See you tomorrow. Until then, have you considered stealing things from Wendell when he’s not looking?
The next afternoon, Jude rolled his carry-on to the media room at Appleton and found his brother there, as expected. Jeremiah's feet were crossed on the coffee table and he had football playing on the big screen.
Jude was planning to head home soon, but he could spare thirty minutes for Sunday football. He lowered onto the leather sofa a few feet from Jeremiah, mirroring his brother’s pose.
Born two years after Jeremiah, Jude had literally looked up to his older brother throughout his childhood. Jeremiah had been taller, stronger, braver. Full of big plans and good ideas.
Like a cargo ship, Jeremiah had cut a path through stormy seas. Jude had been the smaller, simpler boat—following in the quiet center of the cargo ship’s wake. Jeremiah’s doggedness had made Jude’s life simpler, a fact that had pleased them both. Jude liked simplifying his life and Jeremiah liked that Jude had the good sense to take advantage of his effort.
The two of them were very different, but in ways that had made them more compatible, not less. Jeremiah had street smarts; Jude had book smarts. Jeremiah was ambitious, Jude strategic. Jeremiah could be wily in pursuit of what he wanted; Jude was firmly ethical. Jude was the one who got the boring things done, the one everyone else relied on, the one who picked up the pieces.
Back when the revelation that Felix was Max’s father had detonated, Jeremiah had been sixteen and living overseas. Fiona had slid into depression following the scandal and Jeremiah hadn’t been there to function as the cargo ship. Out of necessity, Jude was the one who’d ensured their mother survived.
His memories of his high school years didn't include sports and friends and parties and girls. He’d pretty much given up those things—and lots of days he’d given up school attendance, too—in order to keep an eye on their mom.
Too many nights to count, he’d lain awake, gripped by anxiety, terrified that his mother’s sorrow would lead her to suicide. On his watch. Thank God, it hadn’t. If it had, he’d never have forgiven himself.
He rolled his face toward Jeremiah and saw that his brother was scowling at his phone. “Why are you frowning?”
“Because Remy. Let me ask you a question.”
Jude nodded.
“Are women usually impressed with me?”
It was weird to explain Jeremiah to Jeremiah. Overall, though, this situation mostly left Jude grateful. Jeremiah had been found in open water, injured, with hypothermia. They were all lucky that Jeremiah was alive. Yes, he had amnesia and needed extra support right now. But Jude knew his brother’s strong-willed personality too well to doubt that he’d recover quickly. “Yes. Women are always impressed with you.”
“Do they ever give me a hard time?”
“Never.”
“I’m . . . good with women?”
“Very.” In fact, had Jeremiah been the one who’d been asked by his employer to go undercover as the boyfriend of a beautiful woman, Jeremiah would have had no problem executing that assignment.
Jude fulfilled his work responsibilities with excellence. That’s what he did. And that’s what he was determined to do with this upcoming op. Unfortunately, a few factors were working against him. One, he had zero experience at the role of fake boyfriend. Two, he knew enough about Gemma Clare to know she was the type of woman he’d never date in real life.
“If I’m good with women,” Jeremiah asked, “then how come I’m no good with this one? Remy gives me nothing but a hard time and she’s not impressed with me at all. She’s driving me crazy because she won’t say when she’ll see me again.”
Jude couldn't help but smile. He wanted to get to know Remy better. And maybe give her a certificate.
“This is not amusing,” Jeremiah said.
“It’s highly amusing to me. I’ve waited my whole life for a woman to treat you this way.”
“It’s the worst.”
“It’s the best. Propose to her. She’s one in a million.”
Jeremiah made a derisive sound, letting his head fall back against the cushion. “Propose to her? She’s not even civil.”
“You have a crush on her.”
“I do not.”
“Mm,” Jude said noncommittally.
“I don’t.”
