I shrug a shoulder and hum a sound likeI dunno. “Just can.” I can also guess that he probably isn’t wearing his starched white button-up or any pants. His dark hair is probably a mess, and he’s mostly likely wearing those hot librarian glasses. I try not to linger on the image I’ve created, but it’s hard to shoo away when I’m this tired. “What are you working on?” I whisper instead.
“You really want to know?”
I yawn again, my eyelids too heavy to lift anymore. “Mhmm. As long as it’s really boring.”
“Gracie, are you using me as a sound machine?” he chides.
“You have a really nice voice,” I say without thinking, too sleepy to care. “You could narrate romance novels.”
“Your reading material of choice.” It isn’t a question, and I vaguely wonder what else he noticed while he was in my cottage.
“Don’t knock it till you try it,” I say, pulling the covers almost completely over my head. “They could teach you a thing or two.”
“Why would I need romance novels when I have you in my life?” he asks softly, and there’s no sarcasm or annoyance in his tone.
“Having me as a friend isn’t enough, Jude,” I mumble, half asleep. “I’ll prove it to you.”
He doesn’t respond to this, and as the rain falls harder, I slip into the embrace of sleep, knowing he’s on the other side of my dreaming. Because that’s what I must be doing when I hear him quietly say, “You already have.”
17GRACIE
Four Weeks Before the Wedding
In a thrilling first for me, I’ve been tasked with tasting wedding cakes on behalf of my clients. Who gives up free cake, you may ask? Beautiful power couples with no time for sugary carbohydrates, apparently. But while Calvin and Brooke have truly left every detail of their wedding up to me, I’m not complaining about this errand—even if I am a little nervous about spending the afternoon with Jude.
My stomach twists as I rush to finish my makeup. After our late-night phone call, we haven’t talked other than confirming today’s outing. I’m notsayingthat we’re pretending it didn’t happen, but something about falling asleep to the voice of your supposed enemy after grief-bonding with them makes it seem a lot like they’re not your enemy at all.
Which is why, when Henry showed up at my door the next day to ask me out, I said yes.
Partly, it was shock. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been asked on a date. And not in some algorithm-based, look-at-me-pose-with-this-fish way, but face-to-face. With windswept curls and a dimpled smile, he took his shot, and it had felt… simple. Not in a bad way, but in a refreshing I’m-not-actively-trying-to-ruin-your-life kind of way.
Which is why Iwon’tthink about how Jude secured new venuesfor all my former clients. Or our almost-kiss. Or eventhosewords. The ones I’m desperately trying to forget.
I’m… very attracted to you.
“Ow!” I quickly press my hand to the eye I’ve just stabbed with my mascara wand.Dammit. This has been happening all week. That single strained sentence will pop back into my head, and suddenly I’m running into doorjambs, or struck speechless when I should be answering simple questions like “Can I help you find something, miss?”Yes, helpful grocery store employee, can you help me find my goddamn MIND?
Quickly, I redo my makeup.Henry, Henry, Henry, I silently chant, like it might point my thoughts in a safer direction. It works for a few minutes, but as I leave the cottage with a slightly throbbing eyeball and barely a minute to spare, I’m immediately confronted by the source of all my troubles.
Jude is in my driveway, leaning against a shiny black Mercedes SUV that makes my Camry look like it emerged from the primordial ooze. In dark sunglasses, cream slacks, and a navy linen button-down that’s open at the throat and rolled at the sleeves, he looks like he should be drinking wine on the French Riviera. Or I guess rolling up to the turn-of-the-century estate he’s just inherited? Either way, it’s the first time I’ve seen him in anything other than a suit. When he takes off his sunglasses, I gulp.
“Hey,” I say, silently asking myselfwhyI let him pressure me into carpooling. But I know why. Today’s forecast has a 20 percent chance of sprinkles, which in Jude’s mind translates to a 90 percent chance of raining lava and… I guess I didn’t want him to be anxious.
He opens the passenger door for me. “Hello,” he says, sounding reserved in that particular Judish way I’m learning means he’s nervous, too. How the hell are we going to survive the next hour trapped in this car? Maybe I could suggest an audiobook he’d love. LikeCrime and Punishment. OrThe Dictionary.
“Is it too cold?” he asks when we’re both in. “I’ll turn down the AC.” But as he twists to buckle his seat belt and adjust the thermostat, I’m too overcome by his cologne to respond. He somehow smells like every up-against-the-stacks, after-hours librarian fantasy I’ve everhad, and my thighs pinch together on the leather seat with a needy squeak.I’m… very attracted to you.
“It’s, uh, very clean in here,” I say, hoping my bland commentary disguises my sordid thoughts.You should be thinking of Henry,I scold myself. Remember him? The man you just agreed to date?
“Why do you sound so nervous about cleanliness?” Jude asks as I fumble to clip my seat belt. “Would you rather sit in a ball pit of take-out cups and gym socks?”
“Honestly, if it gave me something to poke fun of you for, then maybe,” I mutter, disarmed as usual by how perfectly put together he is.
“Good to know you’d willingly martyr yourself for the chance to give me a hard time,” he says dryly.
I take in more details of the car. “It’s almostcreepilyclean in here,” I observe. “Are you one of those guys who polishes his tires on the weekends, or did you just dispose of a dead body and bleach the evidence away?”
“Definitely the latter,” he says, putting the car into drive with a soft chiming sound. “I couldn’t possibly have had it detailed because I knew I’d have a guest in my car and wanted them to be comfortable.”
