I fucking want her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Jude
I hearthe front door ease open while I’m drying a pan by the sink. Footsteps drift in—light, a little unsure—and then she’s there in the doorway, shoulders angled inward like she’s not sure she should step all the way inside.
She smells faintly of Ryker.
Not strong, but unmistakable. It twists something in me before I can stop it.
“We talked,” she murmurs, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Her cheeks are warm, and her eyes are too bright for someone who claims she’s fine.
“Yeah,” I say. “Maisie’s in the living room. She’s been waiting.”
Norah barely gets a breath out before there’s a thud and a blur of tiny limbs.
“Norah!” Maisie barrels in, curls bouncing, glasses slightly askew. She crashes into Norah’s legs, and Norah folds around her instantly, laughing into her hair.
That sound always softens me. Tonight, it hits deeper.
“It smells like pasta,” Maisie announces.
“I made dinner,” I say.
Norah straightens, pushing up her sleeves. “You cooked?”
“Don’t act so surprised.”
She grins and follows us into the living room, where the plates from earlier sit on the coffee table. I clear them while she and Maisie talk about school.
Then Norah crouches beside her and starts checking out her glasses—tilting them, asking if the prescription is comfortable, brushing curls away from her forehead with this quiet focus that pulls me in whether I want it to or not.
She’s always like this with Maisie. Gentle but sure. Kind without trying.
Ryker wasn’t wrong about her.
Maisie starts rambling about her art project, and Norah listens like it’s the most important thing in the world. When Maisie wanders off for her crayons, Norah stays kneeling on the floor, pulling off her tote bag.
She starts sorting things onto the rug—curl creams, detanglers, brushes, oils. Enough products to open her own salon.
“Okay,” she says, patting the spot beside her. “I’m giving you a lesson.”
“A what?”
“A lesson,” she repeats, pointing at the products. “On how to take care of her hair. You’re doing a lot right, but you need a few better tools.”
I sit beside her, knees brushing. “You didn’t have to?—”
“I wanted to.”
She walks me through each product, demonstrating on a strand of her own hair. I focus, even though her scent edges under my skin, warm and sweet, and the brush of her fingers near mine keeps sparking something I can’t keep steady anymore.
She combs through Maisie’s curls next, gentle, patient, explaining everything with this relaxed confidence that settles into the house like she’s been here for years.
When she leans in to adjust a curl pattern, her shoulder brushes mine. I don’t move.
After the lesson, I throw the products into a basket for the bathroom. She grabs a blanket from the couch and settles in with Maisie for the movie.
