Page 71 of Elf-ish

“Jude?” What the heck is he doing here?

“Angelica, why didn’t you tell us this fine man had entered your life?”

I blink at my Aunt Gertie, wearing her stylish, dark-framed glasses that are a little too large for her petite face. Her white hair is pinned up on the back of her head, and she has bright red lipstick on despite it being a Sunday morning with no place for her to go. And she’s smiling up at Jude, who is nearly a foot taller than her short stature, like he invented Santa Claus.

Gran sidles up beside me. She is everything opposite her sister, standing a little taller, a little broader, but no less mischievous in her own way. Her gray hair is cut in a sharp, chin-length bob.

“You didn’t tell me you had a boyfriend.”

I sigh heavily, instantly miffed. I haven’t told anyone because I don’t have a boyfriend, and this is precisely what I wanted to avoid—lying to my family.

Glaring at the man of the moment, his icy eyes stare back at me, not a trace of chagrin that he’s crashing cookie baking. He’s dressed in a suit again, making him look sorely out of place in my grandmother’s kitchen with her scuffed linoleum flooring and scratched, wooden cabinets.

Jude circles the table, stepping into my space.

“What are you doing?” I whisper, glancing around him, catching the eyes of my entire family staring at Jude’s back before busying themselves again.

“When my girlfriend uses an excuse of baking cookies to get out of breakfast plans, I have to see what’s all the fuss.” He smugly glances over his shoulder, causing me to catch a second round of my family eavesdropping, paused in positions that should be motions, like holding flour over a measuring cup or slicing through butter sticks.

“Can you say stalker much? Plus, you didn’t invite me to breakfast. And how did you even know where my grandmother lives?” I could add a final argument . . . and I’m not your girlfriend.

Then I think back over the past few days. How Jude has taken care of me, both when I was sick and when I was horny. Who does those kinds of things?

A friend, I guess. A friend . . . with benefits.

Jude’s mouth pops open, then clamps shut. His forehead pinches like he doesn’t recall that he didn’t actually invite me to the special event at Ashford’s. And he’s not about to explain the creepy way he knows where my grandmother lives.

Instead, I grip Jude’s suit coat lapel and tug him into Gran’s living room, away from my nosy family.

“Jude,” I grunt, then lower my voice. “I am not your girlfriend.”

Before he can comment, thundering footsteps clamber up the half flight of stairs to Gran’s open doorway, and my brother Beau skips into the room. Literally skips, despite his mid-thirties age. He even looks younger than he is, with blond hair he colors for a beach-bum effect, which plays off his tall, lean stature.

“Never fear, Beau is here.” He waves his arms to further announce himself, although the only ones present for his entrance are Jude and me.

Belle, his petite fiancée, follows him. “Beau, you didn’t hold the main door for me.” The brunette graduate student carries a paper grocery bag that looks heavy, and Beau spins to face her.

“I’m sorry, snookums.” He takes the bag from her hands, presses a kiss to her forehead, like she’s a child, and then rushes off toward the kitchen.

Belle gives me a sheepish wave and scampers after him.

“Ah. Beau and Belle.” Jude watches the adoring couple as they head for the chaos of the kitchen.

“Jude,” I redirect his attention. “You aren’t answering my question. What are you doing here?”

He exhales and swipes a hand through his hair, looking a little unsettled. Mussing up his hair, which results in a sexy finger combing, but I don’t allow myself to get distracted.

I lick my lips to tamp down the effect, but Jude’s eyes fix on my mouth.

“I wanted to see you.” The answer is simple enough and shouldn’t have a strange effect on me. Like blowing a warm breath on cool glass and watching the vapor spread. My insides heat as well.

“You just saw me this morning,” I state, without adding how he snuck out when he didn’t need to slink.

“Look, you’ve been sick, and you work too hard.” He waves toward the living room like the space is evidence of all I’ve been doing this holiday season. “Let me help you.”

“Make cookies?” I clarify. “With my family.”

Jude shrugs, hanging his head. He practically kicks at the worn carpeting, like he really wants to participate in baking cookies, which doesn’t make any sense. He’s a busy man. He even had plans on a Sunday morning, and I didn’t barge into his schedule. Didn’t disrupt his calendar of events.