Fool for Him (Foolish at Heart Book 1)

by R. C. Martin

  It didn’t take us long to reach Old Town. While the Thursday evening crowd was certainly out, he found parking quite easily. As we crossed the street, he offered me his elbow. The happiness that spread across my face as I took it couldn’t be quelled.

  Just as he told me, Spades was located down a narrow stairway just beside The Archibald. The sign for the establishment was so small, it was no wonder I had never seen it before. As we descended the steps, the sound of jazz music wafted up to greet us, and I was instantly intrigued.

  It wasn’t an overly large space. The ceilings were low, and the lighting was dim—all the tables adorned with white tablecloths and votive candles. There was a long bar to the right of the hostess stand, and on the far side of the room was a small stage. It was more of a short platform, really, allowing the five-piece jazz band set-up there to almost blend into the crowd. Most of the tables were occupied, and there was a loud hum of conversation that laced itself between the notes that came from the band. Even still, we were seated immediately.

  We barely had a chance to get settled before our server arrived. Without even looking at the menu, Judah ordered a scotch on the rocks. He then proceeded to order a glass of their best chardonnay for me. Before our server left, he glanced at me for my approval, and I simply nodded. I’d never been out with a man who ordered for me. It was an odd thing to experience. In the end, I decided it felt more intimate than anything else. Sure, it was only a drink order—but he remembered my wine of choice, and it was nice.

  “You,” I started and then paused with a shake of my head. I stared at him, and he stared back, patiently waiting for me to continue. “You are an enigma.”

  A knowing smile lifted one side of his mouth as he reached for his menu. When he said nothing in reply, I had to fight my own smile. His silence was like a confirmation that I was onto him, and he knew it. As mysterious as he tried to be, I was equally as determined to figure out what made him so frustratingly alluring.

  Our drinks arrived, and Judah ordered chicken cordon blue. I chose the lobster mac-n-cheese, and then it was just us, the music, and what I was beginning to categorize as one of my new favorite things—an evening of conversation with the most gorgeous man I had ever met.

  “So, you like live music.”

  “I do,” he confirmed simply.

  “Why?”

  “Why not? Do you not enjoy it?”

  I hummed a laugh and reached for my glass of wine. “We’re not talking about me. We’re talking about you.”

  My amusement was reciprocated with some of his own, and the sight caused a pleasant fluttering sensation in my belly. Finally, he replied, “The best kind of music is meant to be felt. It’s art, regardless of the medium by which you enjoy it—but I doubt any of the great composures in history, or even in our time, would argue their compositions were designed for a studio.”

  “It’s meant for an audience,” I added. “And without the audience, there isn’t any give and take.”

  “So, you do enjoy it?” he asked teasingly.

  I shrugged. “I won’t claim to be some sort of aficionado when it comes to music of any kind, really. But the ballet? And this? It’s exciting to not just hear but witness the creation of music. And, I mean, they have to feel that, right? Or they wouldn’t be here performing.”

  “I agree.”

  Sweeping my hair behind my ear with my free hand, I insisted, “Okay, so—interior design, classical and jazz, golf with your lawyer brother—is there anything remotely average about you?” I rolled my eyes and then added, “Aside from your commitment issues.”

  “I don’t have commitment issues,” he countered with a slight frown.

  “I’m serious, Judah. You are one of the least average men I’ve ever met, and I am—incredibly average. What do you even—”

  “You’re not average, Theodora,” he interrupted. “You wouldn’t be sitting there if you were.” He pointed at my spot across from him and then took a sip of his scotch.

  Not entirely convinced he could really believe as much, considering all the ways in which we were different, I leaned toward him against the table and diverted the conversation. “We’re still not talking about me. We’re talking about you.”

  “Baseball. I’m a baseball fan. That average enough for you?”

  For reasons I couldn’t articulate, this information made me almost giddy. I was not a sports fan in the slightest, but the thought of Judah in a baseball cap was downright fantastical.

  “Who is your team?”

  “The Cubs.”

  Laughing, I replied, “I don’t know why I asked. I don’t know anything about baseball—other than Colorado is home of the Rockies. My dad has always been a hockey kind of guy. His side of the family is from Wisconsin. I guess, I don’t know, hockey is a big Midwest thing.”

  He nodded, but it wasn’t just the slight move of his head that alerted me to the shift in his countenance. I could see it in those gray eyes of his. Family wasn’t a topic he wished to discuss. Or, perhaps, it was his father he didn’t like to think about. I remembered the story Ben told—the origin of their brotherhood. Judah’s father had not been part of that story. I didn’t know what scars Judah carried on account of his father, but I respected his silent request not to speak on it.

  “Are you a purist about baseball the way you are about music? Do you watch it live?”

  “When I can. I try to make it out to Chicago for two or three games a season.”

  Of course he does, I thought to myself, amused. It never occurred to me that loyalty to his team would mean traveling to see them play—but I was learning Judah was an all or nothing kind of guy; not to mention, money was clearly no object.

