War and Love

by Winter Renshaw

  Waiting for my feet to hit the ground, I gently push him away. “That was all you, Daddy Long Legs.”

  “You almost had me a couple of times.” He dabs his bunched-up t-shirt against his sweat-laced brow.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” I rest my hands on my hips, trying to steady my breathing. “Head back now?”

  Jude nods, and we make our way home to The Jasper quietly taking in the sunshine, the chirping robins, the rustling leaves, the gossiping nannies, the selfie-snapping sightseers, and the giggling children.

  When we reach the lobby of our building, we wait for the elevator side by side, our hands so close they’re almost touching. The doors part and we climb inside. I let Jude press button number seven.

  “We should do that again some—” my comment is silenced with a kiss. One that comes out of nowhere. One that makes my stomach roll and my body weightless as the elevator lifts us higher.

  He’s backed me into a corner, my hands braced against the carpeted walls as my knees weaken.

  His hands graze my jaw, his fingers tangling in the sweaty hair at the nape of my neck, and before I can protest, he kisses me harder. His lips taste of sin and salt. Lifting my hand to his hardened chest, I accept the dance of our tongues and I embrace the thrill of this moment—of being kissed by Jude Warner, who had to have me so badly he didn’t care that I’m covered in sweat and my hair’s a mess and there isn’t an ounce of makeup on my ruddy, wind-kissed face.

  I think he likes me.

  And he likes me just the way I am.

  The elevator doors open and the kiss comes to a gentle end as our eyes connect. Jude takes me by the hand, leading me toward our shared hallway.

  We stop outside our respective doors, only this time we’re not alone. The lady from the apartment next to mine steps out, squinting in our direction with a wrinkled stare. Even as she shuffles toward the elevator, her gaze is fixed on us. Whether she’s nosy or entertained, I can’t tell, but her heavy presence has served as a bucket of water on our fire.

  “Give me your phone,” Jude says.

  “What?”

  His palm flattens, inching toward me, and I retrieve my phone from the zipper pouch on the back of my leggings, handing it over. A moment later, he’s programming his number into my contacts.

  “There,” he says, eyes smiling. “Now you can text me whenever you want to run again. Or, you know, whenever you want.”

  “You’d be so lucky.”

  He laughs through his nose. “You’re right. I would.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Jude

  My phone rests lifeless on my nightstand.

  I gave Love my number yesterday after our run—or at least the number to the phone Hunter gave me, but she’s yet to reach out. Every time I pass the window in the living room, I stop for a moment to watch the courtyard outside the main entrance, checking to see if Love happens to be coming or going.

  I don’t know what the hell she’s up to today, where she is or who she’s with or what she’s thinking or if she’s even remotely thinking about me … and it’s making me want her.

  Really want her.

  Not that it’d be hard to want her. She’s fucking gorgeous. Kind. Fun. Great sense of humor. Doesn’t take herself too seriously.

  Jesus H. Christ.

  I’m cataloging all of her qualities like this isn’t all a giant, fucked-up ruse.

  Grabbing my phone, I pull up a browser and do a little research on not-for-profit startups. I want to give her better advice, not that bullshit pull-an-answer-out-of-my-ass crap I gave her the other day.

  From what I’ve gathered so far, it looks like she needs to draft bylaws and appoint directors. She’ll need to hold a meeting of the board as well.

  I click on another link to dig a little deeper into what kind of bylaws she might need for this place, only my screen turns black and Lo’s name flashes across.

  “What’s up?” I answer, lying back against my pillow and tucking my left hand behind my neck. The state-of-the-art polished silver ceiling fan above me whirs, all of the blades blurring into one.

  “Just checking in,” she says with the permanent exhaustion of a young, single mother inscribed in her voice.

  “Going well. Gave her my number today,” I say. “Kissed her too. Since you’re asking.”

  “Do you like her?”

  “What kind of question is that?” I chuff.

  “So that’s a yes,” Lo states, doesn’t ask.

  “Whether or not I like her has nothing to do with how this is going.”

