Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 105183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 526(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 526(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
“I’ll go get your stuff, you take a shower.” He swats my arse and leaves to fetch my things, and I watch him go, something new and alive inside screaming for more. Not sex, although I’ll happily take it. But this feeling of utter contentment.
Chapter 20
“This is your car?” I gaze across the bodywork of the classic Jaguar that Clark had a hard-on for as Jude opens the door for me.
“One of them, yes.” He helps me down to the seat, and the smell of old leather hits me. One of them? How many does he have? Jude falls into the driver’s seat and slips on some tortoise and gold-rimmed Ray-Bans, raking a hand through his hair. His hand on the wheel, one on the gearstick, he looks across at me. I cry on the inside. In his cream chinos and white Ralph Lauren shirt, he looks as classic as the car. Classically handsome. Classically gorgeous. “What?” he asks.
“You.”
“What about me?”
You’re derailing me. “Nothing.” I settle, Jude turns the radio on, and “Waterfall” by the Stone Roses starts.
“Nothing, my arse,” he murmurs, giving me an accusing, playful look. What’s happening? “What’s your parents’ address?”
“Call yourself a stalker?”
His hand is squeezing my knee instantly, and I jolt in my seat on a laugh. “Pack it in.” He passes me his phone. “Google Maps.”
“You mean this thing doesn’t have satnav?”
His eyebrows rise with his shades as he lifts them, and I pucker my lips, making him lose all warning from his face. He leans over and steals a kiss, and it’s all so very easy. Natural. He’s calm. Easygoing. It’s not only his persona telling me so, but his eyes, which are a beautiful muted greeny grey.
Jude lowers his glasses and pulls off slowly, while I tap in the address for my parents’. ETA: 12:08. I cringe. Still late. “Fuck.”
“What?”
“I’m going to be late.”
“By a couple of minutes,” he replies. “Stop stressing.”
“Easy for you to say, you’ve not got a melodramatic mother ready to file a missing person’s report.” The moment the words leave my mouth, I know I’ve fucked up. Jude’s hands tighten around the steering wheel, his bottom lip disappearing between his teeth, his entire seated posture changing. Fuck. “Shit, Jude, I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine.”
“No, it’s not,” I counter, kicking myself repeatedly. “It was stupid and insensitive. I wasn’t thinking.”
“Amelia, it’s fine.”
I scold myself and reach for his hand on the gearstick. “Tell me about ‘Hey Jude.’”
He smiles mildly, looking away briefly, taking in air. Or taking in strength to talk about it. “It was my parents’ favourite song.”
“So they named you after the Beatles song?” How romantic.
“Yeah.” He smiles across at me. “Are we going deep again?”
I laugh under my breath. I’m not sure if we can go much deeper. I’m about to set his phone in the holder attached to the blower by the steering wheel but falter when a WhatsApp notification drops down from the top of the screen.
Katherine? The woman in the restaurant? There’s only a small preview of the message, and I know I should slam my eyes closed, not read it, but it’s right there in front of me.
How can you . . .
The message slides back up. God damn it. How can he . . . what? I quickly put the phone in the holder and rest back, my mind reeling. Why would she message Jude? According to him, she and her husband are members of the spa and golf club and eat occasionally at Arlington Hall.
“Okay?” Jude asks.
“Sure.” I turn a smile his way, but it’s an effort, suddenly endless doubts creeping in. His phone dings again, another message sliding down. Jude’s quick to clear the screen. Then another comes in. Then another. And another. “Someone has a lot to say.” I look at him and seriously don’t like the awkward vibes he’s giving off.
“It’s no one,” he says shortly, irritated.
No one.
Okay.
And suddenly things aren’t so natural and easy. Am I overthinking? Is he being off? What did she want? Why didn’t he just tell me who it is if it’s nothing?
Oh my God.
Am I obsessing?
I sink farther into the seat and scrape through my mind for something to say. Something to break the growing, unbearable silence. I have nothing, and judging by Jude’s lack of conversation, I’m guessing he’s feeling the sudden tension too.
It remains the entire way to my parents’ house, only the music breaking the screaming quiet in the car.
When Jude turns into the cul-de-sac, I see my brother’s car and cringe. “You can pull in here,” I say, knowing my dad’s radar ears will hear a car pulling up outside.
Jude doesn’t question me, slowing at the kerb a few houses down from my parents’. I take the handle to let myself out, keen to escape the horrible atmosphere. I’m pissed off, my contentment crushed. He could clear this up with a quick explanation, and yet he hasn’t. But does he owe me an explanation? No. And he obviously doesn’t think so either. So last night was . . . what? Fuck, I don’t like this version of myself. I thought this thing would be easy and uncomplicated, but this horrible apprehensive feeling inside doesn’t feel very easy, and I’m suddenly revisiting all the signs that Jude is anything but uncomplicated.