Chapter 22 Jude
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Jude
I hear the front door ease open while I’m drying a pan by the sink. Footsteps drift in—light, a little unsure—and then she’s there in the doorway, shoulders angled inward like she’s not sure she should step all the way inside.
She smells faintly of Ryker.
Not strong, but unmistakable. It twists something in me before I can stop it.
“We talked,” she murmurs, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Her cheeks are warm, and her eyes are too bright for someone who claims she’s fine.
“Yeah,” I say. “Maisie’s in the living room. She’s been waiting.”
Norah barely gets a breath out before there’s a thud and a blur of tiny limbs.
“Norah!” Maisie barrels in, curls bouncing, glasses slightly askew. She crashes into Norah’s legs, and Norah folds around her instantly, laughing into her hair.
That sound always softens me. Tonight, it hits deeper.
“It smells like pasta,” Maisie announces.
“I made dinner,” I say.
Norah straightens, pushing up her sleeves. “You cooked?”
“Don’t act so surprised.”
She grins and follows us into the living room, where the plates from earlier sit on the coffee table. I clear them while she and Maisie talk about school.
Then Norah crouches beside her and starts checking out her glasses—tilting them, asking if the prescription is comfortable, brushing curls away from her forehead with this quiet focus that pulls me in whether I want it to or not.
She’s always like this with Maisie. Gentle but sure. Kind without trying.
Ryker wasn’t wrong about her.
Maisie starts rambling about her art project, and Norah listens like it’s the most important thing in the world. When Maisie wanders off for her crayons, Norah stays kneeling on the floor, pulling off her tote bag.
She starts sorting things onto the rug—curl creams, detanglers, brushes, oils. Enough products to open her own salon.
“Okay,” she says, patting the spot beside her. “I’m giving you a lesson.”
“A what?”
“A lesson,” she repeats, pointing at the products. “On how to take care of her hair. You’re doing a lot right, but you need a few better tools.”
I sit beside her, knees brushing. “You didn’t have to—”
“I wanted to.”
She walks me through each product, demonstrating on a strand of her own hair. I focus, even though her scent edges under my skin, warm and sweet, and the brush of her fingers near mine keeps sparking something I can’t keep steady anymore.
She combs through Maisie’s curls next, gentle, patient, explaining everything with this relaxed confidence that settles into the house like she’s been here for years.
When she leans in to adjust a curl pattern, her shoulder brushes mine. I don’t move.
After the lesson, I throw the products into a basket for the bathroom. She grabs a blanket from the couch and settles in with Maisie for the movie.
I join them, trying not to think about how natural it all feels.
Maisie curls up between us, head on Norah’s thigh. Norah strokes her hair, humming softly. The screen glows across her face, and I catch myself watching her more than the film.
The way her lips part at the dramatic scenes. The way her fingers trace absent shapes against Maisie’s shoulder.
Halfway through, Maisie starts to fade. Her head dips. Norah eases an arm around her, steadying her. I rise and gather the girl into my arms.
Norah whispers, “She loves being here.”
“She loves being around you,” I tell her before I think better of it.
Her lashes lower. She doesn’t answer.
I take Maisie to her room, tuck her in, kiss her forehead, then return to the living room. Norah’s curled up on the sofa, blanket over her lap, eyes lingering on the screen.
“You wanna finish it?” I ask.
She nods, pulling the blanket aside so I can sit. I lower myself beside her, close enough for warmth to drift between us.
For a few minutes, neither of us talks.
Then she glances at me. “You’re so close with her.”
“She’s everything,” I say. “I’m just… relieved the glasses are helping. She kept bumping into corners. Said everything felt blurry.” I exhale slow. “I’m just trying to be… happy. Or something close to it.”
She turns toward me, brows folding. “What do you mean?”
I keep my eyes on the screen. “When Claire died… everything inside me cracked. I was just—” I cut myself off. “She wanted kids. We talked about it all the time.”
Norah’s voice softens. “It’s so sad what happened to her.”
I nod, swallowing something that rises too fast. “It is. Can I ask you something?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Do you want kids?”
I study her face and watch for all her microexpressions. The way her finger lifts to trace her lip. The way her eyes have a certain twinkle. “Someday.”
“You’ll make an amazing mom.”
Her lips part slightly, like she’s surprised to hear me say it.
