When I finally reach her door, I don’t think; I knock, only realizing belatedly that I’m out of breath and lacking any reasonable excuse for being here.
The door opens, and she’s there in a short floral dress that pays homage to every one of her curves. Her hair is up, exposing her long neck, and she’s wearing rosy pink lipstick and black-winged eyeliner. What’s left is one rattling thought:she did it all forhim.
“Jude,” she says, alarm suffusing her face. “Is everything okay?” She looks toward Larkwood, then back at me. “Nothing’s on fire, is it?”
You mean apart from my brain?
“No,” I assure her. “I’m not that lucky.”
She makes an irritated sound. “You scared me. I’ve only been home for like nine seconds.”
“Sorry—I was just passing by and saw you pull in.”
Her eyebrows draw together. “You were just passing by my cottage at ten p.m.?” Her eyes drop down to my feet and back up. “In slippers?”
Fuuuck.
“They’re indoor/outdoor,” I lie, wishing the earth would have the decency to swallow me whole. “I’ve been going through Nana’s things. Needed some fresh air.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?” she asks with a look of concern.
Jesus. With effort, I unclench my fists and try to focus on anything but my racing heart and my fucking feet.
“Yeah,” I say, closing my eyes for a moment. “I’m just—” I let out a croak of a laugh and run my hand through my hair. “I just wanted to know you got home safe.”
Her worried expression dissolves into something so soft, I have to assume it’s pity. “Do you want to come in?” she asks quietly.
“What?” I say stupidly, positive I’ve misheard her.
“I mean, unless you have somewhere else to hop off to in those bunny slippers,” she says with a smirk.
Too relieved to be embarrassed, I say, “Sure. I mean, yeah. Only if you don’t mind the company.”
She gives me an indecipherable look but doesn’t say anything as she lets me in.
When the door is closed behind us, she immediately slips off her heels with a soft sound of relief. It’s such a banal, everyday moment, but intimate, somehow. Like the man who gets to witness it should be the one who gets to run her a bath at the end of the day and take her to bed. But I’m not that man. I’m a fucking psycho in slippers, intruding on her privacy after a date with someone else. With Henry.
With effort, I force myself not to ask about it. It’s not my business.
“Are you thirsty?” she asks as she pours herself a glass of water in the kitchen.
If she only knew.
“No, I’m okay, thanks.”
As she walks back toward me, I search desperately for something other than the one question I want to ask.
“How did wedding planning go this week?” I finally settle on.
She gives me a beleaguered look. “It’s been a lot. My checklist is doing this thing where it never shrinks, and I just found out that one of my usual day-of assistants will be out of town for the wedding.”
“You’ll have me,” I say. Her gaze lifts to mine. “I can help with whatever you need.”
Her shoulders drop a fraction. “I appreciate that. I wasn’t sure if you were allergic to weddings and planned on making a last-minute excuse.”
“It’s fine, I’ll have my EpiPen at the ready.”
She snorts and takes another drink of water. Looking away, my gaze catches on the bolts of fabric in the darkened corner of her living room. “So, are you planning on making a dress for this thing? Something from another Audrey movie?”
