Total pages in book: 244
Estimated words: 236705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1184(@200wpm)___ 947(@250wpm)___ 789(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 236705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1184(@200wpm)___ 947(@250wpm)___ 789(@300wpm)
If he’d trusted me, we could have stayed together. And then maybe I’d have finished my eleventh book. I could have penned a sentence beyond I’ve been having a recurring dirty daydream.
Jude’s the reason I haven’t written a decent word about love or longing in ages. He took that part of me, and I want it back.
I stab the buzzer again, letting it bray for ten long seconds. When Jude bounds down the steps of the walkup, looking like a magazine shoot in a forest-green Henley, it pisses me off that I’m still so attracted to him.
I bang my fist against the wooden door.
He makes a shushing move with his finger, then waves at the stairwell.
When he jerks the door open, he sears me with a stare. “Hello, honey. So good to see you.”
I thrust the cup at him. “I got you a tea,” I mutter as he exits the building and the door slams behind him.
“Thanks,” he says, then takes a drink—
And flinches, spitting tea all over the steps and crushing the cup in his hand, splashing Earl Grey down my chest.
It’s hot as hell, and I jump back right as he shouts, “It’s fucking five hundred degrees!”
No kidding. Wincing, I tug at my scalding, wet shirt. “Try six hundred.”
“I burned my tongue off.” He stares at the splash across my chest. His eyes widen with guilt. “Oh, fuck me, TJ. Did that hurt you? I’m terribly sorry.”
He sounds so contrite. It’s borderline adorable, especially since it’s so very British. It takes away the remains of the burn. “It’s possible I’m skinless now,” I say, even though I’m not hurt. The tea was just surprisingly hot, not deadly or damaging.
As he gawks at my shirt, I give in to the humor of the situation.
“What’s so funny?” he asks.
“Your reaction,” I snicker. “It’s a little over-the-top.”
“Well, you’re more than a little wet,” he says, indignant.
A glance down at my shirt tells me I’m a lot wet. “This’ll irritate Slade too. He’ll probably be like no fake boyfriends in my care have ever spilled tea on a shirt before.”
Jude screws up the corner of his lips, his mind whirring. “You should change.”
“Nah, I’ll be fine. Slade will be more pissed if I have to go home to get a new shirt. I’m from Seattle. We’re used to being wet.”
Jude scoffs. “Don’t be silly. Come inside. I have something for you.”
“A shirt?”
“Sort of,” he says, grabbing his phone. “I’ll text Daddy.”
I laugh harder. “Better you than me. Do you have any idea how displeased Pops is with us today? And I’m trying to figure out why.”
“Me too. Something clearly went tits up—I just don’t have a clue what that is,” Jude says as he taps out a message, then unlocks the door to his building.
As we head up the stairs, I point out the obvious. “You know we’re not the same size. I can’t wear your clothes.”
“I’m well aware.” It comes out a little flirty as if Jude still enjoys the few inches I have on him in breadth and height.
I wish I didn’t like the flirt in his voice.
I should focus on practical matters, like what we did wrong last night, but I table them as I follow him up the stairs because all I can think is I’m about to see Jude’s home.
Anticipation thrums through me.
Have his tastes changed since I lived with him?
When he unlocks the white door on the second floor and pushes it open, I feel a little like I’ve gained entrance to a secret land. His apartment is bursting with color. An emerald-green couch commands the center of the small living room. Soft yellow pillows line the cushions.
The Jude I knew way back when would have wanted this place for Jude today, and everything feels right in the universe. A bay window invites sunshine. Plants by the window drink up the morning rays. A silvery, mirrored armoire hugs the living room wall. A few dozen books line the top of it in a makeshift bookshelf.
I walk over to them, transfixed. His copy of Murder on the Orient Express has earned a spot here, along with more Agatha Christies and some Raymond Chandlers. Did I influence his taste? I’m tempted to comment on his penchant for mysteries, but I don’t want him to bring me back to reality by saying I had nothing to do with it. I’ll just take private credit for this reading addiction. The mysteries sit next to a few books in the Hidden Gems travel series—one for New York, Paris, and Amsterdam.
I slip back in time to the deck of his Airbnb—when Jude heard me talking to Mason about a book expo in Amsterdam, then asked if I was going. I’d wanted to invite him to join me. Hell, I’d planned on it.
Does he have this book because he visited the Dutch city in the last year? Did he stop there with William on the rocker’s recent European tour? The book looks newish, but it isn’t well-worn, giving me no indication if he went to Amsterdam with him.