  “It has everything to do with it,” Lo says.

  “She’s cool. Yeah.” My eyes squeeze shut and I massage my temples. It’s way too fucking late for this kind of conversation.

  “You like her.”

  “And you know that how? Because I said she’s cool?”

  “You’re holding back,” she says. “A lot. You do that when you’ve got your guard up. And you only put your guard up when you’re afraid of feeling something.”

  “How the hell are you only twenty-five?”

  “You might be falling for her, Jude,” Lo says, ignoring my question, “but she’s falling for someone who doesn’t exist. And once it’s over, once she realizes what you did, there’ll be no convincing her to take you back ever. Unless she’s crazy. And in that case, maybe the two of you deserve each other.”

  Exhaling into the phone, I say, “Spare me the lectures for five seconds, please. They’re getting really fucking old.”

  “You’re getting defensive. You swear a lot when you’re defensive. And you’re defensive because you know I’m right.”

  “Wow, Lo. Sounds like you know me better than I know myself. Congratulations.”

  “Shut up,” she says, half laughing but still serious. “Anyway, kind of sucks around here without you. It’s too quiet. And the girls keep asking when Uncle Jude is going to give them their bedtime concert.”

  Dragging my hand through my messy hair, I smile, thinking about my nieces. On the nights when bedtime was more of a struggle than it should’ve been or my sister was working late, I’d grab my guitar and play them Swinging on a Star or Baby Beluga or a kid-friendly version of whatever Nirvana song was in my head at the time.

  I miss my silly, carefree evenings with them, when I wasn’t thinking about work or bills or how I flipped off the Wall Street-looking asshole in the Mercedes earlier that day for running a red light and damn near flattening a woman pushing a stroller.

  Now chatty Moira Gutenberg who lives above us watches them the nights Lo works.

  “I’ll record some songs for them here in a sec and text them to you,” I say, dragging myself out of bed and placing my feet on the silky rug that covers most of the floor and tickles my feet when I walk across it. Sure as hell beats the flattened, stained carpet of our apartment in Brooklyn.

  Ending the call with Lo, I grab my guitar and take a seat in the living room, setting up the voice memo function on my phone and pressing record.

  A minute later, I’m strumming the chords of Buffalo Gals—one of Piper’s favorites. When I’m finished, I forward the memo to Lo and return to the app to record Dream A Little Dream of Me for Ellie, but a text pops across my screen.

  The number isn’t in my phone, but it’s a local area code.

  Pressing on the preview, a message fills my screen. “It’s Love. Thanks for the concert. Just wanted to let you know that your voice is like a combination of Fergie and Jesus.”

  I laugh so hard, I snort. I can’t believe this Fifth Avenue Princess just quoted Stepbrothers.

  “Didn’t realize the walls were so thin,” I text back. “Either way, you’re welcome.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were musically inclined?” she texts, followed by, “What other talents are you hiding from me?”

  “I speak fluent Russian and I play a mean kazoo,” I reply.

  “You lie.”

  A second later, I Google, “how to say you cau
ght me in Russian” and then I text her, “ty poymal menya.”

  It takes a second—I imagine she’s looking up the phrase—but she responds with an entire string of emojis that suggest I’m a big fucking dork.

  I know, Love … I know.

  A moment later, the little bubble fills her side of the screen before disappearing, and I realize I’m holding my breath and wearing a stupid grin on my face as I wait for her response.

  I’m dying to know what she was going to say and why she deleted it and what she’s going to say next. All of a sudden it matters to me, and I don’t know why.

  Shit.

  Lo was right.

  I think I’m starting to fall for Love.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Love

  “Ever think about making a career out of music?” I begin to text Jude before deleting it. If I was still on speaking terms with Hunter, I’d send him that way in a heartbeat. He’s exactly the kind of thing Hunter would piss himself for the opportunity to sign: a preppy, sexy Adonis with a golden voice, gentle but raspy in all the right places, and he plays guitar.

