Chapter 10
At the doorstep, Jude surprises me by pulling me in for a hug. His arms are strong and comforting, and holy heavens, he smells good.
The last place I hugged Jude was on the other side of this door, just moments before we left for the courtroom. I was stressing out as I slipped into my heels, and Jude took my hand, pulled me in for a hug, and promised me everything was going to be all right no matter what happened.
At the time, I couldn’t have known it was possibly our last embrace. It makes this moment all the more surreal.
“You’re all flustered,” Jude says as he pulls back and searches my face. “I worried when I saw Patty filling in for you.”
He noticed that? Does that mean he watches my show?
He wipes my cheek with his thumb, encouraging me to meet his gaze.
I do, and my heart lets out a pleading, aching thud, begging for us to go back in time—anything to have Jude back in my life.
Suddenly, he lets his hand drop and takes a step back.
I look down at the distance he placed between us and sigh. Right, we’re not together. And it’s possible Jude’s dating Lisa, the charity banquet chick who probably refused to eat half the food there because it wasn’t organic enough.
I try to make peace with it. If Jude and I can mend our past, we’ll have a better future, whether we spend it together or apart.
“Want to come inside?” I ask.
Jude blows a breath into his fist and nods. “Sure.”
He follows me inside, and we take a seat in the living room, him on the loveseat and me on the sofa corner. It feels formal compared to the way I’m used to cuddling up to him, my legs tucked beneath me or draped over his while he rubs my feet.
“She actually said your line at the end,” Jude says.
My brows lift. “What’s that?”
“Patty,” he says. “She ended the way you always do—thanks for tuning in to see how the ginger snaps.” His nostrils flare in disgust.
Dang, I miss that accent.
“You’ll never believe what she did to me,” I say almost numbly. I don’t know why I want to confide in Jude after deciding to keep the tidbit to myself, but I do.
I tell him the whole story, carefully watching his face and catching all the old cues in his expression. It makes me miss him so bad that my bones ache.
“What’d Mr. Bruce say?” he asks.
“I didn’t tell him. I’m not sure it’s worth it. Marsha knows, I know…God knows,” I add with a humorless laugh.
He nods wordlessly, toying with the scarf he set on the armrest beside his coat. “Pistachio cream, eh?”
My brow furrows. That’s what he took from that conversation?
“Get your coat back on. I know where we can find some.” He’s already on his feet and shrugging into his coat. He always was more action than talk.
“Wait,” I say, feeling like I skipped a page. “What are we—”
“You want to win, don’t you?”
I blink. Grunt. Nod.
“Good. Let’s go.”