He wished . . .
Well. It didn't matter what he wished.
“I ate dinner a while ago,” she said, “but I have leftovers and I’m more than happy to heat them up for you.”
It had been a long, difficult day at work. He hadn’t managed to fit in dinner yet. Only now that he felt a twist of disappointment at the news that she'd eaten earlier did he realize he'd unconsciously started equating coming here with food. “No, that’s okay. Thank you, though.”
She moved through the space, turning on lights.
On the kitchen island, she had five Hope and Spice candles burning. Five. The scent was almost liquid in the air. He was certain now that she knew exactly how the scent affected him. He'd rubbed her the wrong way the other night and this fragrance was her revenge. It was working.
“I'm sorry,” he said, “that I inferred to your family that you were the one keeping them from meeting me. I should have handled that better.”
She came to a stop a few feet from where he stood and studied his face like she would a game board.
“Are you sorry that you told them I have a butterfly obsession?” he prompted.
“Yes?” she said in a tone that meantno.
“Gemma.”
She laughed, deep and amused.
His chest had been tight for two days since they'd parted. The sound of her laugh loosened the tension.
“I am sorry,” she said. “But please admit that your butterfly obsession is a little bit funny.”
“I admit no such thing.”
“You. Trotting through fields holding aloft a butterfly catcher. This is a visual I love.”
He scowled at her like a disapproving schoolteacher.
Which made her laugh again. Their eye contact lengthened. She cleared her throat. “What step does the FBI want for me to take next with Cedric?”
“Text messages.” He unfolded a piece of paper from his suit jacket and handed it over.
She set a hip against the kitchen island and stacked one foot on top of the other, read it, then lifted her face. “You know, I thought we did as well as we possibly could have with Cedric. I don't know why he backed away from the idea of selling his secrets. Whatever his reason, I can't fathom that it had anything to do with you or me.”
“I agree.” He'd been over and over the conversation at dinner multiple times in his memory but couldn't pinpoint anything that would have caused Cedric to get cold feet. “We both did our part to make good on the resources and hours the FBI has dedicated to this. Maybe Cedric reconsidered because of something that's going on with his personal life or family dynamics or the Bettencourt company.”
In Jude's line of work, operations occasionally stalled and agents didn't always receive a clear reason why. People were fickle. People were indecisive. “Our only move at this point,” he continued, “is to leave the door open to Cedric in case he decides to change course.”
She nodded and indicated the paper she still held. “Do you want me to keep the gist of what you have written here but edit it to make it sound like it’s coming from me?”
“Yes. Show it to me for approval, please, before hitting send.”
She bent her head to tap on her phone.
He found himself looking down at the perfect bridge and tip of her nose. He was crazy about the curves of Gemma. Whether the curve of cheek, chin, shoulder, fingertips, waist, hips—you name it. Pick a curve on Gemma Clare and it was beautiful to him. Either because it was generous or soft or sweet or firm.
She finished typing and passed the phone over so he could read what she'd written.
Gemma
No problem! Jude's contact is definitely interested. So if you change your mind, reach out. He'd be more than happy to talk with you or meet with you anytime. It was so much fun to see you the other night! Hope to hang out again soon.
“Good,” he said.
