“Now, what’s the point in that?” he asks dolefully.
Ignoring him, I rip open the wrapper and turn to walk out.
“Libby!” he beckons.
I stop in my tracks, turn on my toe, and shoot him the dirtiest look I’ve ever given him (and that’s saying something, going back to his first few months of employment here). He brings his head back, his face wary.
“Don’t you even talk to me,” I dictate. “Not here.”
I’ll give him credit; he has the balls to scoff at me. “That’s what I love about America; it’s a free bloody country.”
“Not for you,” I retort. “You’re just a big-mouthed… redcoat.”
So I’ll have the last word, I make my exit right then, but behind me I hear him mutter, “Gormless twit Marvin.”
I storm back to my desk, where I begin to annihilate my candy bar.
A couple of minutes later, Jude stops by my cubicle. To my back, he says, “At least let me take you to dinner, so we can talk.”
“No,” I answer succinctly. Crunch, crunch.
He whispers, “This is ridiculous. How am I supposed to apologize if you won’t even give me an audience?”
“We have the technology,” I reply cryptically. “Figure it out. Now, go away. I’m very busy and important.” I return to openly surfing the Internet.
“Son of a—” he grumbles. But he leaves.
When I’m sure he’s gone, I peek over my shoulder and see him stalking to his desk and sitting down at his computer. Pretty soon, an instant message pops up on my screen.
Jude.Weatherington:
is this wht you meant? you wnt me to aplogize to you in an instnt msg?
Libby.Foster:
You’re right. That’s stupid
Your typing is horrible. I understand it even less than your dumb colloquialisms
Jude.Weatherington:
Pardon, yr highness. I’m not a secretary
Libby.Foster:
Neither am I, a-hole
Then I block him from sending me any more messages.
“Come off it!” I hear him yell from his office.
Several people look up from their work and over at him, but I continue to appear busy.
Lisa pokes her head over the wall. “What’s the deal with Jude today? You been withholding sex?” She takes in the Kit Kat on my desk next to my keyboard. “Oh… that time of the month?”
“For Jude? Maybe. For me? No.”
She laughs. “Oooh. Are the office king and queen having a row?” she asks in an English accent.
This is exactly what I didn’t want to happen. But he had to make a scene.
I blink innocently up at her. “No. I don’t know what his problem is. Why don’t you go ask him? I’m sure he’ll tell you.”
“Never mind,” she says, sighing. “I swear, sometimes I don’t know why I even bother with you.” She disappears, and I hear her typing at her desk, no doubt IMing Zoe to complain about me.
Yes, why does anyone bother with me? It seems like I’m just a high-maintenance, secret-keeping, brother-nagging, gravestone-chatting, sex-starved, back-biting, shrink-seeing waste of space. At that self-pitying thought, I grab my purse from my desk drawer and slink down to Wanda’s office, where I tell her I feel sick and that I’m going to take the rest of the day off.
It took him a while, but once Jude realized I was gone for the day, he drove to my apartment and banged on my door, trying very unsuccessfully to get me to let him in. That is, until he said the magic words:
“Libby, please! I love you. And I’m sorry.”
I yanked him into the apartment so fast he left skid marks out in the hallway.
I have to say, I don’t agree with all the hype about make-up sex. I mean, it was nice, but I would have much rather skipped the fight and had regular sex without the drama. Post-“I-love-you” sex is much better.
Now we’re lying peacefully tangled together, playing with each other’s hands. I nudge the arch of his foot with my toe, and his leg pops off the bed. “Grrr,” he growls, as I giggle at how ticklish the bottoms of his feet are. Since I’ve discovered that trait, it’s never ceased to amuse me.
After a languorous quarter hour, I tilt my head up so I can see his face. He angles his head to better look into my eyes.
“Yes?” he asks expectantly.
“Nothing. I was just making sure you’re still awake,” I reply.
He brushes his thumb against my hip. “Quite. Actually, I was just wondering for about the hundredth time what this is from.” He circles the long, faded scar on my hip with his index finger.
“A freak accident,” I say honestly, but don’t offer any other information. When he purses his lips, and his eyes darken, I hurry on. “I will tell you someday. Everything. I promise.”
“When is ‘someday’? You know, just a—what do you Americans call it?—ballpark figure?”
“Soon,” I answer non-committally.
“Right,” he agrees uncertainly.
“But you can go through my mail anytime,” I offer.
He smiles. “Thanks. And you promise you’re not seeing Marvin on the side?”
I crack up. “I think I speak for all women when I say, ‘I’m not seeing Marvin on the side.’”
“Well, I think we’re good here, then,” he utters, his voice filled with satisfaction.
“Jude.” I twist and support my weight on my arms, kissing his chest.
“Hmm?”
“I’m sorry about how I acted when my brother dropped in.”
He nods. “Forgiven. Of course.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Really. That’s how this love thing works, you see. You’re not allowed to stay mad at the person you love for long.”
I beam at his use of the “L” word again. “Ah. I see. That’s how it works?”
“Indeed.”
My heart pounds with the knowledge of what I’m about to say,
