Marti nods, but she’s looking at me with this new, weird appreciation on her face. She’s in awe of the fact that I might have Jude as a client. She sees him as a bunch of dollar signs, which I guess I would too, if I didn’t have my past with him and I was looking at him professionally. But I will never be able to look at him that way, because I’ve sort of, almost seen him naked. “Let me know if you need anything.”
I nod and head for the door. Outside, the warm air engulfs me and does nothing to quash the hot and bothered feelings Jude woke in me. He makes me feel young and happy and crazy and all the things I was at eighteen. The problem is not all of it was good. I was a wild child in both the good and bad senses of the term.
I was creative and inquisitive and other good things that parents are happy about, but I was also rebellious and brash and a bunch of other things that parents dread. Especially mine. My father was a Baptist minister. He wasn’t overly strict, and he didn’t shove the religion down our throats, and I believed in it—and God—but I hated the way we constantly had to move for his job. He never stayed at a church more than four or five years, and he always picked communities that were small and felt claustrophobic to me. When you’re the pastor’s daughter in a small town, everyone makes a point of watching you. I hated it, and as I got older, I made a point of rebelling the most typical way a teenage girl can: I drank, I smoked and I had sex.
I know the nosy parishioners were telling my parents what they heard and saw about poor, wayward Zoey Quinlin, but to their credit, my parents never yelled at me about it. They had a few serious, heartfelt talks about my self-esteem, and there was a little talk of how this wasn’t God’s will for me, but they always told me they loved me no matter what. I tested that statement more than I should have, but they never wavered.
I don’t regret my past. I had a lot of fun, but I do regret any pain it caused my parents. And that regret was one of my motivating factors in marrying Adam. Not the only factor, for sure, but I knew they would approve of him. I knew they would feel like I was finally making a smart choice.
And even when I told them about the divorce, they were unwaveringly supportive. My parents are truly the best. But I don’t think they’d approve of me going on a date with someone else—even Jude Braddock, whom they liked when we were kids—before my divorce is final. So I don’t intend to tell them, and I also don’t intend to let this fall out of the flirty friend zone.
It’s not going to be easy if Jude keeps his game at flirt level ten. But I’m not about to ask him to tone it down.
8
Jude
I’m actually nervous as I drive to pick her up. Clammy palms, accelerated heartbeat, dry mouth. I used to get like this around her when I was a kid too. In fact, this hasn’t happened around a woman since, so this whole sensation is surreal. It kind of feels like déjà vu, and the last thing I want is to relive my brief, awkward history with Zoey.
It started out perfectly, once I finally grew the balls to make a move. I was walking her home after she babysat my sisters. We were on the beach and having our first real conversation in the two years we’d known each other. She told me she admired how passionate I was about hockey, I told her she was as beautiful as a sunset, and then…it started to rain. I pulled her under a lifeguard stand and kissed her like my life was ending…or beginning. It was goddamn poetic. But our date started with some family drama—hers—and ended with vomit. But now I’m going to get a do-over—one that involves nudity and orgasms. Lots of fucking orgasms.
That’s my main goal here, to get her naked and worship her the way I wanted to when I was seventeen. In a way, that fateful night going horribly awry was probably a good thing. I might have disappointed her back then since I was a virgin. Despite discovering the ability to woo women around the age of fourteen, I didn’t lose my virginity until I was eighteen. I’d perfected everything there was to perfect besides sex, but I had been waiting for someone special for the actual deed. Yeah, I fully know how hysterical that is coming from me now. But back then I’d wanted a connection—true, strong and real—for my first time.
My dad had given me the sex talk at fourteen. He said, “I’m a realist, son, and I know you’re not going to wait until marriage. That’s just not how the world works now. But you should know that it’s a special, sacred thing, and you should share something more than hormones with whomever you’re intimate with. Love would be what I’d hope for, but respect and friendship are the bare minimum. And remember, your first time only happensonce, and having all three of those things is the only way it’ll be memorable for you and the girl. Trust me. Also, when you do finally settle down, whether it’s at twenty or fifty, don’t do it unless you feel all three of those things down to your core, Jude.”
Then he went on to threaten to murder me if I didn’t use condoms every single time. I smile now at the memory. I didn’t take all of his advice, at least not as life went on, but in the beginning, as a teenager, I took it to heart. I tried to follow it fully and completely, and so even though I’d come close a bunch of times, I held on to my virginity. Because I felt all those things—love, respect and friendship—for that wild, redheaded pastor’s daughter, but the one thing I didn’t feel around her was courage, and when I took my shot, it blew up.
The tap on the glass of my passenger window startles me back into the present. She’s standing there, smiling, and I realize the doors are locked. I hit the button, and she climbs into my passenger seat. She looks more refined than the Zoey I was just remembering. Her hair has been straightened, the natural waves gone. She’s pulled it back into a low ponytail. She’s not as dressed up as she was when I dropped off the phone at her work, but she’s in a loose, flowered tank top and a pair of linen shorts. The Zoey from under the lifeguard stand would be in something tighter and shorter, but she’s still fucking delicious. I’ve only seen her three times since we’ve reconnected, but each time it’s the same feeling as it was when I was a kid. Seeing her makes me feel like I just discovered Dixie left me a Nutella cheesecake in my fridge the first day of the off-season. Lucky, elated and intent on devouring it…or in this case,her.
“What are you thinking?” she asks, her eyes searching my face.
I smirk. “I’m thinking what it felt like the first time I finally got my lips on yours.”
There’s a sharp intake of breath beside me, and it makes my smirk deepen. I glance over, and her porcelain skin has a pink glow to it as she smooths her hair, flustered. When she regains her composure, she says, “Best kiss of my life.”
“That’s because we haven’t had our second one,” I reply. “Yet.”
She lets out a breathy laugh. “Technically, I think we did at Scooter’s place. Just neither of us remembers it.”
I grimace at the memory. “I can’t say the words ‘Boone’s Farm apple wine’ without wanting to gag.”
“I still can’t smell anything cinnamon flavored without thinking of the Fireball we barfed everywhere. Repeatedly.” She laughs again, and inwardly I want to die, but I laugh too. “So where are we going?”
“My friend Duncan and his girlfriend, Carla, are throwing a barbeque. Nothing big or crazy, just a few people.”
“Is Duncan a teammate?”
“Yeah.” I glance over at her. “You don’t follow the Thunder at all, do you?”
She shakes her head. “Morgan’s husband, Ned, watches hockey sometimes. I’m surprised your name didn’t come up.”
“Morgan? Your brother? He has a husband?” I glance over and she nods, her hazel eyes catching mine, looking for some kind of judgment or disgust like she did when we were kids and she first told me Morgan was gay, but she still finds neither because I’ve always believed love is love. Instead I give her a gleeful smile. “Please say you haven’t told the sorority this yet. I love being the one to dash their dreams. They were all in love with Morgan.”
“You’re a jerk, you know that, right?” She smiles at me, and damn, if it doesn’t hold the power of the sun.
I shrug, because I can’t claim innocence, but in my defense my sisters give better than they get. Always. “So you never knew where I played? That I was right here next to you the last three years?”
“I thought you were in Milwaukee,” she explains as I weave the car through the narrow streets in Duncan’s new Nob Hill neighborhood. “In my defense, I didn’t want to stalk a guy who blew me off.”
