“It is,” he says, taking the spot next to me. “A million-dollar view reserved only for the fortunate few.”
The tiniest hint of resentment lies in his tone, and he shakes his head as he stares out the window.
“We’re lucky,” I say. “That’s for sure. We didn’t have views like this back in West Virginia.”
I wait for him to ask me something personal, but a question never comes. And actually, this entire night he’s yet to divert a single conversation into a “getting to know you” session. It’s like he’s actually respecting my “this is not a date” stance.
Exhaling, I fight a smirk before hiding it in my wine glass. I don’t even think I could find something to dislike about him if I tried. He’s polite, professional, and charming, and I’m one hundred percent at ease with him.
But I can’t help thinking about that old cliché my mother used to say all the time. “If it seems too good to be true, it probably is.”
Jude is absolutely too good to be true.
And maybe that’s the thing I should dislike about him?
No one is this perfect, this flawless. No one’s this kind and this genuine and this easy to be around and ridiculously attractive on top of it all.
Feeling the heaviness of his stare, I turn and glance up at him.
“What?” I ask, not knowing how long he’d been watching me. It’s been a long time since anyone looked at me like that—studying me like I’m some fascinating creature, drinking me in like I’m a sight to see. “What are you thinking about right now?”
He smirks. “Nothing.”
Rolling my eyes, I bump my elbow into his arm. “Right. So you’re staring at me and thinking absolutely nothing.”
“People can do that, you know,” he says. “Just like they can throw coins in a fountain for no reason at all.”
“Touché. Seriously though, I can’t leave here tonight without an answer,” I tease, knowing full well it doesn’t matter what he was thinking, but my curiosity is going to keep me awake at night if I don’t find out.
“You’re leaving?” he asks, head jutting back as if I’ve just shocked him.
“Our business dinner’s over.”
“Yeah, but I still have half a bottle of very nice wine over there. If you leave, I’m going to have to finish it myself and that’s kind of sad, don’t you think?”
I raise my left hand. “I’m not one to judge, so no. I don’t think that’s sad. You bought the wine and you should enjoy the hell out of it guilt free.”
Jude inhales, lifting his hand to the back of his neck as he pivots to glance out the window. There’s almost this nervous energy about him, one that wasn’t there before, like he can’t stand still, and I get the impression there’s something more he wants to say.
“I should go,” I say, placing my hand on his shoulder. “Thank you so much for tonight. I’ll keep you posted on everything. And feel free to send me a bill for your time.”
His brows furrow. I think I’ve insulted him, but I don’t want him to think I’m entitled or that I’m assuming his advice came free of charge after he arranged for this incredible dinner.
“Love …” he says my name as his eyes fall to my mouth for a short second, but long enough for me to notice.
The sails are shifting, the wind blowing us in a different direction, and this is where I jump ship.
“Goodnight, Jude,” I say, placing my empty stemware on his counter before grabbing my clutch. “Thanks again for your help.”
With that, I duck out of there before he has a chance to try to kiss me.
And before I have a chance to let him.
Chapter Eight
Jude
I change out of my bougie clothes, pour the hundred-dollar bottle of wine down the sink in the butler’s pantry, and cap off the night with a cold beer and some sports highlights.
Tonight was intense at times, but I think I managed to pull it off. I had no fucking clue what a “strategic business consultant” even did, but an hour before I went to get her, I did enough internet research that I got the gist of it.
She seemed to buy it.
That said, while I wasn’t busy being a deceptive bastard, I actually enjoyed my evening with her. The food was perfection and the view was amazing (and I’m not just talking about the cityscape outside my window). There were times I almost forgot that this wasn’t real, times I caught myself wondering what it might be like to taste those rosebud lips and bury my fingers in that soft, sunshine-blonde hair.
Taking a swig of beer, I place it on a coaster and massage my temple.
I almost kissed her tonight. At first, I was on the fence, wondering if the timing would seem random, but we were standing there, the mood was set, her voice was soft, and her eyes were sparkling. It was all but a written invitation to make a move, but as soon as she so much as picked up on what I was about to do, she bolted.
I’m not sure how the hell I’m going to take us from this to walking down the aisle in a little under six months or why the hell Hunter thought that was even a possibility. He made it sound like this was going to be a cakewalk, that she was lonesome and eager and she’d practically jump into my arms like a rescue dog begging for someone to love them.
It’s almost like he set me up to fail by placing an impossible task in my hands.
Or maybe he doesn’t know his former wife as well as he thought. Maybe he had her all wrong? There’s also a chance the divorce changed her in a way that Hunter never anticipated or isn’t aware of.
Either way, I like a challenge, but I may have bitten off more than I can chew with this arrangement. Threats and dollar signs will do that to a broke and desperate man.
Finishing my beer, I carry it to the sink and give it a rinse before tossing it in the recycling bin. Everything here is so proper, so organized, completely opposite of my place in Brooklyn where you can’t go more than two steps without stepping over Cabbage Patch babies and toddler-friendly Lego pieces, where the trash is always overflowing and we don’t even own a recycling bin because there’s no room for one in our microscopic kitchenette.
