“You’re a very kind person,” Richard says in his born-and-bred New York accent. “I know you’re going to do good things in this world.”
“Thank you, Richard,” I say, capping the pen and placing it diagonally across the signed stack. “That’s my plan.”
Freedom—especially financial—is still a foreign concept to me. Even as a married woman, I never had my own money. My bank account was always shared with Hunter and the daily limit was so small sometimes I had to split my purchases between my debit card and the spare AmEx he gave me for emergency purposes.
A few times over the years, I’d try to discuss the money situation with him, but it would never end well. He would quickly become agitated, shoot down my suggestions, disqualify all of my reasons for needing my own account. Once I told him I was looking for a job and he wasted no time reminding me that our travel schedule wasn’t conducive to me working outside the home … and he was right. I accompanied Hunter to every event, be it local, nationwide, or global. We were gone just as much as we were home.
He had me exactly where he wanted me.
Despite the fact that he claimed to be “richer than God,” Hunter was still a tightwad—but only when it came to everyone but himself.
One Christmas, he gave me a Gucci bag. The strap broke after a couple of months, so I took it into the Gucci store in SoHo where the clerk proceeded to inform me that it was, indeed, a fake.
“A very good fake,” she said.
But a fake nonetheless.
Cheap bastard.
Growing up underprivileged, I think Hunter always had this deep-seated fear of losing it all, so he clung to it so tightly, so selfishly, that in the end he did lose it all. He lost the only person who ever truly loved him when he had nothing to give but a kiss and a smile and the heart beating in his chest.
Only I don’t know if he’ll ever realize that.
“I’ll get this filed today,” Richard says, standing up and smoothing his red satin tie down his shirt.
A moment later, he walks me to the lobby, and I ride the elevator to the main level, only it stops at the fourth floor first, picking up a man with dark hair and the same tortoiseshell frames Jude was wearing the night I met him.
I still can’t believe he asked me out last night, and I’m absolutely blaming Tierney, even if he says her little comment had nothing to do with it.
But I suppose there’s nothing wrong with hanging out sometime …
I could see myself being friends with him, though it might be a bit of a challenge to keep my eyes where they belong. The other night when he was fixing my faucet, I caught myself staring so hard at him that I forgot to breathe, studying the way his broad shoulders strained against his shirt, the way he raked his hands against his strong jaw, how his dark lashes framed his striking, almond-shaped gaze.
Just hope he didn’t notice.
Heading back to The Jasper, I mull over my next steps for Agenda W. Jude mentioned he was some kind of strategic consultant. I wonder if he could help me or at least point me in the right direction? Maybe charities and NFP organizations aren’t in his wheelhouse, but it doesn’t hurt to ask, and if he can’t help, maybe he’ll know someone who can?
Thirty minutes later, I’m making my way down our shared hallway.
I don’t know his schedule, I don’t know when he works from home or when he travels, and I hate to just pop over unexpected again, but not having his number leaves me with no other choice.
Clearing my throat, I square my shoulders with his door and give it a knock. From where I stand, I can almost make out voices. Plural. And the pounding of footsteps, like someone’s running.
Shit.
He must have company.
A moment later, the door swings open and a young woman not much younger than me stands at the threshold with a toddler on her hip. With straight dark hair cut into a bob, bangs straight across her forehead, tight jeans, a white cotton tank top, and ruby red lips, she’s as bold as she is eye-catching.
“Hi,” I say. “I was just looking for Jude.”
She says nothing, taking me in from head to toe, though not in a way that makes me feel uncomfortable. It’s quite possible that I look familiar to her. For the better part of last year, my picture was prominently featured in Us Weekly, Star Magazine, OK!, and even People.com. I get these kind of looks everywhere I go, at least once a day. People squint and stare and search my face as they try to place me in their mind’s eye.
“I live across the hall,” I add, breaking the silence.
The toddler stares at me, unblinking, and another little girl squeezes between the raven-haired beauty and the doorjamb.
“Who is this, Mommy?” the older girl asks.
Before she has a chance to answer, the door widens a little more and Jude appears. Scratching his temple, he offers a half-smile that almost makes me forget what I came here for, but seeing the four of them standing together, so comfortably close, so natural and united, makes me realize this might be his ex or baby mama or whatever and these girls might be his daughters.
And that’s perfectly fine—it’s not like it changes anything.
“I didn’t know you were busy,” I say, taking a step toward my door. “I can come by another time.”
“No, no, it’s fine,” he says before turning to the woman. “I’ll be back in a sec.”
Slipping out into the hallway, he pulls the door closed behind him and aligns himself with me. The faint scent of his spicy cologne fills my lungs, though there’s something familiar about it, like it’s something Hunter would’ve worn … which is slightly disappointing, but I won’t let it ruin my impression of him just yet.
“That’s my sister, Lo,” he says. I wasn’t going to ask because it’s none of my business and I didn’t want to pry. “And my nieces, Piper and Ellie. They were just coming by to check out the new place.”
“Are they from around here?”
“Brooklyn.” His eyes haven’t left mine once. “So what’s going on?”
I wave my hand. “I had something to ask you, but we can talk later. I don’t want to hold you up.”
He arches a brow. “So you’re just going to leave me hanging?”
“It’s nothing. Really. It can wait,” I say.
Jude checks his watch. “Was going to take my sister and nieces out for a late lunch, but now I’m going to be distracted the entire time.”
“Fine,” I say, pretending to wave an imaginary white flag. “I was just going to ask if you’d be interested in consulting for me.”
His hand lifts to his jaw, partially covering his full mouth as his brows meet, and then he stares over my shoulder, lost in thought.
“You can think about it,” I say, sensing his hesitation. “I don’t even know what your schedule is like. Maybe you’re booked out. I don’t know.”
Stop rambling, Love…
Jude exhales and I brace myself for a “no,” which is fine. I came here with zero expectations.
“Why don’t we talk about this over dinner?” he asks. “Friday night. Seven o’clock.”
The tension between us is thick, ripe. Ready to be plucked and devoured.
“Oh, you’re smooth, Jude Warner,” I say, head tilted and finger pointed as I step backwards toward my door.