  Our food arrived, and we talked about hobbies and interests. When I was finished with my wine, Judah asked if I wanted another. I nodded, and he took care of it, ordering another scotch on the rocks for himself. After we were finished with our meals, we sat and enjoyed the music for a while longer. It was nearly ten by the time Judah settled the bill and escorted me back to his car.

  “Do you have plans this weekend?” he asked as he drove me home.

  “Nothing set in stone. Why?”

  “I’m playing golf on Saturday, but I have no plans in the evening. I can make a dinner reservation at The Archibald.”

  “Really?” I practically gasped.

  I wasn’t sure if it was the wine in my system that made me excited, the prospect of going out with him again in just two days’ time, or that he was going to show me more of his work. Whatever the reason, I didn’t care. Even if I did, I would have forgotten all about it the moment he reached over and slid his hand between my closed knees.

  “Yes, Teddy. Really.”

  “Okay,” I managed on a breath.

  We rode the rest of the drive in silence. It wasn’t more than ten minutes, but it felt like longer—the effort of controlling my breaths no easy feat. Every time he grazed his thumb across the top of my knee, a burst of desire exploded in my stomach. Then, when he parked his vehicle and pulled away from me, I exhaled slowly. I knew what would come next. I knew he wouldn’t leave without kissing me goodbye. But as the night drew to a close, it was like my senses were heightened. Even the thought of his kiss made me tingle all over.

  Like earlier, as he walked me to the door, he offered me his elbow. I took it, leaning into him a bit more. He smelled marvelous, and I wanted to soak up his scent in our last few moments of the evening. We ascended the steps too quickly, and then we were at my door. I said nothing as I unlocked it, a stall tactic I knew was quite pathetic.

  With a sigh, I turned and looked up at him. I was on the verge of thanking him for our evening when he stepped toward me. He was so close, I almost lost my balance as I craned my neck up to see his face.

  “Aren’t you going to invite me inside?”

  “N—now?” I stammered.

  “I am here now, Teddy.”

  I blinked and reached for the lapels of his jacket. I
couldn’t help myself. The thought of him inside of my apartment coupled with his body so close to mine was overwhelming.

  “I, um, I just thought—”

  “I intend to kiss you,” he murmured, leaning toward me, until his lips were almost touching mine. “But I assure you, there will be nothing decent about it. You’re welcome to keep me out here, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  “Right, okay,” I whispered as I turned away from him. My cheeks were on fire, but I was sure it wasn’t embarrassment I felt. I wanted him to kiss me. Moreover, I wanted it to be however indecent he intended to make it. That’s what he did to me. He tore down my inhibitions and dared me to feel. Foolish as it might have been, I wanted to trust him. So I did.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Judah reached for her waist as Teddy opened the door. He followed her inside with no intention of letting her go. As soon as they were both over the threshold, he kicked the door closed and spun her around. He heard it as her purse and her keys hit the floor seconds before his mouth collided with hers. The whimper that spilled from between her lips and through his was enough to send a rush of blood to his crotch.

  He held her tighter, needing her closer. In truth, he wanted her naked—but the soft voice of reason in his mind told him to push her would do him no favors. Instead, he allowed himself to take only what she gave—and maybe a little bit more.

  He plunged his tongue into her mouth greedily, and she responded in kind. Pressing herself up on her tiptoes, she circled her arms around his neck. His tailored pants grew tight at his groin at the feel of her desperation. He tightened his hold in return, burying one hand in her soft, wavy locks; with his other, he felt his way down toward her backside. She moaned, and he felt the grip around his self-control as it began to give way.

  “Fuck,” he panted as he severed their lips, pressing his forehead to hers.

  He didn’t loosen his grip, and neither did she. With his eyes closed, he imagined easing down the zipper at the back of her skirt. He pictured her tattooed thighs, and his hands reacquainting themselves with the images inked there. He envisioned her topless, and he wondered how many other freckles she was hiding. He lowered the hand around her rear until he could grip a handful, then he squeezed.

  Teddy gasped, pressing herself against him. In that moment, the only space between them was that created by the clothing which stood in the way. Judah was certain Teddy’s shallow breaths were in response to his hard-on, and it only made him want her more. He felt the heat of her internal flame—and he wanted to set her ablaze.

  “Jude?” she whispered.

  He groaned in response, sealing his lips with hers once more. He thought about pressing her against the wall, about tugging up her skirt and wrapping her legs around his hips so he might press his bulging erection to the warmth of her center—but he knew the skirt that clung to her body had no give. He grunted in blissful frustration as she kissed him, wholly unaware of his thoughts. Extracting his hand from her hair, he gripped the other side of her rear end.

  When she moved her hips in just the right way, it took him by surprise. He tore his mouth from hers and buried his face in her neck as he grumbled, “Shit. I want to touch you.”

  Her arms squeezed him around his neck before she whispered, “Any chance you’ve read Pride and Prejudice this week?”

  This made him laugh, and he was grateful for the reprieve. She giggled, and the sexual tension between them began to dissipate. Judah lifted his head and found her eyes. He shook his head at her, and she shrugged coyly.

  “A deal’s a deal.”

