Chapter 3
CONFESSIONAL 1099
Judson, Lana (Public Relations Director: Juniper Ridge)
No, before you ask, it doesn’t bother me.
Being the last unmarried Judson kid? Please. So what if everyone’s spewing babies like they’re freakin’ Pez dispensers? I love my nieces and nephews. And I don’t have time for dating anyway. I’ve got a show to help run. A community to build. A family legacy to safeg—hang on.
[frowns at phone]
I need to take this. Yes, it’s Mom.
[still frowning]
Can we not do this right now?
* * *
I’m not sure if Dal just flirted or threatened me. Maybe both.
“Makgeolli?” I repeat. Whatever he said sounded like Macaulay, like Culkin from Home Alone.
The way I just said it sounded more like I’m choking. Judging by his wince, I didn’t come close to getting it right.
“What is—” I wave at the box in the crook of his arm—“whatever you just said?”
“Makgeolli.” His voice sounds almost musical as he hands me the box. “It’s horchata ice cream with persimmon jam and a custard fashioned from makgeolli—a sparkling Korean rice wine.”
“Ooooh.” Realization dawns as I take the box he’s handing me. “Wow! Did you make this just for me?”
“No.” He doesn’t elaborate, which is fine.
Except now I’m wondering. “Did you deliberately withhold it from me earlier?”
That makes his mouth quirk. “Not exactly.”
“Not exactly?” I look at the box. “Is this a stolen dessert?”
Dal frowns. “There’s ice cream in there. Hurry the hell up and eat it.”
“Yes, sir.” I salute him like a smartass, then hold open my door. “Thank you for the ma—for the dessert.” No sense making him wince again. “You want to come in and have some?”
Dal drags a hand through his hair and frowns. “I hate that shit.”
“Make sure you put that on the menu.” I leave the door open like I’m coaxing a stray cat. Feeling his eyes on my back, I stride to my kitchen to hunt for a spoon. Two spoons, just in case.
When I steal a glance, he’s still standing in the open doorway. “Shut it.” Might as well be blunt, since that’s his thing. “You’re letting in bugs.”
I hold my breath, hoping he won’t leave, and what do you know—he’s closing the door, now leaning against it as I drop to a chair at my dining room table and spoon his creation into my mouth.
“Oh my God.” This is amazing.
He doesn’t respond, though one edge of his mouth tugs up.
“You’re sure you don’t want some?” I’m eating so fast I’ve got freezy brain. “It’s delicious.”
He’s watching me eat like it’s a compliment, which maybe it is. For a chef, I guess a food frenzy is the finest form of flattery.
“I’m good.” He’s glued to the door like he might make a run for it. “How was your Australia call?”
“Good.” My shoulders tense, and I wonder if he sees it. “Wrapped up right as you knocked.”
My spoon scrapes the bottom of my bowl and I keep my eyes down. No sense missing any makgeolli. Or admitting the call with my mother didn’t go great.
“There’s a tabloid sniffing around.” Mom whispered the warning as I wondered where my dad was. “They’re asking some questions.”
“What kind of questions?” The burn in my gut said I already knew. “Mom?”
“I’m handling it.” Something clanged in the background, and I tried to recall if this Sydney trip was for business or pleasure. “I’m sure they’re just looking for drama.”
“Of course they are.” Her new memoir hits shelves in three weeks and I’ve helped with publicity for the release of Lemon Light. Cute, right? Sort of a play on limelight, with a hat tip to Mom’s most famous film, The House on Lemon Lane.
“Mom?” When she didn’t answer right away, I pressed. “Do you want me to?—”
“I’ve got it handled.”
“Okay.” I waited for her to say more. “Do you think it’s tied to Christie Chaplin’s memoir coming out the week after yours?”
“Maybe.” My mother’s voice turned sharp. “She was always a jealous bitch.”
Precisely the tone I worked to scrape from Mom’s memoir. I’m just glad she listened, that her editor took my input to heart. Taking the high road is kinda my jam. Why make things ugly if you don’t have to?
“Okay, well. Keep me posted.” I somehow managed to keep my voice perky. “If you want me to rattle some cages to find out what people are saying behind the scenes?—”
“I need to go.”
And that was the end of our call. I was still processing when Dal knocked.
“So.” I get up and go to the sink, rinsing the bowl to give back to him. “That was amazing. Thank you.”
