Chasing Serenity

by Ashley, Kristen

  Then to be done with this, I gave it to him.

  “I had him six months, which I hope were glorious for him. I’m still in mourning. Yes, I only had him six months, but he was a great cat. Truth is, I’m not ready. However, when I am, according to Mom, I’ll either need to buy a farm or something akin to that, or I’m not allowed to go back to a shelter again on my own. There you go. Now, can we move on from this?”

  “Totally knew you needed an overflow,” he said quietly with an expression on his face as he gazed at me that I never wanted to see again.

  Yes, it was that beautiful.

  And therefore, that dangerous.

  Ugh.

  “Do you want a whisky sour, Judge?” I bit off.

  “There’s a lot of things I want right now,” he replied.

  Oh God.

  I felt that in a variety of parts of me, and not all of them were physical.

  I planted my hands on my hips and waited for him to get over it.

  “But I’ll take some water and we’ll wait to make the sours when your friends get here,” he allowed.

  “Fine,” I snapped, turned on my bare foot, and marched into the kitchen.

  Judge followed me.

  I opened my fridge door and asked, “Topo Chico with lime, Perrier or still spring?”

  When he didn’t answer, I looked over my shoulder at him standing at the butcher-block top, steel-based kitchen island I’d purchased to offer additional counterspace, a seating area and a delineation between cooking and living areas and saw him smirking at me.

  “What now?” I asked.

  “You sure you don’t have five other varieties to offer me?”

  Right.

  That did it.

  I closed the fridge door and turned to face him.

  “Ground rules,” I declared.

  “This should be good,” he muttered.

  “That,” I snapped, jabbing my finger at him. “That right there. None of that.”

  His brows went up. “None of what?”

  “No teasing.”

  “Well, shit,” he said through a grin.

  A flirtatious grin.

  Therefore, I added, “No flirting either.”

  “Hmm,” he hummed but spoke no words.

  “Also, no being super nice and thoughtful,” I went on, determined, especially with this, to be thorough.

  He leaned into a hand on my island and crossed his ankles like he had all night to talk about this and he was settling in.

  Not to mention, looking forward to it.

  “Okay, so what level of nice are we talking?” he inquired. “Like, low to medium nice or medium to high nice? Or should I just try to be a dick, so when I leave, your friends won’t get in your shit about the fact you should date me seeing as we got great chemistry and I’m pretty sure we look perfect together.”

  I completely ignored that he was already breaking rule one, and possibly rule two, and I couldn’t even begin to let his final words penetrate.

  So I didn’t.

  “Solid medium nice is acceptable,” I allowed, like I was taking him seriously. “Though, a few dickish remarks will be expected.”

  “We’ve already established I can’t be a dick on command. I can only do it when I’m flirting with you. And you told me that’s out, unless I can dickishly flirt with you?” He ended that on a suggestion.

  But not a real one.

  “Judge, I’m being serious,” I warned him in a tone that was, I thought, quite serious.

  “No, you’re being hilarious, and cute, which, don’t freak out. I’m sure no guy ever called you that because they’ve probably been too damned terrified of you. Oh…and you’re also making me want to kiss you again.”

  “Judge—”

  “Though I hadn’t really stopped.”

  “Judge!”

  “And you should know, the urge was nearly overwhelming when you told the Oscar story.”

  “Oh my God,” I cried. “Every time I think you couldn’t be more exasperating, you get more exasperating.”

  His face got serious.

  “Sorry you lost him, baby,” he said softly.

  We could not possibly talk more about Oscar or I’d lose it.

  “Stop it,” I bit out. “That is well above medium nice.”

  He started moving.

  Toward me.

  And he did it talking about things I did not want to hear.

  “I think I’ve replayed that kiss at Duncan’s party a hundred times.”

  Only a hundred?

  Goodness me, I had him beat by a mile.

  I pivoted from a position with my back to the fridge and retreated.

  Though I picked my direction poorly as I headed into the kitchen, which was another dead end. I had an out on the opposite side of the island. However, Judge noted that and shifted swiftly, cutting off that path of escape.

  Alcove it was, damn it.

  “Just to warn you,” he started, “all I can do is be me. So as much as I’d be keen to give you everything you want if it’s in my power to give, being mildly nice with dickish tendencies to your friends is not in my power to give.”

  During this speech, I’d been forced to stop due to me running into the kitchen sink.

  Judge stopped due to him being in my space, and then he got more into it when he leaned in and put his hands on the counter on either side of me.

  “You’re almost short without your heels,” he murmured, attention on my lips.

  “I’m well above average height, I only seem short because you’re well above average too.”

  His gaze lifted to mine.

  And Lord help me, the look in that chocolate brown?

  Damn.

  “I’m only six four.”

  “That’s tall.”

  “You gonna shut up so I can kiss you?”

  Oh God!

  “No.”

  He leaned closer.

  I arched back over the sink.

  He stopped leaning and started talking again.

  “Okay, see, only fair I tell you how this is gonna go,” he declared.

  Then without hesitation, if you can believe, the man launched into telling me how this was going to go.

