for all the blokes who came flocking.
They’ll miss her sweet smiles,
her money and wiles,
but mostly how she had their boots knocking.”
He finishes in a tone more appropriate for reading Sylvia Plath, reaches into the box one last time, and pulls out a party horn. He blows it once, the paper unrolling with a loudtoot, and the laugh that rockets out of me in a spasm of joy and heartache is uncontrollable.
Jude’s eyes snap to mine, and I realize with dawning mortification that the rest of the church is completely silent—even her theater friends managed to keep their respectful silence. His eyes widen slightly as he gets a good look at me, and my face becomes the new primary heat source for the Earth. But then, he smiles. It’s just the smallest quirk at the corner of his wide mouth, but it transforms that invisible cord between us into an electrical conduit, pulsing with unexpected connection. A corner of my own mouth twitches upward, like a tug on our string.
Jude blinks like he feels it, then drops his lashes. “Thank you, everyone, for coming.” Without looking at me or anyone else again,he gathers the items on the podium, removes his party accessories, and walks back to his seat.
I let out a breath when he sits. A woman with dark auburn waves and a similarly square jaw, who I assume is his mother, rubs his shoulder as the priest returns. He closes the service, but I barely hear any of it. My eyes are locked on the back of Jude’s head, and I’m already plotting the best way to corner him at the canapé table later. It’s probably—no, definitely—a terrible plan. He’s grieving, and I’m sure he doesn’t want to be accosted by a stranger who basically wore a Halloween costume to his grandmother’s funeral.
But in the week since Agatha passed, there hasn’t been anyone I could really mourn with. And maybe I’m just desperately projecting my own need for connection, but the way he held my gaze in mutual understanding felt like passing a note in secret. And more than anything else, I need to unfold it.
Entering Larkwood’s ballroom in a stream of other funeral-goers, I’m a woman on a mission. Since leaving the church, my need to talk to Jude has condensed into a sharp and specific hope—that maybe if I tell Agatha’s grandson how much I loved her, the regret of never having told her myself will feel a fraction less crushing.
Thanks to his height, he’s not hard to spot. He makes his way slowly through the crowd, responding to greetings with a reserve that strongly encourages people not to chitchat. But I refuse to be deterred by this,orby his cheekbones, which seem biologically designed for intimidation.
Dodging other guests who stare openmouthed at the room’s frescoed, velvet-draped splendor, I position myself behind a tall, tropical-looking plant near the bar Jude is headed for. It’s the wrong move. The line moves surprisingly fast, and before I can extricate myself and casually sidle up to the bar, Jude is being handed a drink and turning away. He’s moments from being greeted by another group of guests, and I stumble quickly from where I’m lurking.
“Jude?”
He turns at the sound of his name, but naturally the spiky plant I’ve brushed against in my haste decides it wants to hold on to me forever. The long, blade-shaped leaves catch in my carefully swept-back hair, and I rear back a step. Something sharp jabs into my scalp.
“Shit,” I curse under my breath as I reach up and discover razor-edged leaves that are fully capable of ruining both hair and lives. Desperately trying to unsnarl myself while somehow looking completely chill, I execute a spectacular double-fail. I’m the picture of grace, half bent over with my arms over my head as Jude abandons his drink at the bar and strides toward me.
“Here, let go, you’re going to—”
“Ow!” I cry as one of the leaf edges slices across the pad of my thumb.
“Hurt yourself,” Jude finishes. I automatically suck the shallow cut between my lips, and then he’s standing right next to me. Close enough that I can smell his cologne, which reads explicitly like a fall breeze rustling the crisp pages of a book beside a glass of whiskey. Which is ludicrous and— “Do you mind if I try?”
His voice is deep and soft. Like the kind of feather pillow that seems like a good idea until it swallows your head whole. I release my hurt thumb and raise my eyes to his. As my gaze travels up—and then up some more—I clock every detail of his suit. The expertly cut wool, the elegant roll of his lapels, the perfectly dimpled gray tie. A small, bright pink feather rests on his collar. It nearly makes me smile despite the plant situation, but when my gaze reaches his face, all brain activity dissolves.
Because Agatha’s grandson is beautiful. From a distance, it was hard not to stare. Up close, it almost feels awkwardnotto comment on. Like when you’re faced with a friend’s terrible haircut, only the exact opposite. My gaze stutters up to his eyes, but they’re half-shaded as he makes his own curious perusal. It takes mewaytoo long to realize he’s politely waiting on my answer to his question.Dear lord.
“Um, yes,” I manage. “That would be grelpful. I mean, helpful. And also great.”
Kill me now, Agatha. Take me with you to that infinite bubble bath in the sky and then drown me for good measure.
A corner of his mouth pulls upward, right along with the blood rushing to my face. I want to explain that I don’t get out much. That some exposure therapy to handsome men who love their grandmothers would probably do me some good.
“Okay, hold still,” he instructs, before lifting his hands to gently explore my tangled strands with a touch I feel in my toes. He sinks perfect white teeth into his bottom lip.
“I’m sorry, there’s no saving it,” he says after a moment, looking down at me. “Do you mind if I take your hair down?”
I am a guppy. Unable to do more than blink and open my mouth several, pointless times. Finally, I nod, but it pulls at my scalp, and I wince.
“Don’t move,” he murmurs, eyes back on my hair. He takes a step closer, and then his hands are pulling pins from my chignon, one by one. The bottom half falls heavily around my shoulders, where it isn’t caught by spiny leaves. He hesitates a moment, and then his fingers are sinking into my hair, scraping my scalp and freeing the bladelike leaves. I try not to moan. I’m at afuneral. But in my defense, the last person who touched me like this was my hairdresser, and her face doesn’t make my brain feel like melted cheese.
“Oh my God, thank you,” I say, when I’m free.
“Anything to be grelpful,” he responds with a smirk, holding out his hand.
At first, I have the bewildering impression that he’s about to twirl me into a dance. But then I see the bobby pins in his palm and flush.Right. Because I’m not an eloquently spoken debutante at a ball. We’re at his grandmother’s funeral, and I’m a woman who gets caught in potted plants and invents brilliant new words. I take the pins and put them in my clutch.
