“Wow, what did they put in those drinks?” I say with an embarrassed laugh once I’m stable.
I look down and realize my fingertips are digging right into his swallow tattoos. I jerk my hands away like they might be nipped for the intrusion, and Jude’s hands leave me just as quickly.
“I’m sorry,” he says, eyes wide. But I can barely hear him over the opening notes to the jazz standard “I’ve Got a Crush on You,” which,great.
“It’s fine,” I hurry to say, even though it’s not clear what he’s apologizing for. Is it for almost kissing me? Being the best-looking problem of my entire adult existence? Or for leaving handprints I’ll likely feel for the rest of my life?
I try swiveling away from him to watch the band—the reason I am here in the first place, I pointedly remind myself—but Jude grabs hold of the bottom of my stool. He swivels me back, and this time, my legs are trapped right between his as I’m forced to come face-to-face with him.
His features are as grave as his voice when he repeats himself. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” I say, attempting lightheartedness. “Pretty sure you just saved me from getting too friendly with the floor of this establishment.”
No smirk, no flicker of amusement. “I’m sorry for almost kissing you,” he says baldly. Like my super mature plan of pretending it didn’t happen would never enter his mind as an option.
“Oh,” I say, waving a hand, like almost kissing someone you can’t decide is your biggest enemy or biggest crush happens all the time. “That.”
“I’m…” His eyes take on a tortured look, honey darkening to molasses as black pupils blot out everything but two starved rings. “Very attracted to you.”
The words land like a bomb in my stomach, making my ears ring. He goes on. “But it’s no excuse for making you uncomfortable, and I promise it won’t happen again.” A deep V forms between his eyebrows. “I’d never want you to think I’m trying to manipulate you to win our bargain or take advantage of you in some way.”
Our bargain. Right. It hadn’t occurred to me as a possibility, but now that he’s said it, I can’t be sure that this isn’t just another part of his strategy. Suddenly, every mean inner voice that enjoys reminding me that I was never enough for Calvin, my business, or my family pipes up.Whywouldhe be interested in someone whose life is such a wreck?
All at once, I feel ridiculous. For Jude, a self-admitted “one-night-stand expert,” everything that’s happened tonight is probably run-of-the-mill. Maybe he momentarily lost sight of our unique situation in the swirl of lights and strong drinks, but he quickly steered us back on course. Meanwhile, I’m developing feelings for a man who terminated my job and wants to evict me, because apparently, I’mthatdesperate for a little affection.God. I need to call Sofia and have her knock some sense into me.
Taking a breath, I put my guard back up. No matter what his intentions are, I need to start thinking with my brain again instead ofmy lonely heart and lonelier vagina. I pick up my drink and slowly turn it in the light.
“You could make it up to me,” I say without looking at him.
“Go on.”
“Tell me what your plans for Larkwood really are.”
Even without touching him, I feel him tense. “I can’t do that.”
I take a sip and look up at his wary face. “Why not?”
He rubs absently at the side of his bristled jaw. “I would tell you if I could. But the person who’s interested—”
“Requires absolute privacy. Yeah. You’ve mentioned. But why isthisbuyer so important? Is it Vanilla Ice or something?”
He stalls by taking a drink of his Old Fashioned and placing the glass down slowly. When he speaks, his words are careful. “No, it’s not Vanilla Ice. Let’s just say their aims for Larkwood align with values that are close to my heart as well.”
Rolling my eyes at the lawyer-speak, I respond, “I didn’t realize you had one of those.”
A smirk appears as he holds a hand to the center of his chest. “Just updated my software last night.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “If these ‘aims’ are so meaningful to you, why not share them?”
He rotates his sweating glass a quarter turn on the bar. “It’s personal,” he says shortly.
“Does Henry know who the buyer is?”
He pushes dark waves that have become increasingly unruly from his forehead. “No, Gracie, he doesn’t, but hedoesunderstand the concept of privacy.”
I sit back at the sharpness of his tone, realizing I’ve gotten a little too close to something he doesn’t want me—or apparently even his best friend—to see.
He rubs a hand across the lower half of his unshaven face. “Look, I’m sorry I can’t tell you. Their privacy isn’t something I’m just respecting out of the kindness of my heart. It’s something I’m legally obligated to ensure.”
