I think of my dinged-up 2005 Toyota Camry with its rusted bumper and Can’t-Stop-Won’t-Stop engine. “Yes. It has four wheels and drives great.”
He mutters something I don’t catch because his head is too far above mine. I’m about to argue that rain wasn’t even in the forecast when there’s a crack of thunder.Great. I honestly hate driving in the rain, or the snow, or the dark (yes, thank you, my eightieth birthdayiscoming up), but there’s no way I’m admitting this to Jude.
“Isn’t there someplace you can stay in the city?” he asks.
I think of Sofia. She’d definitely let me crash at her place, but I happen to know her on-again off-again situationship is currently on, and I have no desire to intrude. I bite my lip as I consider asking my parents, but quickly decide I’d rather drive in torrential rain and lightning. “I’ll be fine,” I say. “I need to get back and work on this wedding.”
Jude looks over at me. A single fat raindrop lands on one of his high cheekbones like Mother Earth herself is weeping over them, and I’m unprepared for the abrupt subject change he makes.
“So you and Calvin, huh? That sounds… complicated.”
He says this last word carefully, like he’s trying to sayhorrificin a different language. I cross my arms over my chest, hugging myself tight. “It’s the least complicated thing in the world, actually.”
“Because he has the personality of a Styrofoam peanut?”
An indignant sound squeaks out of me. “How could you say that? You have no idea who he is.”
“No?” he asks, squinting at the darkening clouds ahead. “So, if I guessed that he went to Brown after a well-timed alumni donation, began his career with a nepo-baby internship, and works for Daddy with the plan of taking over the firm within the next fifteen years, you’d tell me I’m wrong?”
When the disturbing accuracy of his assumptions prevents me from responding, Jude sighs. “I work with men like him all the time, Gracie. They glide through life expecting things they don’t deserve and feel validated as supreme rulers of the universe when they push people over to get their way.”
“That’s rich coming from you,” I huff. “Seeing as you’re about to inherit anestateand plan to—how did you phrase it? ‘Push people over to get your way’?”
It’s Jude’s turn to look indignant as he says, “It’s different. I take no pleasure in disrupting your life, or any of the wedding vendors you’ve mentioned. It’s why I’m here, attempting to make amends with you instead of keeping the lunch meeting I had planned with one of my clients.”
“And here I was thinking it was because you want to get your hands on my cottage.”
“Can’t it be both?”
I glance up at him, but his gaze is still focused forward, giving me an entirely too-convenient view of his structured jawline, which could probably work as a rain shelter in a pinch. His words give me pause, but my questionable compulsion to defend my ex is still yanking at me. “Either way, I don’t see why you feel the need to attack Calvin.I wouldn’t have taken on his wedding if he were an awful person or if there was anything lingering between us.”
Jude shoots me a shrewd look. “Considering how your scheme to save Larkwood hinges on planning a wedding,” he drawls, “I think it’s safe to assume you would’ve been willing to plan Cruella de Vil’s nuptials, dalmatian puppy dress and all.”
“That’s not true,” I sputter, but he keeps going.
“If I were a betting man, I’d wager Calvin called you out of the blue for this massively insensitive favor because he knew he could take advantage of your kindness.” He looks over at me, and I endure the sensation of being x-rayed. “Did you go to RISD and fall for him doing Jell-O shots at a Brown frat party or something? You know—the whole quirky art student falls for WASPy golden boy thing?”
And that, I decide,is enough. I stop in my tracks, and people on the rain-flecked sidewalk are forced to swerve around us. “Itwasn’tat a frat party.”
“Let the record reflect that therewere, in fact, Jell-O shots involved,” he murmurs.
There’s another flash of lightning, but I’m pretty sure my temper is hotter.
“Let the record reflect that it’snone of your business,” I parrot back at him.
“You made it my business when you roped me into helping with this wedding,” he retorts, and I note with annoyance that the wind has loosened his neatly combed hair so that glossy dark waves are falling into his face.Ugh.
“I asked you to help me with wedding tasks, not psychoanalyze me.”
He shrugs. “Old habits die hard.”
“Because invasive insights into relationship dynamics are a favorite pastime of yours?”
“No, but they’re a pretty critical part of my day job.”
“Must be nice to spread love and joy wherever you go.”
“If you’d like to count the forty-something holiday cards I received this year as proof of character, just let me know.”
