Crush

by Nicole Williams

  It took Hammon all of a second to reply.

  “Thatta boy,” Jude said. “Time to earn your commission.” Hanging up, he pocketed his phone and glared at the floor.

  His anger was unrestrained. He’d lost all control and was running on nothing but impulse. What could I possibly say or do to talk him down? I knew nothing short of a miracle would work at this stage.

  So what, in the entire world of words and responses, did I lead with?

  Perhaps the worst.

  “Gibbons.”

  Jude couldn’t have looked more startled than if I’d just stripped out of my clothes and started streaking down the terminal.

  “Gibbons,” I repeated, because now that I was heading down this insane track, I might as well keep chugging along. Plus, his eyes had already lightened into a steely gray.

  “Luce?” Jude came closer and pressed the back of his hand against my forehead.

  He ran his hands over me like I was one notch below a padded room. It would have been irritating if he wasn’t so visibly concerned.

  “I’m fine,” I assured him. “Really.”

  Pulling me to him, he continued to study me. “Then what are you rambling on about?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Gibbons.”

  Another flash of worry in his eyes. “Gibbons?” he said slowly.

  I nodded.

  “Luce, what the hell’s a gibbon?”

  So far, as certifiable as it was, my plan to trick Jude’s monster back into its cage was working.

  “It’s like a monkey,” I said, wrapping my arms around him. His every muscle was standing on alert. “I used to see them at the zoo when I was a little girl.”

  He held up his hand. “You know I love to know every little thing you’re willing to share with me, Luce, but what the hell does a gibbon have to do with your tits being on the front page of the paper?”

  I pretended I wasn’t talking to a man one thread away from snapping for good. “If you’d be quiet for one minute so I could get out more than three words at a time, then you’d learn what a gibbon and my tits have in common.” I paused and plastered on a smile for him.

  He stayed quiet. Jude had learned a lot in the years we’d been together.

  “I remember learning that gibbons are mostly monogamous. They choose one mate and spend the rest of their lives with that mate. They take care of their mate, protect it, clean it, feed it—you name it and these gibbons do it. Both the male and the female. There isn’t a distinction between sex.” Jude’s eyebrows pulled together. “These gibbons live in their own little world. They don’t let anything, or any other gibbons, get in the way of the bond they’ve formed. They live in their bubble from the rest of the world, and don’t let what’s going on outside their bubble come inside it.”

  What the hell was I saying? I really was about to have a total and irreversible break.

  And then every single wrinkle on Jude’s face flattened. Looking into my eyes, I watched his eyes go from steel to silver gray. When his hand brushed my cheek, I knew my lunacy had appealed to his and had somehow managed to cancel it out. “Luce,” he said, one corner of his mouth turning up, “are you saying we’re gibbons?”

  My smile formed. I had my Jude back. “Well, you might be one. You’re the hairy one.”

  A few laughs later, his mouth dropped to mine. “Come here, my beautiful, smart, sexy gibbon.”

  “And calm,” I added, around his kisses. “I’m a calm gibbon.” I couldn’t get anything else out, because his mouth made words impossible.

  As he kissed me, I felt the tension leave him. Each time our tongues touched, every slide of our lips, every touch dimmed his anger.

  “At least the new and improved calm Lucy Larson can still kiss the hell out of me,” he said, after pressing a final kiss to my forehead. “Mind telling me how you were able to keep from blowing a gasket?”

  I grinned at a man over Jude’s shoulder who’d been hoping to grab a morning paper. Not today, not this stand.

  “Yoga and meditation,” I replied, shifting my smile Jude’s way.

  His eyes rolled. “Well, whatever’s responsible for your being the calm to my crazy, I’m proud of you, Luce,” he said, before his eyes wandered down my body. His forehead wrinkled. “My being proud of you aside, I don’t understand how you can be so damn cool about all of this, Luce.”

  There was a lot of “all of this” going on right now. More than normal. “All what?”

  “A naked picture of you plastered on the front page,” he said, keeping his voice controlled, even though the sinews of his neck were surfacing. “Your boobs on display for the entire world. I mean, shit, those are my boobs. Not the entire world’s to enjoy.”