I rub my palms against my thighs. “I like you, Norah.”
She stills. Her breath stutters—not loud, just enough for me to feel it. “For real?” Her voice is barely there.
“I know things are complicated with Dorian,” I say. “And Ryker likes you, too. But I don’t want you thinking I’m only here because Maisie’s attached to you. It’s not that.”
“Jude…” She starts to protest.
I reach out and touch a finger to her lips. Her breath catches, warm against my skin.
“You don’t have to say anything. I just needed you to know.”
She nods. When I lower my hand, her eyes drift back to the screen, though I can tell she isn’t seeing a damn thing.
A minute passes before she speaks again. “Don’t look at me.”
That pulls my gaze instantly. “Why?”
“Because I want to tell you something, and I’ll lose my nerve with you staring at me.”
I turn toward the TV even though every part of me is pulled toward her. “Alright.”
“That night at the Drunken Fish,” she says quietly, “after we all hung out… you left your jacket behind. The leather one.”
“Yeah.”
“I kept it.”
My pulse jumps. “Why?”
“I don’t know.” She folds her hands in her lap. “But the scent calms me.”
I reach over and turn her chin toward me, urging her to look. Her eyes widen when I hold them.
“Tell me the truth,” I say. “Why’d you keep it?”
Her throat moves. “I just… liked having it near.”
Something inside me pulls tight, hot and unmistakable. “You’re so fucking sexy.”
Color blooms across her cheeks. She bites her lip, and the shift in her scent hits me, sharp and warm, sending heat down my spine.
I brush my thumb along her lower lip. She trembles. “You know I can smell Ryker on you.”
Her eyes widen. “You can?”
I nod once. “And the wild thing is… I still want to kiss you.”
“Jude—”
“Can I kiss you, Norah? Even if it complicates everything?”
Her breath shakes as she nods. “Yes.”
I don’t wait a second longer. I cup her jaw, guiding her toward me, and our mouths meet with a rush that knocks the air out of both of us.
Her fingers grab my shirt, pulling me closer. The kiss deepens fast, too fast.
She tastes warm and new and exactly like trouble I’m ready to wreck myself over.
When she presses against me, I slip a hand under the hem of her sweater, fingers tracing the curve of her waist. She shudders, body arching just enough to let me know she feels this as much as I do.
Her tongue brushes mine, small but desperate, and a low sound breaks from my throat before I can swallow it.
She’s in my arms, breathing hard, lips swollen from how hungry we are without meaning to be. She leans into me, and I draw her tighter.
I haven’t felt like this in years.
Her hand slides up my chest, over my shoulder, into my hair, and that’s it—my control buckles.
I pull her onto my lap, kiss her again, deeper, harder, her thighs tense under my hands.
We break the kiss slowly, breaths tangled. Her lips are parted, pupils blown wide. I rest my forehead against hers, trying to catch the thread of sense I lost somewhere in the middle of that.
She opens her mouth, but I hush her with a soft thumb across her cheek.
“Norah,” I murmur, voice rough from everything we didn’t do, “this isn’t nothing.”
She nods, leaning into my touch like she’s not sure she’s allowed to.
I swallow and brush a strand of hair behind her ear. “I haven’t felt like this in a long time.”
Her eyes soften. “Jude…”
I force myself to ease back, even though my body wants her closer. The movie’s still playing in the background, but everything feels different now—charged, warm, shaped around the fact that we just crossed a line we can’t un-cross.
I squeeze her hand once before letting go. “Stay for the rest of the movie.”
“Yeah,” she whispers. “I’d like that.”
She settles against my side, head beneath my arm, her breathing slow but unsteady enough that I know she’s replaying the same moments I am. I rest a hand on her hip, light but there, a promise I’m not running from this.
Not anymore.
As the credits roll, I lean back against the sofa, letting out a slow exhale through my nose, just taking in the moment.
Norah shifts beside me, yawning, and offers to help with the dishes. I shake my head with a small smile.
I reach over and touch her hair as she moves, just letting my fingers skim through the strands. They spring up in little coils, catching the lamplight, and I can’t help but tell her.
“You’ve got really pretty hair,” I say, just like that, not trying to make a move. She tilts her head at me, eyes bright, a small smile curling her lips.
“Thanks,” she says, like it’s nothing, but I can feel it in the way she’s looking at me.