His grunt could be “you’re welcome” or maybe “if you inhaled that any faster, you’d choke.” I guess it doesn’t matter. The man hasn’t moved from the doorway. Is he still deciding whether to stay?
“Can I offer you anything?”
Dal lifts an eyebrow. “Like what?”
“Uh, let’s see.” I open a cupboard at random, instantly wishing I’d picked a different one. “Ruffles chips. Shoestring potato stix. These things called finger fries that I swear aren’t made with fingers.” I glance over my shoulder to see him eyeing me warily. “I found them at the Asian market in Portland.”
Dal gives me a stone-faced stare. “You’ve got a thing for potatoes?”
“Apparently.” I shift some things around to see what’s behind the potato snacks. More potato snacks. “There’s also?—”
“I’ll pass.” There’s the faintest hint of laughter in his voice. “You really eat all that crap?”
“Don’t judge.” I try the next cupboard over. “How about peppermint tea, a brick of Godiva chocolate, or a glass of excellent Sangiovese?”
“Vineyard?”
Leave it to a chef to be picky. “It’s from Dancin’ over in Southern Oregon.”
“That.” Dal shoves off the door. “And the chocolate.” A pause as he clears his throat. “Please.”
I busy myself piling chocolate on the plate, wondering if I should stack it or spread it artfully around. I’m conscious of his eyes on my back, on the fact that he’s still hovering near the door. “Am I serving this in the foyer so you can dine and dash, or would you like to sit down on the sofa?”
He grumbles something but moves to the couch. When I carry the plate to the coffee table, I have to step around mile-long legs.
“Nice place.” He surveys my living room as I set the plate down. “Haven’t been in too many other cabins.”
“You’ve got a three-bedroom unit, right?” It’s one of our wheelchair-friendly cabins, with space for a home office. “I helped set it up before you moved in.”
He nods and takes the glass of wine I offer. “Yep.”
I know better than to ask yes or no questions. What’s something Dal might feel safe chatting about?
“Tell me about Mouse.”
There’s that lip quirk again. “You mean my secret garden lover?”
“Shut up.” I smile like a great big dork. “You’ve gotta admit, it sounded like something else.”
“Maybe if you have a dirty mind.” He sets down his glass and watches with eyes so deep brown they’re nearly black. “I’d expect nothing less from a woman with your mug collection.”
He’s noticed my mugs? “Which one is your favorite?”
“Tough call.” He picks a piece of chocolate off the plate. “It’s a toss-up between ‘It’s too early for you to say things,’ and ‘Eat a bag of dicks.’”
“For the record, I don’t take the dirty ones in public.” Much. He must’ve seen it somewhere. “My favorite never leaves this house.”
Dal looks intrigued. “What does it say?”
My mistake for bringing this up. “‘Hotter than a blistered dick in a wool sock.’” I shrug when he gives me the side-eye. “It’s insulated. Keeps the coffee extra hot.”
“Huh.” He picks up his glass for a slow sip of wine. “Mouse came from Korea.”
“Oh.” I’d already moved on, assuming he wouldn’t answer my question. “Is she some kind of special breed?”
He laughs, but not with much humor. “She came from a meat farm.”
“A meat—oh.” Yikes. “You mean Mouse was bred to be…” I trail off, not entirely sure what dish might include dog meat.
“The South Korean government passed a law not long ago to phase out dog meat, but it’s still a thing.” His dark eyes look troubled, which stirs something in my chest. “I was there seeing family, but got roped into a chef FAM.”
He’s speaking my language. FAM—short for familiarization tour—is a tool used by tourism PR folks to acquaint journalists with a destination. Or chefs, if it’s a culinary FAM. “They took you to a dog meat farm?”
“I wasn’t aware it was happening.” The growl in his voice pricks the hairs on my arms. “It was a small farm. Only a couple dozen dogs in cages and—” His voice trails off and I watch his throat move as he swallows.
“What did you do?”
He shrugs and looks away. “I reached out to an animal rescue group in Jersey. A pal of mine runs it. We got all the dogs out of there.”
“And you got Mouse.” I’d like to hear the rest of the story. “How long ago?”
“Six years.” He breaks off a piece of chocolate and slips it into his mouth. He doesn’t chew, so I’m left imagining it melting on his tongue, the heat of his mouth, the pooling of liquid as he?—
“It was our last time visiting Korea.”