  The anger had morphed into hurt, and, in Jude’s case, that meant nothing around us was in danger of being destroyed. I let myself exhale. It felt like I’d been holding that breath for ten minutes straight.

  Speaking of time . . . if we didn’t wrap this up soon I was going to miss my flight.

  “No, baby,” I said, glancing down at them, “these are my boobs. I just give you an all-access pass to them.” He half scowled, half smirked at me as I continued. “And the only reason I’m able to stay cool is because I know there’s going to be no end to this kind of stuff, Jude. You’re in the public eye in a big way now. There’s going to be no shortage of scandals, or photos, or rumors, or whatever else comes with being a hotshot quarterback.” Dropping my hand to his, I weaved my fingers with his. “Even before the NFL, there was no shortage of this kind of shit in our lives.”

  I paused and let him work those words out. Our path had never been smooth, and though I often found myself wishing for it, our future probably wouldn’t be, either. I’d figured this out freshman year, chosen to accept it, and gotten on with my life . . . with Jude.

  There were worse things than bumps in the road.

  Plus, I had a man like Jude, who loved me like there was no tomorrow. Bumps in the road were a small sacrifice to make for that kind of love.

  “Okay. Two things,” Jude said, rubbing the back of his neck as he liked to do when he was working things out. “One—I do believe when you agreed to be my wife, that whole ‘what’s mine is yours’ clause applies, so your boobs are, in fact, mine.” I crossed my arms while he continued walking on thin ice. “Just the way my body belongs to you, Luce,” he added with a wink. “And two—are you saying you want to—that you’re okay with—living in our own little gibbon bubble?”

  The words gibbon and bubble coming from Jude Ryder’s mouth were all kinds of funny. But he meant what he said. Seriously.

  “If I get to live in that bubble with a certain guy I love”—I ran my thumb down the scar on his cheek—“then yeah, I want to live in a bubble.” It was the only option, really. Unless I wanted to be downing some hard-core over-the-counter narcotics before I turned twenty-two, Jude and I would have to figure out a way to separate ourselves from the public eye and the scrutiny that was sure to follow. “How about you? How does bubble living sound from your size twelves?”

  “With you, Luce,” he said, grabbing my hand as it left his face. Holding it to his mouth, he kissed my palm softly. That kiss, pressed to that patch of skin on my palm, had a direct line to every nerve ending in my body. “I’ll take any kind of living, so long as I get to do it with you at my side.”

  “At your side. On your side. Side by side . . .”

  He lifted his hand. “Are you saying you’re with me, Luce, no matter what comes?”

  “I’m saying I’ve always been with you, Ryder”—I kissed one corner of his mouth, and then the other—“and I always will be.”

  His grin was so wide, his scar disappeared into his cheek. This was my favorite smile of his. Not because it made his scar disappear, but because it eased it for a few moments.

  His cocky smile-smirk was a close second favorite.

  “You.” He pointed at me before turning his finger on himself. “Me. Bubble.” His finger now circl
ed around us before making a flicking motion. “The world.”

  “Sounds perfect,” I replied, my eyes shifting toward the security checkpoint. I was going to miss my flight if I didn’t leave now. When I looked back at him and saw that familiar glimmering of longing and want in those gray eyes of his, my stomach bottomed out.

  Okay, thirty seconds.

  “Three weeks,” he said, followed by a groan.

  I groaned my reply.

  Grabbing me close, he dropped his mouth to my ear. “Better make it a good one then.”

  I made it the best damn one yet.

  TWELVE

  That next Monday, I found myself in a predicament.

  Not only because the past day and a half since I’d last seen Jude had gone by so agonizingly slowly that it didn’t seem fair, and I still had nineteen days to go, but because I was unprepared for the dress code at my new job.

  I had a half hour before eight, and I knew the only thing worse than showing up for the first day under- or overdressed was being late. I shot a quick text off to India, praying she’d have some idea whether my position at Xavier Industries warranted a skirt and a blouse or was more of a pants-and-shirt kind of place.