I swallow and tug her closer gently. “Mind if I try braiding it?” I ask, feeling the nerve in my chest coil.
She laughs softly, a little teasing, but warm. “I know you’re nervous about Maisie’s hair, but I promise, you’ll be okay.”
I grin, leaning my forehead against hers briefly. “Thanks for the vote of confidence. But actually… I want to braid your hair for more selfish reasons.”
Her breath hitches in the softest way, and I feel the reaction in my chest. She lifts a brow, tilting her head. “Selfish reasons?”
I can’t tell her half the filthy things running through my head, the imagining of dragging my fingers through her hair as I kiss her, feeling the curve of her neck pressed into me. I can’t say it. So I keep it clean.
“Can I please just do your hair?”
Her smile softens, eyes glinting. “If you insist,” she says, settling herself in front of me on the sofa. I move a pillow under her for support, arranging her just right.
Her hair is long and thick, the strands brushing my wrists as I work, and I take my time. The braids twist neatly, my fingers running through her hair slowly, massaging her scalp with light, teasing pressure whenever she shifts or sighs. I catch every small intake of breath.
She leans back just slightly against me, eyes fluttering closed for a moment, and the quiet intimacy of it makes my chest thrum. Every little tug, every small shift of her, sets my thoughts spinning, but I’m careful, patient.
I’m here to braid her hair, to massage her scalp, not to cross any lines. But that doesn’t mean I’m not aware of how impossibly beautiful she is, or how her presence makes the heat coil low and urgent in me.
The door opens with a soft creak, and I glance up to see Ryker standing there, one eyebrow raised, a beer in hand.
“Hey. What’s happening here?” His grin is amused, laced with that sharp undertone that always sets a tension in the air.
Norah straightens just slightly, smiling at him. “He’s working on my hair,” she says, casual, like this is a normal occurrence, but there’s a sparkle in her eyes.
Ryker strides over and perches on the chair across from us, beer in hand, leaning casually. “Where’s Maisie?”
“She’s asleep,” I say. He nods, taking a slow sip.
“Am I okay to sit and watch? I love to watch,” he says, and the words carry a teasing undertone.
I shrug with a grin. “Up to her,” I say, glancing at Norah.
“I don’t mind,” she says, and I catch that soft edge of her voice, warm but guarded.
He restarts the Harry Potter movie, and we settle back into a rhythm. My hands move through her hair with care, braiding each section, tugging just enough to keep it tight but comfortable.
She tilts her head, resting against my shoulder at times, whispering soft comments about the film and laughing when something catches her. I feel that low coil of desire in my chest tighten again.
“You know,” Ryker says casually, “I’m glad you two got to talking.”
Norah hums softly. “I’m not saying yes to anything,” she murmurs, eyes fixed on the screen.
Ryker chuckles lightly. “Have you talked to Dorian since he didn’t show up at work?”
“No,” she says, quiet, hesitant.
I keep working, my fingers deftly weaving a braid down the back of her head. The feel of her hair through my hands, the subtle warmth of her neck, the faint scent of her perfume—everything is a rush.
We do nothing else, just this, the intimacy simmering beneath, low and potent. Her hand brushes mine as she adjusts herself, and I catch the briefest shiver along her spine.
I brush a stray lock from her face and press a soft kiss to her forehead.
“Pretty,” I murmur.
Her lips curve, a small smile forming, and Ryker’s voice cuts through, smooth and low: “Very fucking pretty.”
I glance at him, a half-smile crossing my face. He doesn’t look away, but there’s no judgment in his tone, just acknowledgment of what’s right in front of him.
Norah tilts her head, a soft laugh escaping, brushing her fingers along the braids I’ve done. “Thanks,” she says quietly, almost reverent.
I adjust the pillow behind her again, careful to keep her comfortable. I let my fingers trace the length of the braid I just made, tugging it slightly, feeling the texture, the softness, the warmth of her shoulders against me.
She leans her head back again, eyes closed, trusting me completely, and it makes something inside me coil tighter.
Ryker takes a long drink from his beer, still watching us. He smirks. “This is… nice. I like seeing you like this, Jude.”
I brush a hand along her neck, hiding the small shiver that goes through me. “I’m just trying to be happy.”
Norah hums softly against me.
I watch her, tracing the contours of her face with my thumb, memorizing everything, and knowing the night has changed us.