“You grew up in Seoul?” I’m not a stalker. I read his application for Fresh Start at Juniper Ridge, same as I did everyone else’s.
“That’s right.” He doesn’t say more, and I’m sure that’s the end of it. “Our mother was born in Boston and Dad was raised in Seoul,” he continues, shocking the hell out of me. “After the accident, after a few years of hospitals and rehab—” He stops there, frowning into his wineglass like he’s not sure why he just shared all that.
After a long silence, I try a gentle nudge. “You and your brother moved to New York.”
“That’s right.” He looks up and nods. “We’ve got dual citizenship, so we both went to college there. We still visit Korea sometimes, but it’s been a while.”
I won’t claim to know all his family details. I’m not that much of a stalker. But I can tell we’re treading close to sore spots. I know he was twelve when both parents died in a car wreck. The same accident that left Ji-Hoon paralyzed from the waist down.
“So, Mouse.” This feels like a safe subject, so I’m glad when Dal’s shoulders relax. “Is she like a therapy dog, or just a pet?”
“Just a pet.” One edge of his mouth quirks. “Don’t tell Ji-Hoon I said that. He bought her a vest that says ‘special assistant.’ I guess he figures he’s not technically lying if he doesn’t claim she’s providing a medical service.”
“My lips are sealed.” Like I’d rat out Dal’s brother. “I guess no one questions the guy in a wheelchair who wants to bring his dog into a movie theater.”
“Yep.” He picks up his wine, dark eyes searching mine over the rim of his glass. “How about you?”
“What about me?”
“What’s your sad story?”
“Why do you think I have a sad story?” There’s a sharp sting in my palm and I look down to see my nails digging in. Uncurling my fingers, I force a smile. “I’m living a charmed life.”
Dal snorts and sets down his glass. “Somehow, I doubt that.”
What the hell? “I’m happy, healthy, clothed and well-fed.” I try for a quick bit of levity. “I’ve got plenty of potato snacks in my cupboard.”
“Everyone’s got a sad story.” Dal cocks his head, considering me. “Especially someone who works so hard to be perky.”
“It’s not work.” That’s the God’s honest truth. “Most of the time, anyway.”
There’s that brow lift again. “And the rest of the time?”
I shrug and sip my wine. “We’ve all got our jobs to do.”
He studies me without speaking and I’m suddenly self-conscious. I don’t typically entertain guests while wearing sleep shorts and a tank top covered in tiny lip prints. I spot my favorite hoodie on the arm of the couch and start to pull it on.
“Cold?”
I pause with one arm in a sleeve. “I’m not exactly dressed for company.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
My nipples peak at the rumble of his voice. Dal’s eyes don’t drop. He keeps watching my face, peering deep in my eyes. My body’s given me an easy out. All I have to do is point to my boobs, give a soft little scoff like, “duh.” He’ll be thrown off his game, and I’ll be off the hook.
“No,” I say instead. “I’m not cold.”
“Then leave it off.”
Why is his bossy thing so hot? My arm’s still wedged in the sleeve. My heart’s lodged in my throat. I feel hot and prickly and more than a little turned on.
I lick my lips. “Have you always been so blunt?”
“No.”
“What changed?”
He holds my gaze, not blinking at all. “My brother got paralyzed.”
“I’m sorry.” I tug off the sweatshirt, tucking it carefully beside me. “That must have been hard.”
His jaw clenches. “I spent months hearing doctors talk in circles. So much jargon and medical-speak. Everyone talking in innuendo or whispered speculation.” A muscle ticks in his jaw. “It’s fucking insulting.”
“I see.” It does make sense. “Maybe I’m the opposite.”
“How do you mean?”
He sounds truly intrigued, so I give it some thought before answering. “I’m the youngest of six kids.” I’m guessing he knows this. “I grew up going to grocery stores with my family and seeing?—”
“Your parents did their own grocery shopping?” His incredulous tone should annoy me, but he’s right.
“The nanny took us sometimes.” The maid did the shopping, but not always. “Mostly for popsicles or special treats when we’d been good.” I’m getting off track here. “Every time we’d get in line, I’d read the headlines. The stuff all the tabloids wrote about us?”
“Yeah,” he says softly, and I realize maybe he does know. Even I’m familiar with Yang’s Spicy Sauce Blends. With the public profile Dal’s family had at the time of the accident.