  As I waited for her reply, I hoped it would be more the cotton-and-wrinkle-free kind of workplace.

  As I was hooking my bra into place, my phone chimed.

  I frowned when I read her reply. ANTON’S AN OLD-SCHOOL, MAD MEN STYLE CHUMP. AS YOUR FRIEND, I HAVE TO ADVISE YOU TO DRESS UP. BUT AS HIS SISTER, I REALLY WANT YOU TO SHOW UP IN CUTOFFS AND SANDALS JUST TO PISS HIM OFF.

  I sighed and pulled my black pencil skirt from the hanger. As I was stepping into it, my phone chimed with another message from India. GOOD LUCK. GIVE ’EM HELL.

  I typed DITTO and hit send before pulling my white button-down blouse out of the closet, along with my black heels. Once I was changed, I hurried out of the apartment. Although, thanks to the tightness of the skirt, “hurrying” anywhere was a joke. The fastest I could go was a shuffle.

  Once I was in my Mazda, it took me only ten minutes to get to the office. As I passed a familiar building, I realized my new job had yet another perk—my dance studio was close by. Time would be in short supply this summer, and if I wanted to keep dance a priority, I’d have to come up with some creative scheduling. Maybe I could squeeze in some mornings before work, or during a lunch break, or whenever I could carve out an hour or two after work. Thankfully, my summer class was an independent study, so as long as I clocked four hours of studio time every week, I’d pass the course.

  After double-checking the address on the outside of the building with the address and suite number I had in my phone, I found a parking spot and headed to my first day on the job.

  I was always nervous on a first day of anything, but this morning I was all butterflies. I would have thought I’d be more chill, since I kind of knew Anton, but that seemed to create the opposite effect. Maybe because he was India’s brother, and I didn’t want to put either of them in an awkward position if things didn’t work out, or maybe I was nervous because administrative assistant sounded like a pretty professional job for a college student.

  As I was heading through the revolving door, my phone chimed. I slid it out of my purse. I stopped in the middle of the foyer so I could admire the picture. Jude was in his gym gear inside the locker room, extending a handful of roses. Red roses. The text read, sORRY I COULDN’T BE THERE TO HAND THESE TO YOU IN PERSON.

  Just like that, the nerves were gone. One picture and a handful of words from Jude and I was calm as calm could be. Before heading toward the elevator, I texted back, I’M ONE LUCKY BITCH.

  I was lucky for so many reasons. All of those reasons starting and ending with Jude.

  Once inside the elevator, I couldn’t resist checking out the picture again. When I looked away, a few of the people around me were staring at me like they couldn’t possibly imagine why I was beaming on a Monday morning.

  If only they knew.

  The doors whooshed open on the fifth floor and I headed down the hall, still running on grins and giddiness. When I came to the door that read, XAVIER INDUSTRIES, I ran my hands down my skirt, rolled my shoulders back, and only once I was sure I looked what I felt like an admin assistant should did I open the door.

  The office wasn’t huge, nor was it exceptionally welcoming, but it was how I envisioned a cubicle city–type office would appear. It smelled like copy machine, and there was even a rubber tree plant stuffed in the back corner where the watercooler stood. It looked like I was the first one here, because I didn’t see a single top of a head over the maze of cubicle walls, or any computers humming to life.

  The lights were on, though, and someone had to have unlocked the door, so I couldn’t be the lone ranger at Xavier Industries. Taking a few more steps inside, I saw what I guessed would be my desk, situated outside a large enclosed office.

  I didn’t know this because of the nameplate in front that read, LUCY LARSON; nor did it have anything to do with the nameplate on the door behind the desk that read, ANTON XAVIER. I knew it was my space because there were a dozen vases dotting the desk, brimming over with red roses.

  That beam that was starting to hurt my smile muscles burst again as I reached for the white envelope on one of the arrangements. So maybe I could kind of be there in person. The note was signed with an, XXXO, Mr. Amazing.

  Talk about a great way to start a first day at a new job.

