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Out of the corner of my eye, Jude relaxes, dropping her arms from her chest. No longer defensive.
“To not live up to what Gram built for us is the ultimate shame,” I explain carefully. “And I’ve had to realize with these conditions she’s set upon me that I haven’t been living up to her expectations for a long time.”
“If she didn’t tell you the expectations, there’s no way you could have known, Chase,” Jude offers.
I know she’s right, but that’s not how this works. We revolve around our matriarch. We cater to her and her wants and needs. We are supposed to be able to practically read her mind (but not really because that would be some sort of unchristian witchcraft). “I have a duty. And it might be antiquated, but duty is everything to me.”
Jude nods. “Okay then.”
She holds out her hand toward me. I narrow my eyes at it, unsure what to do.
“Handshake. Deal’s on.”
The burden I’ve been carrying for the past week immediately lifts and I smile. Beam. Bigger than I should. “Really?”
“I thought a businessman would know a handshake when he saw one,” Jude teases.
I take her hand quickly. And while relief has spread through my body, there is now a new tenseness in my chest from her single touch. I missed this hand… more than I should.
Although it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if your pretense of love gave way to the real thing, would it be?
“Now, give me that shovel. Let’s bury the bourbon.” Jude takes the shovel from me and sticks it into the mound of dirt.
And with that, the wedding is back on.
Chapter 11
Jude
T-minusthreeweekstothe wedding. In three weeks, I’ll be married to Chase. Mrs. Jude Gladstone. I hate the thought of changing my name, but Chase insists Gram won’t accept it any other way.
I would never recommend anyone get married within two months of getting engaged. I have access to all the money and help in the world and still, I feel like I’m in the middle of a marathon that will not end until I am drunkenly passed out after the reception.
The event du jour is the wedding shower. Chase insisted during the organization of events that it not be an exclusive “bridal” shower and defended the request by reminding Gram and Caroline how we’ve kept this relationship a secret for so long that we want as many opportunities amongst friends and family to catch them up to speed.
I was surprised he thought of this on his own, but perhaps he sensed my anxiety at being the center of attention. A fake bride at a very real bridal shower.
Though Chase managed to take it from a flouncy white and lacy bridal shower to a celebratory garden party, Caroline still insisted on all the cliché activities of a bridal shower. Gifts, finger foods, and… to my utter dismay… games.
“Okay, we’re ready for our first game! Shoes off!” Caroline squeals.
I glance at Chase beside me on the wrought iron bench where we have mounds of wrapping paper around our ankles. “What?”
Caroline comes over to me and grabs one of my feet, hauling it into the air. “Get these off, Jude!”
“What are you doing?!” I squeal.
In order to avoid having his shoes removed by force, Chase takes his off himself and holds one in each hand. “Caroline, explain.”
“What? Do you two live under a rock or something?”
After my shoes are off, Caroline guides me to one of two chairs that are sitting back-to-back in the middle of the garden, all the guests encircled around them. I run my hand over my jaw. There’s a constellation of three pimples that I’ve done my best to cover up with makeup.
Despite Chase’s offer to take care of my medical bills, I haven’t been able to get in to see my doctor yet. My PCOS continues to flare off and on. I’ve been in the midst of a ten-day period that seems to come and go, making it impossible to gauge when it might actually stop. And because of that, my hormones are all out of whack, giving me pimples like I’m a teenager. And today is no exception.
Caroline waves Chase over. “Chase, you sit over here.”
Chase gives me a nervous look as he settles into the seat behind me. “What the hell is going on?” he murmurs over his shoulder.