  “Now, we got a project to iron out. Also, you and me, we got a heart-to-heart to have so I’ll get why you’ve dedicated yourself to holding back when I know you want to give us a go.”

  Give us a go.

  Us a go.

  Yes.

  Damn.

  “I want nothing of the sort,” I fibbed.

  His face dipped to mine. “You opening your mouth, baby, the second I kissed you, tells a different story.”

  I used the lame excuse I was personally clinging to.

  “It was New Year’s.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Judge,” I whispered.

  “Chloe,” he replied, and dear Lord.

  My name sounded amazing coming out of his mouth.

  His eyes changed.

  Turned-on, sexy hotness gone, they darkened with what, I didn’t know.

  I’d find out immediately.

  It was fierceness.

  And steely determination.

  “I know you’re going through some shit and I’m on record right now telling you I do not just want to get in your pants, Chloe. Make no mistake, that is one hundred percent something I want eventually, but I want more to be a person who’s there for you, and while I’m doing it, get to know you. I’ve never met a woman like you. I thought I had, but you are unlike any woman I’ve ever encountered. Hell, any person. You’re smart as fuck, funny as hell, uppity in a way I feel in my dick, you’re full of love and compassion, you clearly don’t give a shit what anyone thinks about you, and I fucking love the way you dress. So, I’m meeting your friends and we’re gonna cook, then go out and drink, and generally have a good time tonight. You let me, I’ll take horning in on your brunch tomorrow too. But after that, tomorrow afternoon, before I gotta get bac
k to my house and my dog, we’re ironing things out. Because the next time we’re together, and that’s gonna be soon, honey, it’s gonna officially be a date. During that date you’re gonna share about you, and whatever comes after that will be whatever it is.”

  “You have a dog?” I asked.

  He closed his eyes.

  I did not understand that reaction.

  When he opened his eyes, my breath was stolen at the new look in them.

  “Yeah, doll, I have a dog,” he confirmed.

  I didn’t want to ask.

  But I asked.

  “Why do you look…the way you look?”

  “Because in all that, you pulled out my dog. You didn’t preen about the compliments or make excuses about why we can’t go there or give me shit for laying my heart out…”

  He’d laid out his heart?

  Oh God.

  He kinda did (in the sense that he really did).

  “…you asked about me, my dog. And I’m looking forward to you getting to know me too.”

  I said nothing.

  “You in with this plan?” he prompted.

  I pressed my lips together.

  His hitched.

  “Chloe, I know you turn yourself out in spectacular ways, probably on an everyday basis. But no woman has her friends over to cook in her kitchen and does her hair in a way that a man is gonna obsess the entire time he’s around her about how bad he wants to dig his hands in there and make it all come tumbling down.”

  I disregarded how that pronouncement affected my nipples, squinted my eyes and lied, “I did not do my hair like this for you, Judge. I just threw it up. It’s a messy bun. It takes no time at all.”

  “I’m twenty-nine and have had three long-term girlfriends, starting my sophomore year in college.” His eyes slid up to my hair and then down to mine. “So please, don’t try to hand me that shit. I know exactly how long it took you to do your hair like that and I know why you did it.”

  “You’re taking a great number of things for granted,” I huffed.

  He stared at me.

  And then…

  Well then…

  He muttered, “Fuck it,” both his hands rose to cup my head just above the base of my neck, his head came down, and he was kissing me.

  I held out longer this time.

  At least three whole seconds.

  I would later clutch tight to that to salvage my pride.

  But after those three seconds, the lure of what we’d experienced before, and the possibility of having it again were too much to bear.

  I opened my mouth, Judge slid his tongue inside, and, sadly, there were no other words for it.

  Without a cold night and a recent fight and a roomful of people to hold us back, we went at each other.

  Desperately.

  It would have been humiliating if it wasn’t so damned hot.

  The doorbell rang.

  Judge tore his mouth from mine and growled, “Jesus Christ.”

  I was plastered to him, an arm curled tight around his neck, the fingers of my other hand sifted into his soft hair.

  He had a hand fisted in the upswept hair above my nape, his other arm wrapped around me, holding me close even though he didn’t have to because I was arched into him.

  And we were both breathing like we’d run a sprint.

  “You wanna try to convince me you’re not into me after that?” he demanded.

  I feared this was beyond even my profuse abilities to lie.

  I pressed my lips together again, feeling the phantom of his still there, along with tingles and swelling, and mutely shook my head.

  The doorbell rang again as Judge said, “Good. You at one with my plan?”

  I kept my lips as they were, widened my eyes, and nodded my head.

  “Good,” he grunted. “You want me to get the door while you fix your hair?”

  I felt my bun had come loose.

  Thus, another nod from me.

  “Christ, you’re so fucking cute, being around you is goddamn torture,” he grumbled.

  “You could—” I started.

  He took his hand from my hair and wagged a long, attractive finger in my face.

  “Don’t finish that,” he warned.

  I pressed my lips together again.

  He watched, grunted unintelligibly this time, bent and touched his lips to my forehead and then let me go.