  Plus Mom and Dad had left a voice mail for me on the drive over, wishing me good luck and a great first day.

  “I wish I could say I’d come up with the idea,” a voice sounded behind me.

  I spun around, my mouth dropping. I could have been looking at a male India, only a couple inches taller, maybe a shade darker. I would have mistaken Anton and India for twins if I didn’t know Anton was a few years older.

  “What idea?” I said, figuring that if he wasn’t going to start off with a common greeting, I didn’t need to either.

  “The flowers,” Anton replied, gesturing at my desk. “It’s your first day and your boss didn’t think to order flowers to welcome you. Good thing someone else did.”

  I decided not to mention that if Anton had thought to order flowers for me and Jude ever found out, Anton would be speaking an octave higher for the rest of his life.

  “I wasn’t sure what the dress code was, so I hope I did all right,” I said, looking down at my outfit. In contrast, Anton had on a stylish navy suit and a maroon pencil tie. I was definitely underdressed if this was the standard.

  “You couldn’t be more all right if I’d dressed you myself,” he replied with a smile.

  “Oh,” I said, diverting my attention from him. He was staring at me in that unblinking way, not sexually, but in a searching way that made me uncomfortable. I didn’t want to be inspected. I wanted to clock in, make my money, and clock out. “That’s good.”

  Anton came toward me and extended his hand. “Nice to finally meet you in person, Lucy Larson,” he said, his smile so white and perfect it didn’t seem real. “And if I had known you were even prettier in person than in a picture, I never would have hired you.”

  I rolled my eyes. He was a flirt. Like brother, like sister.

  “Why’s that,” I shot back, realizing my smart-ass self was going to fit in fine here, “because you’d no longer be in the office running for best-looking?”

  Anton’s head tipped back as he laughed. His laugh, like his voice, was clear and almost musical. “India warned me you were a firecracker. For once, I’m glad she was right about something,” he said, his shoulders still shaking. “But no, that’s not the reason. At least, not the main reason. My dad keeps one rule, and one rule only, in business. He says all the rest you can bend along the way if need be, save for one.” He paused, studying me again. I watched his pupils, and never once did they wander south of my face.

  “What’s that?” I said, since he was obviously not going to say any more until I inq
uired.

  “The fifty/fifty rule when hiring an admin,” he said, with a shrug like it was common knowledge.

  “This ought to be good.”

  Anton slid a hand into his pants pocket. “Make sure she’s over fifty and fifty pounds overweight.”

  “I didn’t realize I was coming to work for a chauvinist,” I said, followed by an exaggerated sigh. “Why’s this the number one rule?”

  He mimicked my sigh. We’d spoken a few sentences, but I had a feeling I had met my match. “So there’s no temptation,” he said.

  Flashing my left hand in front of him, I waited for him to take note of the ring on a certain important finger. “In case India forgot to mention it, I’m engaged. So there’ll be no temptation whatsoever.”

  Anton studied the ring for another moment before he smiled broadly. “Forbidden fruit. Wanting what a man can’t have. I don’t think that worked out so well for Adam and the whole fall-of-man thing.” His smile pulled higher as he waited for me to reply. He was enjoying this banter.

  Since it was my first day on the job, I decided to bite back what I wanted to say to him.

  “Anytime you’re ready to tell me what I’m here to actually do . . .” I said, gesturing at my desk and computer. “I didn’t get all dressed up for nothing.”

  “No.” Anton chuckled, coming around the side of my desk. “You certainly didn’t.” Continuing past the desk, he opened the door to his office and sauntered in. When he got to his desk, he glanced back at me where I hovered at the door. “Anytime you’re ready for me to tell you what you’re actually here to do . . .” He gestured at the chair in front of his desk and waited.

  “I didn’t realize we were playing tag,” I muttered, just loud enough for him to hear.

  He smiled and fired up his laptop.

  Anton’s office was posh—if you were into the modern twist on 1960s cool. Like India had said, it was a scene pulled from Mad Men, right down to the fancy crystal bottles of liquor displayed on a shelf behind his desk. Like his little sister, Anton had expensive taste.