“Right, well.” I clear my throat. “They’d write about our mother’s movie comeback or Dad’s new jet. Harmless stuff like that, sometimes.” Other times, not so much. “They got mean, too. Like when Dean hit puberty and got photographed with a pimple—you’d think he’d killed a kitten in the street. Or when Lauren started dating, they’d follow her.”
Dal’s brow furrows. “She was how old?”
“Fourteen.” Too young to be dating, but we Judsons grew up fast. “They’d chase Cooper down the street, commanding him to smile. This was before he starred in anything. He wasn’t even a child actor yet.”
“That’s sounds…gross.”
“That’s one way to put it.” Scary is another. Embarrassing is another. “As the baby of a family, you don’t get many chances to play the family protector, you know?”
Dal gives a tight nod. “Being younger than Ji-Hoon—” He stops, throat rolling as he looks away. “Yeah. It’s tough when you want to be the fucking family hero, but you’re just a dumb kid.”
Wow. I blink in case I’ve heard wrong, but no. Dal gets it. I never considered that. “How did you?—”
“Tell me how you handled it.” His gaze snaps back to mine, his command not one I feel free to ignore. “How did little Lana Judson get to step up for Clan Judson?”
I can’t tell if he’s mocking me, but I don’t think so. He’s asking for real. Like he’s wanting to know me.
Like a pathetic little girl, I want to be known. Taking a slug of wine, I lay it all out there. “We were at an event. A movie premiere, I think.” It’s been decades, but I still remember my sparkly dress. The glare of the spotlight as Mom clutched my hand. “Some scandal had just come out. A conflict Dad had on a movie set.”
An affair, actually, but that’s irrelevant to the story.
“How old were you?”
“Six.” But I remember like yesterday. “The paparazzi’s off to the side snapping pictures and shouting stuff. ‘Hey, Laurence, what can you tell us about the allegations?’ Or ‘Laurence, is it true what your producer told Vanity Fair?’ I could feel Mom getting tense. My brothers and sisters kept looking at each other. Dean’s getting mad, and so is Lauren. Gabe and Cooper keep awkwardly cracking jokes, and Mari’s just trying to hide behind our dad, who’s getting more and more flustered.”
In hindsight, Dad must’ve thought the vultures would leave him alone with his family in tow. He thought wrong.
Dal’s watching me, wordless, but paying attention. I can tell by how his eyes hold mine, how his body leans in like he wants to hear every word. “What did you do?”
Because he knows I did something. It’s my origin story, right? “I was taking ballet at the time.” Mostly for the tutu, and only because I begged. “By then I’d learned that when little girls dance, everyone smiles and shuts up. There’s no yelling, no fighting, no awkward questions. It’s just…joy.”
“Joy.” It rolls off his tongue like an unknown word. “Okay.”
“You know where the story’s going.” Because of course I busted out my best dance moves. “I’m twirling and pirouetting my little heart out on that red carpet. I’ve never danced so hard in my life.”
“And your family?”
“Mom and Dad stood there for a second, mugging for the cameras. Then they used the distraction to slip inside.” Kind of a dick parenting move, in hindsight. “My siblings hung back with the nanny, everyone watching and clapping and forgetting all the mean things they’d said.”
I might’ve danced all night if Dean hadn’t dragged me off the red carpet.
“Wow.” Dal stares with a look I can’t read. “That’s one way to do it.”
The judgment in his voice makes me prickle. “You’ve got a better way?”
“You were six. You did your best.”
I fold my arms, staring him down. “How do you think your way would play out, exactly?”
“My way?”
“Being blunt.” An asshole, I mean, and I think he hears it. That’s not an insult in Dal’s world. “If Dad had turned around and told that reporter to stuff it. If Dean did, or Lauren—how do you think that would have gone?”
He opens his mouth, but I cut him off. This is my story to tell. “They’d slaughter us in the media. They’d call Dean a spoiled brat, or Lauren a little bitch.” We heard worse, more times than I could count. “Dad already had a rep for being difficult. He’d had trouble lining up investors on his last project. You know what happened that night?”
“What?” He’s back to being rapt.
“All the TV networks ran the same clip. My father beaming, holding Mom’s hand, while their little girl danced, and their other five kids stood clapping.” That smiling photo—plus a dozen more like it—graced magazine covers for weeks. “So yes, Dal—I realized then I had a role to play. A job to do for my family.”
“Jesus.” He sets down his wine and stares. “I don’t know whether to shake you or hug you or bake you au gratin potatoes with Gruyére and bacon.”