  “We’ll start the cocktails if it takes you another half an hour to get back to a style that’s gonna fuck with my head all night,” he threw over his shoulder as he rounded the wall on his way to the hall.

  I glared at said wall after he disappeared.

  But he had long legs. It would take him no time at all to get to the front door.

  So I darted out of the kitchen and up the stairs to my vanity to fix my hair.

  And it took an extra five minutes, but I absolutely did the needed repairs so it would fuck with Judge’s head.

  All night.

  Chapter 11

  The Ride

  Judge

  The next morning, at ten-thirty, not long after Judge pressed her doorbell, Chloe opened her front door.

  He nearly howled with laughter.

  Regardless of the copious beverages she’d consumed the night before, she was completely tricked out.

  Cream jeans. Slouchy white button-up that was not buttoned very far up, a tangle of gold chains and pendants in her cleavage. Hair down and blown straight. Leopard print pumps.

  And massive sunglasses on her nose.

  Yes, wearing them inside.

  But they did not hide the shitty look she wore on the rest of her face.

  It was the look that did it.

  He couldn’t hold it any longer.

  He burst out laughing, walked in, hooked her with an arm, kicked the door shut with his foot, and bent to her, pressing his lips to hers.

  She made a noise of irritation before she did something surprising.

  He’d just been going for a hard, closed-mouth kiss. Considering she had to be hungover AF, he didn’t suspect she could take more.

  But she melted into the kiss and opened her mouth to allow him entry.

  That warm, sweet mouth?

  Judge didn’t decline this invitation.

  However, he also didn’t make her go without breath for long. It was a deep, wet one, but not a long one, and then he lifted his head.

  “Mornin’, gorgeous,” he muttered, still smiling at her.

  “I believe we should catalog this as evidence we don’t suit,” she groused.

  “Why?” he asked, not giving a shit what she was going to say, because they totally “suited,” and as far as he was concerned, that kiss wasn’t evidence.

  It was proof.

  However, he asked because he knew whatever she came up with would be hilarious.

  “You’re a morning person.”

  He raised his brows, suddenly entirely interested in what she had to share, because that wasn’t hilarious, it was surprising.

  “You’re not?”

  “I. Am. Not.”

  Part of him felt this shouldn’t be a shocker.

  That said, he’d never met anyone who was successful who wasn’t a morning person.

  And he’d clicked through her shop’s impressive website, read every word about her Fabulous Foot Forward project, had numerous examples of how well she dressed, her pad was the shit and he’d found out last night that she wasn’t yet twenty-five.

  She was definitely successful.

  “It might have gone better if you hadn’t mixed whisky sours with wine then downed three boilermakers at the speakeasy,” he noted.

  She didn’t quite bite back her audible groan.

  Obviously this meant he had to keep at her.

  “The boilermakers were a revelation. I’d never peg you as a beer girl.”

  “Blech,” she mumbled.

  “But I’m impressed,” he went on, letting his eyes move down to her body,
a mistake since he got an eyeful of gold and cleavage. He lifted them again to her shades. “It didn’t affect your ability to trick yourself out this morning. Though, is the inside-sunglasses-wearing a thing with you? Or did your hangover give you vampiric tendencies?”

  “I’m not hungover.”

  He chuckled at her lie.

  “I’m not,” she asserted. “Sasha has a smoothie she taught me to make that works wonders. Thus, I added it to my ritual.”

  It was an understatement that he felt super fucking good that he’d broken through with her the night before, or maybe it was when they were at her dad’s place.

  And he knew he did because he didn’t have to push her for more.

  She just offered it up.

  “Before bed on a night of imbibing, I drink a tumbler of water. Upon awakening the next day, I take my vitamins, two migraine tabs, eat an egg on toast while I drink two more glasses of water, and I chase all that with Sash’s smoothie. After that, voilà, hangover managed.”

  He couldn’t see most of her face, but what he could see, she wasn’t bullshitting him.

  And it had to be said, he fucking loved she used words like “suited,” “upon” and “voilà” without a shred of irony, not to mention said that last with a hint of a genuine French accent which was classy as hell.

  “So what’s with the glasses?” he asked.

  Those glasses slid away from his face.

  He gave her a gentle shake.

  She pushed out a harassed sigh, turned again to him and shared, “My hangover regime is flawless. But even ten minutes with my chilled gel eye patches hasn’t done much for my puffiness.”

  “I don’t care about puffiness,” he returned, and added, “I’m sure you’re still gorgeous even with it.”

  She lifted her chin. “Thank you, but this is something you’ll never know due to the fact these glasses will not be coming off until the puffiness has vanished.”

  He grinned down at her.

  She studied him a moment then asked, “Are we going to stand together in my entry with our arms around each other for an hour?”

  “Is that an option?”

  “No.”

  He smiled. “Bummer. So I guess, no. Though, we’re going to do it long enough for me to tell you how much I like your friends, how cute you are with them—”

  “I’m not cute,” she cut him off to say. “Neither are they. We’re all almost painfully erudite and urbane, to the point people in close proximity become more sophisticated just being in our presence.”