Page 9 of Sterling Fight

“I’m enjoying a cinnamon roll, as one does in a bakery.”

Judd scowls while dismissing my attempt at humor. Those lost-boy eyes remain focused on me. “No, I mean here in Sterling Falls.”

I’ve been asking myself the same thing since I left my place in Knoxville at six this morning. The last time I was here might have been at least five years ago, maybe more, and any visit is always short. One day max. Originally, I’d planned to arrive next weekend for a four-day visit, but my mother somehow talked me into attending her annual garden party.

“I’m here for the Buttercup Society Garden Party.”

Judd groans, understanding who and what that means, before he eyes my outfit.

No, I’m not wearing the mandatory yellow dress required yet. That torture will happen later today. The current torture is this shift in Judd’s eyes while looking at me. From forlorn to flaming. Like I’m a gooey bakery treat, and he has an insatiable sweet tooth. Then again, I might be projecting my own thoughts on him, and I do not want to be thinking of Judd in this way.

Because he still has that floppy whisp of hair falling against his forehead. His hair is still wet-sand, now freckled with gray here and there, and a matching beard on his round face. Plus, those eyes.

He’s pure catnip.

“Want to take a seat?” Judd invites, pointing to the open chair Heather left behind.

Never a fan of her hand-me-downs, I respond, “I should probably decline. Caramel isn’t my favorite flavor.” I smile to lessen the blow of my joke.

Judd glances down at himself again.

“Sorry about all that with Heather.” Are condolences the correct response to a breakup? I sound like a loon. Instead, I should question him about the fight he participated in last week, but I quickly decide against asking.

Judd Sylver hasn’t been my business for a long time.

“Anyway, it was great seeing you again,” I state, albeit a strange second re-acquaintance.

“How long are you in town?” he asks, reaching out toward me like he might capture my wrist before I walk away but then thinking twice about it and dropping his fist back to his upper thigh.

“Roughly ten days.” And not a day longer if all the rest of the days are this exciting. I can’t remember the last time I witnessed a breakup other than the continual stream of my own, most of which had been my doing.

Judd nods, noncommittally, and I assume he was only making conversation.

Now we’re both just awkwardly staring at one another until he clears his throat and says, “Well, thanks for the napkins.”

Of course, I have to take this moment one step further toward more awkward because my mouth lacks a filter sometimes. “Any time. I’m great at cleaning up messes.”

Judd’s brows pinch and even I question why I’ve said such a thing. I’m better at making a mess than fixing things.

The longer Judd looks at me, the more uncomfortable I grow. Perhaps he recalls my date from last weekend. I must have looked pathetic and desperate to be there with Ralson. Nearly forty and I’m still accepting random dates with the son of a friend of a friend of my mother.

Silly Ralson even tried to text me this week, asking if he could still drop off his laundry, even without a second date. Bless his heart. I didn’t have time nor the inclination in my overly non-busy schedule to do his laundry or respond to such a text.

“If you ever need help getting out of a mess, let me know what I can do for you.”

“Can you help me find a date by one this afternoon?” There is no earthly reason why that question pops out of my mouth, especially as Judd is the last person I’d want to know I’m in need of a date.

His brows hitch and even I’m surprised by the snark in my tone and the bluntness of my response. Admitting I’m still single as a Pringle, I’ve just slapped another layer of awkward on my awkwardness.

Even if a date would halt my mother from asking the inevitable question, when will you be getting married?—answer: never—Judd isn’t a miracle worker and that’s what it would take to make a date magically appear.

I laugh, dismissively, waving off my question. “I’m kidding. Of course.”

Judd continues to watch me. His eyes seem to take me in, holding on mine before touching on my forehead, nose, and cheeks then dipping down to my lips. Like he’s either cataloguing the changes of twenty years or memorizing my face in case another twenty years passes before he sees me again.

Either way, the look is intense and unnerving, a conflict between flattering and uncomfortable. I don’t know if any man has ever looked at me like Judd is right now.

For a moment, I wonder if he remembers what happened between us.