Page 73 of Elf-ish

“Because . . .” I stammer, scrambling to come up with a reasonable excuse when deep down I know the reason.

“Because . . .” I try again, shifting my gaze from Beau to Jude and back, still struggling. A cold sweat breaks out on my neck.

“Perfect. Then it’s settled.” Beau pats Jude on the shoulder. “Thanks, man.”

However, Jude isn’t looking at Beau but watching me. With those intense eyes on me, my own begin to burn, and I spin away from both men, rushing for the open front door and thumping down the half-flight of stairs. I could push out into the cold December air. The chill might be refreshing, numbing even, which is what I need right now, when I consider my younger brother might get married in a place that holds no meaning to him.

And all the meaning to me.

chapter 23

[Jude]

With Angelica’s abrupt exit, I follow her, watching her indecision in the building entryway about rushing into the cold December morning, before she breaks left and thunders down another half-flight of stairs to the garden level. With only two doors on this floor, the one swinging shut from the force of her entrance is my clue to where she went.

The laundry room has a distinct scent of Tide laundry detergent with a hint of bleach, but the fragrance that draws my attention is the sugar and spice scent from the woman with her back to me. Her arms are spread wide, and she leans over the washer, hanging her head. The hunch of her shoulder does something to me. Like all I want to do is pull her into my arms, wrap them around her, and keep her safe from whatever is hurting her, because something hurts.

The panic in her eyes as she struggled to give a reason why her brother could not use The Oak Room for his wedding spoke volumes.

“Want to tell me what that was all about?” I softly ask, coming up close behind her but not touching her yet.

She shakes her head, holding her position, keeping her back to me.

“Is something wrong with The Oak Room?’ I ask, repeating my question from upstairs, with apprehension. What doesn’t she like about the place?

“No,” she chokes out, sniffling with her response.

I sense my brows lifting in surprise then crashing back over my eyes, troubled by her tears. Like someone has ripped open my chest. Like sawing the fresh cut at the base of a Christmas tree. I hate that she’s crying.

“Angel,” I whisper, no longer able to keep the distance. I step closer and spread my arms as well, covering her hands with mine and bringing my cheek near to her ear.

“Nothing is wrong with The Oak Room?” I clarify.

She shakes her head, which is still lowered. Her shoulders softly rise and fall as she sniffs again.

“But you don’t want your brother to have his wedding in my restaurant?”

I’m clearly missing something, and I brush my cheek against her ear until my lips are right there.

“Tell me,” I whisper. Not like the seductive bastard I was last night, but like the concerned man I am today. The worried boyfriend, if we were acting. But this isn’t an act. In the quiet of this basement laundry room, we’re all alone, no audience, no witnesses, and I want to know what’s bothering her. What’s troubling her heart.

Gently, I slip my hand around her throat and tip her head back so she rests it on my shoulder. From the corner of my eye, I watch her close hers.

“It’s not fair,” she whispers.

“What’s not fair, angel?” I keep my voice low, soothing, because I want to calm her.

“Beau always gets what he wants.” She exhales heavily, letting the weight of her body completely rest against mine.

Sadly, I understand. As much as I love my younger sister, I’d grown up thinking she was the spoiled one. She had the love of both our mother and our dad, her father.

“I’m being silly, right?” She shrugs against me. “At thirty-seven, what do I care if my younger brother still gets everything. The girl he wants. A spontaneous wedding. A holiday one at that.” She pauses and licks her lips. “And the venue of my dreams.”

“What?” I whisper, slow and low, and totally stunned. I must have misheard her. Yet despite a certain tightness in my chest and a sudden cotton ball in my throat, I ask, “You want to get married in the Oak Room?”

She closes her eyes again, like she instantly regrets the admission, when I don’t want her regretting anything between us. Not truths or touches or secrets for just us.

Suddenly, I can envision it. Her standing in a white dress near the antique mullioned floor-to-ceiling windows. A stream of sunlight beams into the room, highlighting that red hair, which is pulled back at the top but loose and wild down her back like she’s a Celtic queen. Her cheeks are rosy; her lips red, and that freckle is on display. My freckle, brightened by her smile.