“Those are my options?”
His mouth quirks. “You had something else in mind?”
Do I say it? “I’d take that belly rub.”
He laughs and the tension breaks. Or not.
Because he’s watching me now, like he’s stroking his hand down my stomach. His fingers twitch as his eyes skirt the two-inch gap between the top of my shorts and the hem of my tank. Dal doesn’t speak. He might not be breathing. The room’s only sound is the tick of the clock on my mantle. A family heirloom, a gift from my mom that terrible day, when I learned the truth that changed the course of my life.
“Lana.” Dal clears his throat. “I should go.”
“Okay.” Neither of us moves.
I glance at his glass and see he’s emptied his wine. “Want a refill?”
“No.”
“More chocolate?”
His dark eyes drag down my legs. “No.”
“Finger fries?”
He doesn’t smile. Just stares with those inky-dark eyes. “No,” he says softly, slowly. “That’s not what I want.”
I lick my lips and his eyes trail my mouth. “What do you want?”
The same thing I want, apparently.
As Dal grabs my waist, I let myself land on his lap. Let my legs fall apart, so I’m straddling him here on my couch. My hair falls over my face and Dal brushes it back, eyes locked with mine. “Tell me if you don’t want this.”
“Do I look like I don’t want this?”
He doesn’t answer. Not with words. His mouth claims mine, and it’s not gentle. He’s rough and possessive, heat searing my core as his tongue finds mine.
I groan and grab the hair at the nape of his neck. He’s kissing me deep, big hands rolling down my back to cup my ass. I arch against him, pretty sure that’s not a pepper grinder in his pants. How did we get here?
I don’t want it to stop, and neither does Dal. He’s laying me back on the couch, big body covering mine as my legs wrap around him. It’s too fast and not fast enough. I’m dizzy and dying to get my hands on his chest. I claw at his shirt like I might just rip it off his body.
“Don’t stop,” I whimper when he breaks the kiss.
“I’m not.” He tugs off his shirt and I help because goddamn—I need to touch him.
His dark pecs gleam in the light from my lamp. I trace the lines of muscle with my eyes. “You should be shirtless all the time.”
He smiles against my mouth. “The restaurant health inspectors might have something to say about that.”
“Pity.” I let my hand trail the ink on his pec. I noticed it earlier, deep red chilis twined with Asian characters. I can’t read Korean and I’m not even sure that’s what this is, but it’s beautiful. Beautiful and…hard. Smooth. Deliciously touchable and?—
Dal looks down and his jaw hardens. When he closes his eyes, I know I’ve lost him.
Dammit.
“Dal?”
He opens his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“For kissing me?” I know that’s not the reason. “Or for running away like you’re going to?”
“I’m not running.”
I search his eyes, wondering what’s racing through his mind. “We’re all running.”
Dal doesn’t argue. Just tips his head down and kisses me soft and sweet. Regret’s in his eyes as he draws back. He gets up slowly, pulling me with him.
As he straightens my top, I hand him his shirt from the back of the couch. “You really should be shirtless all the time. I already regret giving you this.”
He takes the tee and pulls it on. “I regret a lot of things.”
I don’t ask what they are. I don’t probe and I don’t push. That’s not how this works. Some stones are better left unturned.
But as I walk him to the door, I can’t help wondering.
With my hand on the doorknob, I bite my lip. “If I hadn’t touched your tattoo?—”
“That’s not it.” He doesn’t tell me what it is. “I have to go.”
“Okay.”
Dark eyes flash as his eyes hold mine. “I can’t—” He stops himself and rubs a hand down his face. “It’s not a good idea.”
Now’s not the right time to pursue. To make my case for why touching each other is a fucking fantastic idea. I know human nature enough to grasp that chasing Dal will just make him run quicker. “I understand.”
I don’t, though.
Maybe Dal doesn’t either, since he’s frozen in place, looking unsure if he should stay or go. With a ragged breath, he squeezes his eyes shut. “Good night, Lana.”
“Good night.” I kiss him this time, arching on tiptoe to reach. It’s a sweet kiss. A goodbye kiss that lands an inch to the left of his mouth.
But when Dal draws back, it’s not goodbye in his eyes.
“I’ll see you around.” He goes out the door, the cool breeze stirring my nipples again.
He doesn’t look back as I cross my arms to cover my chest. As I cover what’s stirring inside me.