Chapter 21 Jude
Four Weeks Before the Wedding
So this is what it’s like to go mad. As I pace around a second-floor guest room at Larkwood, pretending to catalog antiques and artwork for auction, what I’m really doing is coming up with another reason to look out the window.
Uncoincidentally, it provides a direct view of Gracie’s cottage, which is still dark.
For the sixtieth time in as many minutes, I tell myself I just want to know she’s made it home safely.
When she gets back from her date with Henry, I will not go down and visit her.
I won’t interrogate her. I won’t push her up against a wall until she’s making those breathy little whimpers I drew from her at the cake shop, and—
Snap.
The tip of my pencil breaks clean off from pressing it too hard. “Goddamnit.”
From her perch on the back of a couch, Taco hisses at me. Frankly, I deserve it. I roll my forehead against the cold glass of the window. She’s on a date with your best friend, remember? She wants him, not you.
I keep having to remind myself because for one suspended moment, with her hands tangled in my hair, I thought everything had changed. It had for me. But then she’d gasped his name. Henry.
It’s difficult to exhale around my guilt. Telling him I’d kissed Gracie was one of the most shameful conversations of my life, and afterward, I swore I’d stop thinking about her—unless it was to remind myself of the manifold reasons she’s off-limits.
But I can’t stop myself from replaying our kiss until the thought of her with Henry is a live wire, sparking and thrashing in my stomach.
I run a hand over my scratchy face. A committed relationship is something I’ve never even let myself fantasize about.
Wanting one now makes my skin feel like it shrunk in the wash—too restrictive for the immensity of this craving.
I’m stalking toward an old mahogany desk for a pencil sharpener when I hear it: the crunch of gravel.
Tossing my clipboard and broken pencil onto the polished surface, the window yanks me back like I’m a wolf on a leash. Her headlights flash by, and my feeble self-restraint vanishes. I’m already making my way out of the room and down the stairs, half-assed rationalizations circling my mind.
Because I have to know—did she have a good time with him? Did she agree to see him again? Or did she spend the whole night thinking about our kiss, too?
When I finally reach her door, I don’t think; I knock, only realizing belatedly that I’m out of breath and lacking any reasonable excuse for being here.
The door opens, and she’s there in a short floral dress that pays homage to every one of her curves. Her hair is up, exposing her long neck, and she’s wearing rosy pink lipstick and black-winged eyeliner. What’s left is one rattling thought: she did it all for him.
“Jude,” she says, alarm suffusing her face. “Is everything okay?” She looks toward Larkwood, then back at me. “Nothing’s on fire, is it?”
You mean apart from my brain?
“No,” I assure her. “I’m not that lucky.”
She makes an irritated sound. “You scared me. I’ve only been home for like nine seconds.”
“Sorry—I was just passing by and saw you pull in.”
Her eyebrows draw together. “You were just passing by my cottage at ten p.m.?” Her eyes drop down to my feet and back up. “In slippers?”
Fuuuck.
“They’re indoor/outdoor,” I lie, wishing the earth would have the decency to swallow me whole. “I’ve been going through Nana’s things. Needed some fresh air.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?” she asks with a look of concern.
Jesus. With effort, I unclench my fists and try to focus on anything but my racing heart and my fucking feet.
“Yeah,” I say, closing my eyes for a moment. “I’m just—” I let out a croak of a laugh and run my hand through my hair. “I just wanted to know you got home safe.”
Her worried expression dissolves into something so soft, I have to assume it’s pity. “Do you want to come in?” she asks quietly.
“What?” I say stupidly, positive I’ve misheard her.
“I mean, unless you have somewhere else to hop off to in those bunny slippers,” she says with a smirk.
Too relieved to be embarrassed, I say, “Sure. I mean, yeah. Only if you don’t mind the company.”
She gives me an indecipherable look but doesn’t say anything as she lets me in.
When the door is closed behind us, she immediately slips off her heels with a soft sound of relief.
It’s such a banal, everyday moment, but intimate, somehow.
Like the man who gets to witness it should be the one who gets to run her a bath at the end of the day and take her to bed.
But I’m not that man. I’m a fucking psycho in slippers, intruding on her privacy after a date with someone else. With Henry.
With effort, I force myself not to ask about it. It’s not my business.
“Are you thirsty?” she asks as she pours herself a glass of water in the kitchen.
If she only knew.
“No, I’m okay, thanks.”
As she walks back toward me, I search desperately for something other than the one question I want to ask.
“How did wedding planning go this week?” I finally settle on.