But still, there’s a part of me that won’t let myself enjoy this.
I don’t deserve to.
Making my way down the hall, I stop when I hear the soft pats of a late night knock at my door. Turning back, I head for the door, glancing out the spyhole. The corners of my mouth curl up when I see Love standing there.
She came back …
I smirk.
“This is unexpected,” I say when I greet her a second later.
Love’s eyes lock onto mine and her tongue traces her lower lip before she begins to say something, but I don’t give her a chance to speak before pulling her in and closing the door. I’m being forward as hell and I know it, but I’ve got to seize this moment before it’s gone for good because God only knows when I’m going to have another opportunity to make a move.
“Jude …” my name is a breath on her lips, the very ones I’m about to claim.
Sliding my hand along the side of her soft jaw, I lower my mouth to hers, bracing her against the door as her body melts against mine. She exhales, the scent of wine filling the space around us, and I taste tonight’s wine on her pillowed lips before our tongues collide.
I knew it.
I knew she wanted this.
Confident in my choice, I kiss her harder, my fingers buried in her soft hair and free hand curling behind her hip, pressing her body tight against mine.
“Jude …” she says my name once more, coming up for air. Her mouth is pink, her chest rising and falling in quick little spurts, and her eyes search mine. “I … I forgot my phone.”
Fuck. Me.
Backing away and feeling like a jackass, I lift my hands into a wordless apology.
Heading toward the table in my entry, she locates her phone, lifting it to show me as she offers a gracious smile. “It must have fallen out of my bag.”
“I, uh … wow. Um. I’m so so
rry, Love,” I say, massaging the back of my neck, head tucked. “Guess I was excited to see you and got a little ahead of myself.”
Rubbing her lips together, she winks. “I’ll let it slide … but just this once.”
Turning, she shows herself out.
And I stand here alone, reveling in the fact that she kissed me back.
Love kissed me back.
And if that isn’t a sign of what’s to come, I don’t know what is.
Chapter Nine
Love
No one has ever kissed me like that.
Not Jared Kepner in the seventh grade.
Not my high school boyfriend, Robbie Smart.
Not my ex or anyone in between.
Pacing my apartment with Jude’s taste on my tongue, I try my damnedest to ignore the 100 mile-per-hour beat of my heart and the electric charges igniting every nerve ending in my body.
It was just a kiss.
I’m a single woman.
I’m a free woman.
I’m allowed to have fun.
This doesn’t mean we’re dating.
And most importantly, this doesn’t mean we’re going to date.
Even if I was in a place where I was ready to get back out there, Jude is exactly the kind of guy I don’t need. In all his glorious perfection, he’s got heartbreak written all over. I see it on that chiseled, flawless face of his and etched in those dusty green irises I lose myself in when I’m not being careful.
Plus, there’s something about him that reminds me of my ex. The clothes? The cologne? The confidence? At least their personalities are different. Jude charms and disarms. Hunter never had that innate charisma, only the ability to fake it.
With wine-flooded veins and my body still reeling from that toe-curling, electrifying kiss, I close my eyes, lift my fingers to my lips, and trace the warmth that still lingers as I accept one simple, inarguable truth: there’s nothing wrong with kissing insanely hot men for the thrill of it.
And who knows? I might even do it again sometime.
Chapter Ten
Jude
The elevator doors part the next morning, and I take a step forward just as Love takes a step out.
“Oh, hey,” she says, almost brushing against me.
I let the elevator go. I’ll catch the next one.
“Hey.” I smile and act natural despite the fact that she seems to be having a hard time maintaining eye contact with me. We kissed for a hot minute last night. There’s no need for this to be awkward.
“Heading out?” she asks. There’s a rosy flush to her cheeks and her sunny hair is piled high on top of her head. A thin gray sweatshirt with a gaping neck hangs over her willowy shoulders, revealing the black and neon yellow straps of a sports bra and workout top beneath.
“Dry cleaner’s.” I nod toward the hangered clothes I’ve flung over my back. Can’t remember the last time I owned any clothes that required professional cleaning, but this is apparently who I am now. “You?”
“Just got back from spin class,” she says. “Hey, I’m going to Brooklyn in a couple hours to check out this space I’m thinking of leasing for Agenda W.”
“Brooklyn?” I ask.
She nods.
“You need a second opinion on the location? I’m pretty familiar. Spend a lot of time there with Lo and the girls.”
Her teeth rake across her bottom lip as her brows knit. “Really? You don’t have to do that. I’m sure you’ve got better things to do.”
“Nah, I don’t mind.”
Love’s head tilts to the side. “I’d feel bad. Seriously. My Realtor will be there and—”
“Love,” I say, cutting her off. “It’s never a bad thing to get a second opinion, and that’s my professional opinion.” Checking my watch, I pause for a moment. I don’t want to seem like I’m constantly available and I don’t want to jump at every opportunity to be with her—which I’m epically failing at thus far. Coming on too strong, too fast could be too much, and once you cross that line, there’s no going back. “I’ve got a conference call in an hour, but I can move a few things around this afternoon.”