  “Never got a chance to thank you for the run yesterday,” Jude texts. “And for the kiss. God, those lips of yours …”

  I smirk as I contemplate my response.

  He just had to bring that up, didn’t he?

  I begin to tap out a reply when my phone begins to ring.

  “Hey, Cam,” I answer my sister’s call. “What’s going on?”

  “Just going over my pre-wedding checklist,” she says, her tone somewhat breathy. I imagine her pacing the shiny marble floors of the McMansion she shares with the doctor. “How did your final dress fitting go? You know alterations can take weeks sometimes. Did you give them my wedding date? And you’re still coming out a week early, right?”

  “Final fitting is tomorrow,” I say, keeping my voice calm in hopes that it rubs off on her. “Seamstress can work with the dates.”

  “Good, good. And did you book your room yet? The block at the hotel is filling up,” she says.

  “Yep. Room is reserved.”

  “What about the bachelorette party? Have you started planning that yet? I talked to Farrah and she said she hadn’t heard from you. Neither had Courtney,” she says, referring to two of the other bridesmaids. “They can take that off your hands if it’s too much.”

  “I’ve got it,” I lie, biting my lip. My entire plan consisted of forcing my sister to wear the gaudiest sash and veil I could find and parade her around to all the bars on Sweet Water’s main drag like the show pony she loves to be.

  “If you’ve got it, Love, then why haven’t you sent out invites? We’re less than three weeks out,” she says, pitch rising. She’s trying not to go off on me, but I imagine her blood pressure is through the roof.

  Good thing there’s a doctor in the house.

  “It’ll be low key,” I say. “I figured since everything else is so proper and formal and fancy, maybe we could have one night of small-town fun?”

  Cameo makes some sort of groaning noise. Either she’s worried or she disapproves. Maybe both.

  “You need one night to let loose and unwind,” I add.

  My sister pauses, mulling it over, before breathing into the phone. “Fine. Just … no penis straws, okay?”

  I almost choke on my spit. I’ve never heard Cameo use the word “penis” before, and for some reason it’s hilarious to me. That or I have the same sense of humor as a twelve-year-old boy tonight.

  “You have my word,” I say, holding back a chuckle. “No penis straws.”

  Jude.

  I’d completely forgotten about Jude.

  And now, I can’t help but laugh because he thanked me for the kiss and I left him hanging … I ghosted our conversation.

  “You still there?” My sister asks.

  “Yep, yep. I’m here.”

  She prattles on about the groom’s cake next, how the doctor all but demanded German chocolate, but she finds it to be tacky and middlebrow, but within the same sentence she moves onto her future stepdaughters and how they posted a #tbt image on Instagram of their parents’ on their wedding day twenty-some years ago.

  I manage to appease her with the occasional and strategically dispersed “Oh, man,” and “That’s awful,” and “Wow!” But after a solid ten minutes, I’m distracted by a quick knock at my door.

  Slinking across the apartment, I peek out the spyhole and find Jude standing on the other side of the door, a pair of sweats hanging low on his hips and faded, gray t-shirt strangling his muscles.

  As soon as I get the door, Jude begins to say something, but I lift my finger to my lips before showing him that I’m on the phone. Without saying a word, I wave him in and close the door.

  He takes a seat on the couch, one dark brow raised as he studies my wincing face.

  I mouth the word “sorry” to him and he sinks down into my sofa, his legs slightly spread and his hands lifting behind his neck. He looks like he’s got all the time in the world to wait for me to wrap up what could easily be a never-ending conversation.

  “Okay,” Cameo says, tone lighter than it was a moment ago. “Next order of business. Your plus one.”

  Rolling my eyes, I glance at Jude before saying, “No change there. Still just me.”

  “Okay, but …” Cameo sighs, and I brace myself. I place Cameo on speaker because my hand is going numb and my ear is getting sweaty, “… who are you going to dance with? What are you going to say when Aunt Edie asks what happened with Hunter? Aren’t you going to be bored at the reception?”

  Composing a message to Jude, I write, “My sister called. She’s getting married in a few weeks and everything’s a matter of life or death right now.”

