“You wound me,” he deadpans, but his eyes are moving over my face like he hasn’t seen me in months.
“Well, even if your formdoesneed work, I couldn’t be moregrateful,” I say, my voice softening as I stare up at him. “Thank you for dropping everything for me.”
“You never have to say thank you for letting me take care of you,” he says quietly.
My stomach flips, but before I can argue that catching drunken, bar-leaping strangers on my behalf definitely warrants thanks, there’s a loud chime from a nearby phone. We turn to see Kaylie jerk awake, before blearily unlocking her screen. She elbows the friend next to her and says, “Ride’s here, Becca.”
Jude and I go at once to help them to their unsteady feet, and for the next fifteen minutes, it’s like supervising school pickup as we get these women safely into cars and off our hands. The last person to leave is Brooke, who we’ve convinced to visit the ER to get checked for a concussion.
“Please, just let me know how much Maya needs for repairs,” she says one last time from the window of her ride. “And I’m so sorry again for everyone’s behavior and—”
“Just take care of yourself tonight, Brooke. We’ll talk tomorrow once you’ve rested up.”
The car mercifully drives off, and I let out a massive sigh of relief. “Oh, thank God that’s over.”
The sidewalks are crowded despite the late hour as groups of people migrate toward eerie music playing from the river. It’s a summertime Saturday night in Providence, which means one thing: Waterfire—a weekly spectacle where bonfires are set ablaze in the middle of the river.
Without deciding to, Jude and I begin slowly walking, too, swept along by the crowd.
He shrugs. “I don’t know. Definitely livened up my Saturday night.”
“That tells me nothing,” I say as we round a corner and see our first views of the fire-lit river and thousands of people gathered along the banks. “Based on that hair extension hanging from the ceiling fan, you could have been skydiving and had a less lively time.”
“And where in the skydiving-to-bachelorette scale of liveliness do you think clipping Taco’s nails would fall?”
My eyes widen. “I’m honestly shocked she let you.”
A group of teenagers dressed as fairies runs past giggling, and Jude pulls me to his side when I’m clipped by a wing. “?‘Let you’ implies that I was successful in the attempt. I gave up and went for a swim instead,” he says, hand sliding to my waist.
I laugh while my heart spins in my chest until it’s dizzy. He doesn’t let go. “I bet I could do it in less than five minutes,” I boast.
“If you did, the world would have one less set of deadly weapons to worry about,” he says, leading us toward a tent and the intoxicating smell of kettle corn. “Hungry?”
When I nod, he buys me a bag of popcorn approximately the size of my torso. But I don’t argue. I’m too busy fighting against a current of pure fantasy—that this could be more than casual.
I know it’s a ridiculous thought.I’mthe one insisting on no strings, and the number of barriers between us could block an extinction-event asteroid. But with his hand on my waist, it’s hard not to feel wanted. Adored, even. It makes me think the most dangerous thought anybody can have about an emotionally unavailable man—maybe I can fix him. Maybe I’ll be the one who opens him up.
“My place isn’t too far from here,” he says. “And I don’t mean to brag, but my couch isreallycomfortable.”
Electricity leaps in my stomach. “Is this just a ploy to get me to cut your cat’s nails?”
He smiles. “Less ploy, more plea. But only if you think saving a man from being sliced to ribbons in his sleep is a worthy cause.”
In the firelight off the river, his eyes are nothing but trouble. The kind that blurs hesitation into desperation, until I’m ignoring every instinct shouting that I’m about to fall even deeper. Instead, I meet his gaze and say, “Lead the way.”
30GRACIE
Two Weeks Before the Wedding
I’ve gotta say, I’m a little disappointed there aren’t more whips and paddles,” I comment when Jude lets us into his downtown apartment. It’s in a building tall enough to have a beautiful bird’s-eye view of the river, and modern in a way that seems like a conscious F-You to Larkwood’s Gilded Age maximalism. But that doesn’t mean it’s cold. Everywhere I look, the clean lines of the space are softened by furniture that seems designed to promote cuddling, and rugs thick enough to make snow angels in.
But you’re not here for cuddles, I remind myself firmly.You are here for kinky, commitment-free sex with the hottest man alive. And to trim his cat’s nails.
He smirks, and I grip my giant bag of popcorn tighter. The last time I ran to Jude, I was emotionally spiraling. Now that I’m (relatively) level-headed, it feels more like an active decision to be here, and I’m not sure where that falls on the morally gray scale. Because even though I ended things with Henry, it’s hard not to feel guilty for hurting someone so genuinely kind, and for potentially setting fire to his friendship with Jude.
“Don’t tempt me to redecorate,” he says, pulling my attention back. He drops his keys and things into a tasteful bowl on a tasteful entryway table before taking off his tasteful sneakers. I do the same, suddenly deeply aware of my messy gremlin cottage with all its zombie tchotchke and romance novels. This is the home of a functioningadult with an actual budget for things like furniture, art, and probably more than one set of sheets. Sheets that, if I can stop overthinkingeverything, I could potentially get wrapped up in.
“Hey.”