I sound like such a fucking douche.
And then I remember: I am a fucking douche.
Love offers a gentle smile, her gaze softening and her shoulders relaxing. “You sure?”
Nodding, I smile back. “Of course.”
“Perfect. Meet you back here around two?”
* * *
“This is it.” Love hooks her hand into my elbow and pulls me to the middle of an old bread factory-turned-office space just off Neptune Avenue.
The space is wide open, brick walls and brand new black-trimmed windows with the Pella stickers still on. The floors are concrete and the space has a modern coffee-shop vibe going on.
“I was expecting more of a community center type of feel or like a church basement vibe,” I say, “but this is nice.”
“See, that’s where I’m taking things in a different direction. When women come to Agenda W, I want them to want to be here, to not feel like a charity case. Some of those places are so depressing, you know? And I want people to leave here feeling good about themselves because that’s ultimately what’s going to determine what happens after that.”
Love talks with her hands, her golden eyes lit from within as she paces the expansive layout. The soles of her ballet shoes tap and echo and her real estate agent stands back, quietly composing an email on her phone while we take a look around.
“Over here,” she says. “There are eight office suites, a conference room which we’ll probably use for childcare, a fully renovated restroom, and a breakroom with a kitchenette.” Love takes a few steps before turning back to me. “You said your sister lives in Brooklyn, right?”
“She does. My nieces too.”
“So you’re pretty familiar with the area.”
“Very.”
“So what are your thoughts on the location, then?” she asks, glancing toward the windows where pockets of people amble down the sidewalk.
“It’s perfect, actually,” I say. “There’s a YWCA down the street, which would be good for referrals and partnerships. And you’ve got public transit stops right outside here so there’s your easy access. There’s a really good deli on the corner. Line’s out the door during the lunch hour so there’s some good PR. People will see your sign and start talking. Everyone loves when something new comes around. I can ask Lo what she thinks about the location too, but I’m pretty sure she’ll agree.”
“How do you know that much about Brooklyn if you only come here to visit family?” She squints, head slightly tilted.
“I might have lived here once.” I wink to keep things light.
“Recently?”
I nod.
“Why’d you move to The Jasper?” she asks.
“My business took off and most of my clients are in Manhattan, so it just made sense,” I say so easily, so naturally, it scares me.
“Ah,” Love says, taking slow steps as she examines the space around us once more. She doesn’t question it, doesn’t prod, and why would she? I’ve fed her nothing but lies from the moment we met.
“So what do we think?” The real estate agent slides her phone into her bag and struts our way in sky high heels that match her power suit and clack against the hard floor. I think I’ve seen her face on a park bench before.
Love turns to me, her mouth spreading into a wide grin. I nod, giving my silent approval, and she claps her hands together.
“I think I’ll take it,” she says, exhaling as her sparkling golden gaze snaps onto mine. “It’s perfect.”
“All right, let’s all head back to my office,” the agent says, strutting toward the door like we haven’t got a minute to spare. “I’ll just call my assistant and tell her to draw up the lease.”
“You don’t have to come with me,” Love says, voice low as she leans close. “I don’t want to take up any more of your time.”
I check my w
atch, this one a leather-banded Burberry with a glare-resistant crystal that makes my trusty, waterproof Timex look like a child’s toy, and press my lips flat as I pretend to contemplate my next move.
“Yeah. I’ve got a few things to wrap up this afternoon. And that conference call.” I slide my hand in my pocket and glance at her. Love’s enthusiasm radiates. I see it in her inability to stop smiling and the bounce in her step when she walks. I’m happy for her, and it’s not bullshit happiness. It’s genuine happiness because she’s doing good things here.
“Thanks again for your help,” she says. Rising on her toes, she leans in and air-kisses the side of my cheek—a complete 180 from last night.
Fuck. I think she just friend-zoned me.
Oh, how the mighty have fallen.
Chapter Eleven
Love
“Surprise!” My older sister, Cameo, stands at my door, her Chanel bag swinging from her left shoulder as her arms open wide.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, meeting her embrace and coming away covered in her abundant gardenia perfume. “And how did you know my new address?”
Cameo brushes her thick blonde hair from her shoulder and strides past me, placing her bag on my kitchen counter and taking a seat.
“Mom told me, silly,” she says. “Anyway, the doctor and I are in town. He’s got some kind of medical conference or something. We’re flying home tomorrow, but I told him I wanted to spend the day with you.”
“How is the doctor?” I ask, fighting a smile. I want to laugh every time she calls him that. He’s a neurosurgeon back in Charleston, and Cameo takes every opportunity to remind us of that.
“Oh, you know, just doing his thing, saving lives one brain surgery at a time,” she says, swatting her manicured hand. “Anyway, how goes it?”
Cameo rests her pointed chin on the top of her dainty hands, giving me her full attention. If I know my sister—and I do—she’s hoping, maybe even praying, that I tell her I’m falling apart, that being a divorcee before the age of thirty is embarrassing, that losing Hunter has been the worst thing to ever happen to me.
War and Love Page 5