I point out the two bedrooms, quickly motioning to mine before walking him through the accommodations he’ll call his own.
I stand at the doorjamb as he explores the tiny space. “It’s furnished, as you probably saw in the website pictures. But you can rearrange as needed.” I step back into the hall, and I can feel him on my tail without looking up. “I have my own ensuite bathroom, so the hall bathroom is all yours.”
I glance around the narrow space, chewing on my lip, trying to remember if there’s anything else to cover. It’s really hard to think right now with him all in my personal bubble.
We stop in front of the hall linen closet. I open the door, grabbing a bath towel. For good measure, I slap a hand towel on top of it.
When I turn to hand it to him, Jude is yet again closer than I expected.
I get another hit of his manly scent. I want to huff him. That mouthwatering scent of his should be illegal. In fact, I'm sure it is.
Jeez—where did he get his cologne? The dark net? 'Cause I'm just about sure they don't sell that stuff to the general public at Macy's.
Golden light pours in through the narrow picture window at the end of the hallway. We stand face-to-face, and for the millionth time since our living room standoff, our eyes lock. I can’t look away. The hallway seems to be contracting, shrinking in around us. He just seems so freaking huge in my tiny house.
This is all unbelievably awkward. Our antagonistic history is a big, angry elephant between us. With this man all up in my personal space, I barely have room to breathe.
Despite the bravado he's been slinging around all evening, it’s clear on his face that he is hurting. I find myself replaying the circumstances that put his career on pause and landed him twelve feet from my bedroom.
I’d been at the Frosty Pitcher that night, having drinks with my friends and doing my best to ignore the preseason football game on the flatscreens. I still remember the blast of shouts and angry swearing that had detonated in the room when the hometown hero had gone down on the field, crushed under a pile of massive football players. I still remember the agonizing look on Jude’s face as the medics carted him off the field. Even now, a sharp cringe slices through me at the memory.
“I’ll put some extra ice trays in the freezer downstairs,” I say, surprised by the softness in my own voice. “Y’know, in case you need it for your knee later.”
“Thanks.” He searches my features again with that piercing dark stare. I witness his gaze fall to my bare ring finger where my hand is laying atop the towels I’m stretching out to him. He can’t hold his tongue anymore. His voice is barely above a whisper when he speaks. “How have you been, Iris?”
Jude’s expression is soft, and for the briefest of moments, I’m convinced that he gives a shit. About me. About how I’ve been doing since my ex-husband dropped me like a bad habit.
But then I remember. This man never thought I was good enough for Kirk. He always thought his friend could do better. Jude probably celebrated when those relationship-ending pictures of Kirk kissing another girl came to light and I fled Penn State to come back to Crescent Harbor.
“I’ve been just fine,” I say, keeping my tone flat and icy.
Jude throws up his hands in defeat while expelling something between a scoff and a bitter laugh. I’m convinced he’s going to start an argument. To be honest, I’m wishing he would. If he walks out of here right now, I could just accidentally forget to hit that ‘refund’ button on his initial payment.
His marble-cut jaw tightens. He grabs the towels and drags his body past me, careful not to touch me in the narrow hall. I watch as he limps toward his room. So much for getting things off to a good start with my new tenant.
He pauses and leans against his doorframe, not bothering to look back at me. “I know this living situation is less than ideal, but I really need a place to stay and you probably wouldn't have a room for rent if you didn't need some extra cash.” He turns and squares his log-like shoulders, his chiselled face somber and pleading. “So can we just be adults about this?”
I thought it would feel more gratifying, pissing him off. But picking a fight with an injured man only makes me feel sort of petty and mean.
I wring my fingers in front of me. I drop all pretences and go for raw honesty. “Look, do I want to be sharing my house with a cocky professional footballer? No, not particularly. But you just deposited enough money in my account to cover my bills for the next two months." I sigh and my eyes track down his ridiculous body. My attention snags on the lumber in his gray sweatpants. Shit, that is an imprint. The man is packin’. My mouth waters. “So, I've just got to suck it off—”
His eyes widen before I've even processed my slip of the tongue.
What did I just—?
Heat explodes up my neck to my cheeks. "I mean, suck it up," I say quickly. "Suck it up. That's what I meant.”
Jude grins maddeningly and lifts a big shoulder. “Suck it up, suck it off. No biggie. Freudian slip. It happens to the best of us.”
He doesn’t wait for a response. Wearing a vindicated look, he wobbles through the doorway. He’s obviously done with this conversation.
My protest is weak. “That was not a—”
"Good night, Iris."
“—Freudian slip,” I finish.
His bedroom door shuts in my face.
I glance toward the heavens. I’d like to die now, please.
4
Jude
That went well...
Barricading myself in my new room, I drop down onto the squeaky bed and absently rub the tendons around my knee. I wish there were a
