Page 6 of Elf-ish

“If you get trampled in my store, I’m not footing the bill for an ambulance trip.”

My head snaps forward, causing my neck to crack as I spin to face Jude Ashford, upright and dressed in a suit certain to cost more than six months of my salary. No man should look so good in a bright blue suit and simple white dress shirt minus a tie. A slight dusting of hair along his jaw appears artistically designed and not naturally grown.

“What are you doing here?” I can’t seem to help my smile at his sudden presence, nor the surprise in my voice when I say, “You shouldn’t be out of bed.”

My statement shouldn’t sound as breathless as it does.

Jude pats over his heart. “Doc says I’m as strong as an ox.”

“Are you certain he didn’t say, as stubborn as one? Because you should still be resting.”

The corner of his mouth twitches again. Sadly, the dimple isn’t as prevalent with another day’s growth of facial hair in the way.

“You know, not many people can get away with talking to me like that.”

I tilt my head, cock my hip, and place my fist there, like I’m prepared to throw down with the man.

“Good thing I’m not many people.” I don’t know where the confidence or sass comes from, but something about this man has me on edge. Not a negative one, but more like a teetering one, like I’m standing on the tip of ballet pointe shoes, my ankles wobbling. Any minute, I might topple over.

After all these years, I’d like to believe Jude has grown up, changed a bit from the spoiled, rich kid act, he’d once been. The man once ruling high school hallways has a more meaningful position amid the levels of his department store after all. Yet, I don’t have any proof that he’s matured emotionally.

My foundation for change comes from me. I’m not that girl anymore who might have stepped out of his way when I was seventeen. A girl who might have stared at someone like Jude and wondered what it would be like to be near him. At thirty-seven, I’m made of stronger stuff.

And Jude Ashford cannot intimidate me.

Still watching me, he finally states, “Actually, I just needed a few things from my office.”

“And you needed to wear a suit for that?” I arch a brow, scanning down the fit of a one-button suit jacket and the slim pants cropped at his ankles, in the modern style.

He’s almost too pretty.

He scoffs, the sound becoming familiar. “I have a reputation to uphold.”

“So, no sweatpants for you,” I tease, glancing down at myself wearing black leggings with a rip in the knee and an oversized, holiday-green sweatshirt that reads: HO-HO-Oh No!

Dammit, why didn’t I dress up like Gran used to make us do as kids?

Then again, I’m not here to impress a man I didn’t know would be present. This outfit is my day-off uniform.

“Anyway, don’t you have an assistant for that?” The pretty raven-haired woman comes to mind. “Or a courier service could have brought you your things.”

This busy city is teeming with service providers. If only I was comfortable enough to take up the service of hiring a date. Which I’m not. And reminds me I have a shopping list to complete.

I’m distracted once again when Jude runs a practiced hand through his dark hair that has the smallest hint of gray, like snowflakes randomly sprinkled among the dark strands.

He, on the other hand, avoids looking at me, eyes pinched while his head is turned away from me. For a second, he almost looks . . . lost. He could be any average shopper. Someone popping in during a weekday lunch break to quickly pick up a gift. Only it isn’t during the middle of the week or lunchtime, and he is anything but average.

“What were you looking at?” he abruptly asks.

I flinch like I’ve been caught gawking at him, which I had been doing. He tips his chin toward the ceiling, and I spin a little before glancing upward once more.

“I love that ceiling.” My voice is a little strained due to the awkward angle of my tilted head. “There is something magical about it, almost mystical,” I admit, dreamily. “Like the Sistine Chapel’s greatness, even if it’s only a glass ceiling in a department store.”

I risk a glance at Jude, who has stepped closer to me to avoid the path of a harried shopper not watching where he walks. With Jude this close, I catch a whiff of something expensive and sharp coming off him.

He stares up at the ceiling as well, as if he hasn’t seen it a thousand times already in his lifetime. He is Ashford’s royalty. Heir to this shopping kingdom that his great-something-grandfather began. But maybe he no longer notices the majesty of the dome.

Gazing back up at the ceiling, sun beams pierce the glass, making a kaleidoscope pattern on the upper levels.