He lifts a shoulder. “Have kinks.”
He says this so nonchalantly that it takes me several seconds to actually process it.
“Oh,” is what eventually leaves my mouth as he stops at the last red light before the highway. I don’t voice the obvious next question:Whichkinks?
But it’s like he hears me think it anyway, because he looks over at me, all traces of humor gone. I only realize my hands and skirt are pinned between my squirming thighs when his gaze drops to them. I freeze. For an indeterminable number of seconds, neither of us moves. Breathes. When his eyes finally drag back up to mine, what I see in them makes my stomach flip inside out and backward.
But then someone hits their horn behind us, and we both jump. Jude quickly looks away and hits the accelerator, shoulders rigid,hands tight. Meanwhile, the seat warmer I was enjoying suddenly feels like a griddle for my ass. I take a much-needed breath.
What the hell just happened?
My mind releases a deluge of panicked reminders that would have beenextremelyhelpful about forty seconds ago. I am about to go out with this man’s best friend. He’s trying to sabotage my life! I have no business thinking about his bedroom preferences or the fact that the most adventurous sex ofmylife involved an impromptu can of whipped cream and a lot of regrets involving Monistat 1.
“I’m changing the subject,” I announce. “Tell me about Henry.”
His voice is an audible glower. “I have no idea if he has any kinks. You’ll have to ask him yourself.”
“I wasn’t— I’m not asking—” I sputter before regaining my composure. “How are you two even friends?” I finally get out. “He’s sonice.”
If I thought his spine couldn’t get any stiffer, I was wrong. “I’m well aware. But somehow, I’ve hoodwinked him into thinking I’m decent company.”
He says it cooly, but there’s no mistaking the undercurrent of hurt in his voice, and suddenly I feel like the jerk. “Youaredecent company,” I say. “In fact, I keep forgetting not to like you.” I cut my eyes toward him. “I think under different circumstances, we could even be friends.”
“Friends,” he repeats, but I can’t get a read on his tone. The leather of the steering wheel squeaks beneath his grip.
“Sure,” I say brightly. “I mean, before I found out your plans for selling Larkwood, I even thought—”
I stop myself. If things get any more awkward in this car, I’ll be left with no choice but to duck and roll out the passenger door.
“You thought what?” Jude presses, his voice scratched around the edges.
I think back to our initial meeting. How I knew he’d be someone I could find comfort with after losing Agatha. How my heart raced when he saved me from that plant, and he made me feel a spark for someone other than Calvin for the first time in years.
“I thought we shared a connection over Agatha,” I admit, lookingout the window at the highway rushing by. “I thought we could help each other through the grief.”
He’s quiet for a long moment until, finally, he says, “What do you think the other night was?”
It feels like acknowledging something off-limits, and the atmosphere between us immediately changes to something softer. Heavier.
“You’re right. And I meant to say thank you,” I tell him, tugging on the hem of my skirt. “I mean, I know you probably have your parents to talk about her with, but for me…” I stare down at my hands. “You’re the only person I can really reminisce with.”
Out of my periphery, I see him shake his head before saying in a low voice, “It’s the same for me. My father isn’t in my life, and my mom…” The exhale he makes is almost inaudible. “There’s family history that makes grieving together complicated.”
At this, my heart feels like it’s just come face-to-face with its long-lost twin. Our gazes catch for a moment, and before I can stop it, a question I’ve been wondering for a while voices itself.
“Is that why you use Larkwood as your last name? Because it’s your mom’s and Agatha’s instead of your dad’s?”
His shoulders shift beneath his shirt. “Yeah,” he says shortly. “I changed it when I was old enough.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, overcome by simple, painful understanding. “My father isn’t in my life either.”
He looks away, but not before I see something like anger in the set of his mouth. “His loss.”
“Theirloss,” I correct him.
He keeps his gaze fixed on the road. “Maybe. But at least we found each other,” he says quietly, before pausing to weigh his words. “Remembering Nana with you confirms every one of my best memories, Gracie. Like, as long as I know you, I don’t have to doubt that they actually happened.”
Despite all my efforts to stay emotionally detached from this man, I feel a sharp tug on the cord that has connected us ever since Agatha’s funeral. The question rises inside me like a breath I don’t want to let out.What would make you question your best memories, Jude?