  Judah hummed his disapproval but didn’t deny she was right. He pressed a quick kiss to her lips and then unwrapped himself from around her. Not bothering to be discreet, he adjusted himself in his pants and then tipped his chin. “Show me the rest.”

  “The rest of my place?” Teddy inquired dubiously.

  “Yes.”

  “Well—okay. It’s not much,” she said, smoothing her hands down her front.

  Judah slipped his hands into his pockets but spoke not a word. Silently, he implied he didn’t care how big or small her accommodations—he wished to see them. After picking up on his cues, Teddy nodded and then turned to lead him through her apartment.

  The wooden floors beneath their feet were oak; the slats old, but well kept. There was a small, rectangle area rug beneath her simple coffee table. The colors were bold—red, teal, black, and white. It matched nothing else in the room, and yet it added texture Judah could appreciate. Pushed up against the wall, she had a tweed brown sofa, complete with an assortment of throw pillows—each eclectic in nature. The wall above was covered in various art pieces—big and small; some framed, some not.

  “So, this is my living room,” said Teddy, her voice pulling him from his observations.

  Her heels clicked against the floor as she headed to the left, and Judah let his eyes roam over the room once more before he followed after her. Standing at the mouth of her galley style kitchen, Teddy switched on the light. Judah didn’t bother entering the space. He could see all of it from where he stood. The cabinets were painted pale blue, and all the hardware was white. Her appliances were also white, but clearly dingy with age. He imagined the window above the sink allowed for natural light during the day, which he thought would be necessary. The space was hardly the size of a closet.

  “Small, I know,” she said, as if she had read his thoughts. “But I can’t cook, so it’s fine.”

  As if she grew a little more self-conscious with every passing second, she turned off the light and quickly made her way through the living room toward the narrow hallway on the other side. She pointed toward the bathroom, but then continued to her bedroom. Turning on the light, she pressed her back against the wall beside the door and shrugged.

  “My room. And that’s it.”

  Judah stood in the doorway and took his time absorbing the details of her bedroom. The large, cream and navy chevron area rug. The simple black, metal bed frame. Her mustard yellow bedspread, and the bohemian printed throw pillows. The stained walnut dresser with a vanity mirror atop it, and her knickknacks scattered alongside her Nikon camera. The lamp on her nightstand looked antique—an interesting contrast to the modern, abstract, panoramic art piece she had mounted above her headboard.

  “Say something,” she whispered at last.

  He caught her eye and replied, “You live in a shoebox.”

  This made her smile, though she did not move away from the wall as she said, “Yes. But it’s home.”

  “I like it.”

  Teddy’s eyes widened in surprise before she murmured, “You do?”

  Judah took one last look around the room. There were gaps in the consistency of her design, holes he could envision filling with a piece of furniture, or art, or a minor replacement here and there. However, he could tell she was working with what she had, and he hadn’t lied.

  “Yes. I do.”

  “Thanks,” she replied sheepishly.

  He extracted a hand from his pocket and traced the line of her jaw before he said, “If I can’t undress you, I should go.”

  Her lips parted, and she sucked in a quiet breath. She then reached for his hand and clasped it in both of hers as she pushed herself away from the wall. “I’ll, um, walk you out?”

  Judah nodded his reply, and they walked together toward the door. Teddy held his hand the whole way, letting him go only after he stepped onto the landing outside her door.

  “Will you text me? About Saturday, I mean?” she called out anxiously.

  He turned back to look at her. There was something in her tone he didn’t like—an uncertainty he noted but knew was unwarranted. He stared into her eyes and admitted that as disappointed as he was to leave her company without the memory of her body stripped bare beneath his—yet again—he would wait. For her, he would wait. He couldn’t explain why, only that the thought of someone else having her made him irrational.

  Leaning back o
ver the threshold, he pressed a soft kiss to her lips and said, “I will. Goodnight, Theodora.”

  “Night, Jude.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Judah took me to The Archibald. We had dinner, and then he arranged for me to see a few of the rooms. I loved it. Loved the décor—all of it beautiful and timeless; loved listening to Judah as he walked me through his design process; loved the way he guided me from place to place with his hand pressed to the small of my back; loved the way he kissed me in the presidential suite—for an hour. It was hard not to get lost in him whenever we were together—and as days turned into weeks, he made sure we were together often.

  I was falling for him in a way I had never fallen for anyone. It wasn’t horribly romantic. Neither did it feel like love. There was a part of me still not convinced I should let myself go there with him. Judah wasn’t tender. He didn’t whisper sweet nothings in my ear. His touch was rarely innocent, and he was always so careful about what he shared with me about himself. Yet, he was kind and attentive. He spoiled me, and I never had that before. It made me feel good. It made me feel wanted, and it wouldn’t have been far from the truth to say I was kind of addicted to all the sensations Judah provoked within me.

  He liked to take me places, places I’d never been. He planned each date, which left me with no responsibility other than to show up presentable. However, on this particular Saturday night, I suggested we stay in. I thought it would be nice to have a casual evening. We hadn’t—not since I locked myself out of the gallery a month prior. He agreed, and we made dinner together. And by together, I mean I shredded the cheese and stirred the sauce while enjoying a glass of wine.