Exactly the kind of woman I’d have loved to call mine once.
In a past life.
My chest burns, and I utter the confession quietly before the door closes behind me.
But I know she hears.
“Both feel like shit, Jude. Believe me.”
19
JUDE
I’m sittingbeneath the large veranda where we eat, turning over small pieces of a jigsaw I found on the hotel’s game and book swap shelf. The rest of our group has gone on a boat trip for the day. I declined Mel’s request that I join them. When she came back to our bungalow last night and saw the state of my bed, her eyes lit up with an eagerness to hear every juicy detail.
Until she saw my face.
We fell asleep beside one another in her unbroken bed, talking about how women don’t need men, and that they’re only trouble. We came up with a whole list of reasons why I was better off without Woody messing with my head, and that no sex, no matter how hot, was worth the sinking feeling I had in my stomach when he walked out.
Each reason made sense.
But what didn’t make sense was the fact I didn’t breathe a word to my best friend of years, about who I suspect Woody really is, or that I’ve been Googling the Beaufort family. Everything I’ve found has been about their luxury jewelry business. Hardly anything is written about the accident threeyears ago that supposedly killed Slade Beaufort and—as I’ve also since discovered—his mother too.
I’ve kept his secret.
For now.
My eyes snag on a straight-edged jigsaw piece and I lift it, placing it next to the other edge pieces I’ve set to one side. A voice calls from the path, and I look up as Nandi shuffles past, waving at me.
I smile and wave back. She’s going in the direction of his workshop. I wonder if she’s brought him money again. His workshop isn’t far, but at the speed she’s going it’ll take her a while to reach it.
“If you need to leave something for Woody, I can give it to him,” I call to her.
She shuffles over to the table and looks at me, then at the path she’d have to walk. A cough steals her breath, making her pull out a handkerchief to press to her lips.
“Thanks, bokkie. If you don’t mind?”
I smile at her kindly as she stuffs the handkerchief away and pulls a few bills from her pocket.
“It’s his half. Really, he should get more. He does the bedding. That’s tough. All that tucking and bending,” she mutters, pressing the money into my palm.
“Does he help you a lot?” I ask.
“Every day.” Her eyes crinkle at the edges with years of laughter lines as she gives me a wistful smile. “I’ve got girls. Two. Both away studying. That boy… he’s like the son I never had.”
“I’ll make sure he gets this,” I tell her as she shuffles away, back down the path that leads toward the hotel.
I put the folded notes beneath a candle in a glass jar and lean on my hand, trying to concentrate on the jigsaw. But my eyes keep darting back to the money. He helps her every day? Those aren’t the actions of a man he claims should be thought of as aghost or a shadow. Or the behavior of a man I should keep my distance from, despite how hard he’s trying to convince me I should.
I manage to put another six pieces into the puzzle before the hairs on the back of my neck prick up. I glance over my shoulder, and there he is, looking all gruff and serious in the same gray T-shirt and swim trunks I’ve seen him wear multiple times.
His eyes meet mine as he places some wood in the firepit supply pile.
“Nandi left some money for you,” I say.
He walks over, stopping beside me. His gaze flicks past the money to the jigsaw.
“I like them. All the pieces are there. You just have to figure out how they fit together.” I shrug, even though I don’t know why I’m explaining myself to him.
