“My roommate was into classic horror,” he says with a shrug. He shuts the last drawer of the apothecary desk. “He never introduced me toGhost, though.”
“Ghostisn’t horror. It’s romance.” I grab a sheet beside me and tug it upward with a flourish. There’s an oil painting underneath—a portrait of an elderly woman with eyes that seem to follow me as I sway back and forth. “Do you miss it?”
“Miss what?”
“Your boarding school. Your life there. Your roommate.”
Jude inspects a bookshelf stacked with old children’s literature. Picture books from a bygone era. “My roommate was preferable to Isabel.”
And Rafe, I’m sure.
But he doesn’t mention him.
He opens a small book with a gray cloth binding.The Tale of Peter Rabbitby Beatrix Potter. “I miss the challenge. And the opportunities.”
“Like?”
“Cambridge.” He snaps the book shut.
I fold the sheet and hang it over the mirror’s frame. “Is that where you want to go for college?”
“It was the plan. Not sure they admit many students from Foggy Hollow High, though.”
Probably not. But then, no student at Foggy Hollow High has ever been a Vandenberg. I fiddle with the cloak’s clasp—hooking it, and unhooking it, then hooking it again—feeling a bit defensive for this town I love. “What other opportunities did your school offer that Foggy Hollow can’t?”
“Fencing. Archery. Equestrian training.”
“You have stables.”
“Emptystables.”
“So fill them,” I say with a shrug. “And continue on with your equestrian training. Or, teach me archery. I’ll be Little John to your Robin Hood.”
Jude frowns.
Maybe he’s not planning to be here for much longer. So what would be the point in filling his stables or teaching me archery? Or finding a key, for that matter. And yet, he searches like a man absorbed, his attention on a vintage suitcase. He pulls out a porcelain doll with no eyes.
“You want this for your podcast?” He holds it up with a crooked grin, the first real smile I’ve seenon his face. And heaven help me, Jude Vandenberg has dimples.
“That is horrifying,” I say, pulling up another sheet. There’s an old phonograph underneath, perched atop a three-legged parlor table. And beneath it, a wooden crate full of vinyls. “Holy motherlode.”
I pick up the crate, set it on a nearby trunk, and flip through the albums, reading each artist aloud. “Glenn Miller. Benny Goodman. Nat King Cole.”
The floor creaks.
Jude stops behind me, so close I can feel his warmth, smell that delectable cologne. He reaches past me to flip further back. “Beethoven,” he says, his voice right next to my ear. “Puccini.”
I swallow hard.
“David Bowie,” he reads next. “Scary Monsters and Super Creeps.”
“Now that’s a title I can get behind.” With a smile, I continue flipping where Jude left off. Fleetwood Mac. Rolling Stones. And then …
“Stevie Nicks!” I pluck the album from the rest. “My mom loved her.”
As soon as the words are out, my cheeks catch on fire. I just brought up my mother. In the past tense. A faux pas that turns Jude’s attention into something acute and curious, as weighty as the cloak over my shoulders.
“You live with your dad,” he says.
