was balanced minutes ago.
This is not entirely out of the ordinary, but we’ve been together all day, and the tension has not let up.
I expect him to revert to humor or hightail it out of here, but there’s no wet willy in my ear, no tickling, teasing, or sending me off to bed so he can get home. This might be a bad idea, but once he starts stroking my hair, it doesn’t matter.
How am I supposed to go on with my life knowing this exists?
A storm of panic twists in my chest. I shift my body to hide my face against his shirt and wrap my arms around his back. My eyes burn, but I refuse to let him see me cry again. His arms curl around my back to cradle me tightly.
“I’m sorry, Lu.”
“Please don’t be.”
“Then I’m not.”
Within minutes, I am completely and gloriously unconscious.