  Our eyes catch and his phone vibrates.

  “I didn’t know you had a sister,” his types back, gaze flicking back to me.

  I nod, pointing at my phone.

  He returns his attention to his phone, tapping out another message: “You have a date for her wedding?”

  “You sound exactly like my sister,” I type, adding a sad face emoji before pressing send.

  He smirks when he reads it, sending back a simple, “Ouch.”

  “Love, are you still there?” Cameo’s tinny voice plays through the speakers. “I keep hearing a weird buzzing noise. What are you doing?”

  “Yeah. Sorry. Cam,” I say. “Can I call you tomorrow?”

  “Everything okay?” she asks.

  “Of course. I’ll call you tomorrow after the fitting and let you know how it went,” I offer, hoping that will quell her stress a bit.

  “Perfect,” she says. “Bye, Love.”

  I end the call and return to my Messages app where a little red notification waits for me.

  “Yes or no?” Jude’s new text reads.

  “No,” I say outloud, placing my phone down.

  He does the same.

  “Do you need one?” he asks.

  “No.”

  “Do you want one?” Jude’s mouth twists and his eyes flash, and all of it makes my stomach flip without permission.

  “Are you offering?” I ask him, though I’m not serious.

  “I am.”

  “My family is nuts. I wouldn’t do that to you,” I say, rising. Heading to the kitchen, I connect my dying phone to its charger.

  “Just so happens that I love weddings,” he says, following me. “I’d love to be your plus one.”

  “You’re a liar. No one loves weddings.”

  When I turn, I find him standing right there, so close, I can breathe in the musky clean scent of his muscled skin, and it silences me in an instant.

  “I think … Love … that we’d have a really amazing time.” Jude’s voice is low, intimate, with just enough rasp to remind me of what his voice might sound like against my ear in the throes of the very thing I have no business doing with him. “So, what do you say?”

  Surrendering to the smile on my face, I can’t help but admit
to myself that I’ve always enjoyed his company … maybe a little too much at times. And I think he’s right. We could have a good time together.

  I’m not sure what it is about Jude that makes me cross every line I’ve drawn, that makes me push every boundary and barricade I’ve set up, but here I am, about to take him up on his ridiculously kind offer like a crazy woman with zero self-control.

  “Okay,” I say, exhaling his perfect scent from my tightened lungs. “You can be my plus one. But let me warn you … you have no idea what you’ve just signed on for.”

  But to be fair, I’m not sure I do either.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Jude

  Hunter LeGrand’s assistant, Marissa, escorts me to his office Monday morning. He’d texted me late last night, asking me to be here by nine AM sharp for a “progress report,” which was shortly after Lo called me in tears and freaking out because she got a hospital bill in the mail for twenty-eight thousand dollars from the last time Piper was hospitalized with complications from her juvenile diabetes. I don’t know why her restaurant even offers medical insurance to its employees when it’s not much different than not having insurance in the first place.

  “Would you like anything to drink, Mr. Warner?” Hunter’s assistant asks, her baby blues fluttering and her tight floral dress leaving little to the imagination. Everything about her is fake … her breasts, her lips, even her eyelashes that look like thick strips of mink glued to her lids.

  “No. Thank you.”

  She smiles. “All right. Well, Mr. LeGrand will be here any minute. Make yourself at home.”

  Marissa turns, her chestnut-colored ponytail swinging over her shoulder, and she closes the double office doors behind her.

  This is the second time I’ve been in Hunter LeGrand’s office, but the first time I’ve actually had a chance to do a little gawking.

  Heading across the room to what can only be described as a “wall of accolades,” I find framed and matted newspaper articles, photos of Hunter with various rock gods and music icons from Paul McCartney and JAY-Z to Chris Stapleton and Cardi B. In the center of it all rest his platinum records. I count twelve, all of them in the last handful of years, all of them on newer, lesser known musical acts who’ve gone on to massive overnight success. Hunter might be new to the music industry, but his reputation has quickly become that of a star maker.