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I’m not sleeping anyway.

I get out of bed, pull on my slippers and make my way out of the bedroom, but instead of staying inside, I walk out onto the porch and curl up on the swing.

It’s still dark outside, the ranch quiet beneath a sky that hasn’t even started to lighten yet. From here I can see Jude’s house, but every window is dark, so I pull my knees up and wait, letting the swing move gently beneath me while my thoughts keep circling back to everything I said to him yesterday.

I don’t know how long I sit there before a light finally comes on in his house.

For a moment, I consider staying exactly where I am. I could go back inside, crawl into bed and pretend I never had this stupid idea in the first place.

You promised.

“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter as I push myself off the swing.

So, in my freaking pajamas at five in the fucking morning, I cross the space between our houses and make my way toward Jude’s.

At least I put on slippers.

I knock twice, and a few seconds later the door opens.

Jude stands there in grey shorts and a T-shirt, his hair still wet from a shower.

I expect a knowing smirk. Maybe an I knew you’d cave.

Instead, his green eyes settle on mine with that same quiet understanding that somehow makes me feel worse. No smugness. No anger.

He lifts one hand and I notice he’s holding a steaming cup of coffee out to me.

Of course.

I take it from him. “Thank you.”

He steps aside and lets me in.

I know I stormed in here the other day looking for Damiano’s lasagna, but I didn’t notice anything about his house then. Now I do.

And it’s not what I expected.

It’s warm and welcoming, with lots of wood and big windows looking out over the ranch. A worn leather couch faces the fireplace, a thick rug covers most of the wooden floor, and everything is clean without feeling untouched, like every single thing has a place but none of it was put there for show.

And there are books everywhere.

Two tall bookcases flank the fireplace, both completely full, with more books stacked sideways wherever there’s room. There’s a pile on the coffee table, another beside the couch and one lying open facedown on the armrest.

I look around again, surprised by how comfortable it feels. I don’t know what I expected from Jude’s home. Something sparse, maybe. Quiet. A little cold, like the man who barely speaks and spends most of his days with horses instead of people.

Instead, it feels like somewhere you could curl up on the couch with a book and stay awhile.

“So...” I look down at my slippers. “I’m not usually a bitch.”

“I know.”

That’s all he says as he walks into the kitchen and pours himself another cup of coffee.

I look up. “I’m sorry.”

I shake my head. “I feel like I keep apologizing to you.”

A weak laugh escapes me.