She gives me a beleaguered look. “It’s been a lot. My checklist is doing this thing where it never shrinks, and I just found out that one of my usual day-of assistants will be out of town for the wedding.”
“You’ll have me,” I say. Her gaze lifts to mine. “I can help with whatever you need.”
Her shoulders drop a fraction. “I appreciate that. I wasn’t sure if you were allergic to weddings and planned on making a last-minute excuse.”
“It’s fine, I’ll have my EpiPen at the ready.”
She snorts and takes another drink of water. Looking away, my gaze catches on the bolts of fabric in the darkened corner of her living room. “So, are you planning on making a dress for this thing? Something from another Audrey movie?”
“You mean with all my spare time?” she responds with a sardonic tilt of her brows. But then she drops her eyes to her water glass. “That was just for Agatha. I don’t really sew anymore.”
“Why not?” I ask, surprised. “Too busy dealing with men who are sabotaging your life?”
At this, she rolls her eyes, but there’s no mistaking her sudden discomfort. After a moment, she says, “I used to have a bridal wear design business.” Her shoulders give a tiny shrug, but she doesn’t meet my gaze. “Obviously, it didn’t work out. I’ve been paying for it ever since.”
All at once, dots I hadn’t realized I’d been collecting connect.
Her perfectly tailored, handmade dress at the funeral.
Her empty cupboards. Her desperation to cling to a rent-free home and a stable paycheck.
If I thought I’d felt terrible before, it’s nothing like the pit of quicksand sucking me into its depths now.
“There’s no shame in that, Gracie,” I say. “It takes courage to start a business.”
She shrugs. “Or stupidity.”
“Hope is never stupid,” I argue, wishing she knew that it’s been the driving force behind every major decision of my life—including my plans for Larkwood.
She smiles sadly. “I know. Why do you think I keep trying to change your mind about this place?”
I have nothing to say to that. I’m too busy mentally kicking myself in the nuts for hurting her like this. “Can I see them?” I ask instead. “Your designs?”
She gives me a disbelieving look. “You want to look at a bunch of wedding dresses?”
If you made them, yes.
“If it means not going back to sorting antiques? Absolutely.”
“Okay,” she says, her voice deceptively light. “I have some old samples in my closet if you want to see them.”
Highly aware that neither of us has brought up her date tonight, I feel like I’m barely managing to balance on a tightrope as I say, “Lead the way.”
We step into her darkened bedroom and within seconds, we’re within tumbling distance of her bed. Not my plan, but the unthinking part of me that kissed her is clapping me on the back for my genius.
She turns her bedside lamp on before opening an antique armoire with a squeak. Taking out a heavy-looking garment bag, she lays it on the bed’s soft blue duvet.
“They’re not in line with the current trends or anything,” she warns, unzipping the bag.
“Well then, I’m not interested,” I say distractedly as she carefully pulls the first sample from the pile.
A classic silhouette in creamy satin pours out of the bag in a white waterfall, and my jaw goes slack. It’s timeless but unique in the way she’s used the natural ripple of the fabric to dictate the draping. It’s easy—too easy—to imagine it on her.
“You made these?” I ask quietly.
She nods, passing me the hanger. I hold it up, carefully sliding my free hand down the silken bodice. She isn’t just a talented designer. She’s a master tailor.
“You used internal boning?”
Her eyebrows rise. “If I say yes, are you going to make a dick joke?”
I try not to laugh. “As long as you don’t mind knowing that I’m also an expert on boning.”
She ducks her head like she doesn’t want me to see her smile, and I feel ridiculously pleased with myself. See? I can do this. I can crack stupid jokes, and make her smile, and never touch her again, and it can be enough. It has to be enough.
I return my gaze to the garment bag and lift another sample that’s just as exquisite as the first.
“Your seams are invisible. Is this blind-hem stitching?” I ask, running my fingers along the edge of the supple neckline.
She’s staring at my hand, and when she speaks, her voice is huskier than before. “I didn’t realize lawyering required such an in-depth knowledge of garment construction.”
I look up from the dress, embarrassed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to nerd out. Agatha brainwashed me into loving clothes.”
Warmth suffuses Gracie’s dark eyes, and she smiles. “Even purple sequin boleros?”
“Did I mention she was in a matching ballgown with a leg slit up to her nostrils?”
Gracie’s smile goes megawatt as she laughs, and my heart feels bruised with every new beat. What the hell did that kiss do to me? Silently, I pick up the next dress, and the next, more in awe of her with each one.