holding a mug of coffee.
“You’ve made mine so many times I’m embarrassed to admit I have no idea how you like yours.”
He’s here. And making me coffee. Jude Lazarus just made me coffee. I smile. “Black is fine.”
He comes inside and sits down on the bed as I prop myself up on my pillows. His hair is adorably disheveled and he looks so young. Almost as if we were the same age. But when he looks down at me and smiles I can see the laugh lines around his eyes. He is unbearably sexy.
“You have no food in the house,” he says handing me the mug. “Unless you count mustard and white wine as food.”
I blush. “I’m still getting the hang of having my own place. If you check the cupboards, they’re pretty full of canned stuff. But I do need to go grocery shopping.” I look at him, hopeful. “Maybe we should go out to breakfast!”
Lazarus leans in and kisses my forehead. “I went across the street and bought croissants. I’m heating them in the oven.”
I blink at him. “You are?”
“But then I have to go. There’s a big thing on Monday that I have to prepare for. I’ll be working all weekend.”
I stare down at my mug and frown. What did I think would happen? That he’d whisk me out for a day in the city? A picnic in the park? A matinee? He’s engaged to a woman and I’m just the girl he’s cheating with. The home wrecker, or whatever. I have to be okay with this!
“Hey.” He lifts my chin and gives me a soft, sensual kiss on the lips. “I could come by later to see you, if that’s okay. Will you be around tonight?”
“Come here?” My heart rises in my chest. “What time?”
He shrugs. “Late, probably. If that’s a problem, I…”
“It’s fine,” I say quickly. I sound like such a desperate dork. I’m officially the new booty call. “Come whenever.”
“I’ll bring dinner. If you don’t mind eating that late.”
I shrug and smile. “Not at all.”
We eat warm croissants and drink coffee in the kitchen, though neither of us have much to say. Still, it’s nice seeing Lazarus sitting in my kitchen in his underwear sipping from one of my Goodwill mugs. I can at least pretend things are cozy. Domestic.
“Can I ask you another question?” he says at last between sips.
“Okay.”
“How long were you living in your car? And why?”
I feel a flash of heat sear through me, and not the good kind. It’s mortifying. Lazarus leans over the table and gently brushes away the hair hanging in my face. I force myself to meet his eyes. They’re so gentle. Still, no words come.
“You shouldn’t feel ashamed,” he says in a low voice, as if there were people sitting within earshot. “I grew up poor, too. I used to drive around town with my mother collecting bottles and cans until we had enough money to put gas in the car.”
My mouth falls open. What the fuck? I also assumed Jude Lazarus came from epic family money. He exudes rich guy confidence. There’s no way he came from poverty. Just like me.
“You can’t be serious.”
“It’s true. My dad was a drunk and died when I was a kid. Choked on his own vomit passed out in the bathroom of a dive bar. My mom worked the check out at our local supermarket. My brother and I practically had to raise ourselves. She died when I was in college. Had a stroke. She was only 51.”
I can only stare at him. It feels like a soap opera story invented to make me feel better. But it sounds too awful. Too real. Too true. The kind of true people like me can recognize. I realize his face has gone ashen and his amber eyes have darkened to coal. He’s looking down at his hands, a million miles away.
“I’m so sorry,” I breathe at last.
Lazarus looks up as if surprised out of his terrible reverie. Now he looks embarrassed. “I haven’t told anyone that since… Hell, I’ve never really told anyone. Not all that.”
I reach over and put a hand on his.
“You’ve made mine so many times I’m embarrassed to admit I have no idea how you like yours.”
He’s here. And making me coffee. Jude Lazarus just made me coffee. I smile. “Black is fine.”
He comes inside and sits down on the bed as I prop myself up on my pillows. His hair is adorably disheveled and he looks so young. Almost as if we were the same age. But when he looks down at me and smiles I can see the laugh lines around his eyes. He is unbearably sexy.
“You have no food in the house,” he says handing me the mug. “Unless you count mustard and white wine as food.”
I blush. “I’m still getting the hang of having my own place. If you check the cupboards, they’re pretty full of canned stuff. But I do need to go grocery shopping.” I look at him, hopeful. “Maybe we should go out to breakfast!”
Lazarus leans in and kisses my forehead. “I went across the street and bought croissants. I’m heating them in the oven.”
I blink at him. “You are?”
“But then I have to go. There’s a big thing on Monday that I have to prepare for. I’ll be working all weekend.”
I stare down at my mug and frown. What did I think would happen? That he’d whisk me out for a day in the city? A picnic in the park? A matinee? He’s engaged to a woman and I’m just the girl he’s cheating with. The home wrecker, or whatever. I have to be okay with this!
“Hey.” He lifts my chin and gives me a soft, sensual kiss on the lips. “I could come by later to see you, if that’s okay. Will you be around tonight?”
“Come here?” My heart rises in my chest. “What time?”
He shrugs. “Late, probably. If that’s a problem, I…”
“It’s fine,” I say quickly. I sound like such a desperate dork. I’m officially the new booty call. “Come whenever.”
“I’ll bring dinner. If you don’t mind eating that late.”
I shrug and smile. “Not at all.”
We eat warm croissants and drink coffee in the kitchen, though neither of us have much to say. Still, it’s nice seeing Lazarus sitting in my kitchen in his underwear sipping from one of my Goodwill mugs. I can at least pretend things are cozy. Domestic.
“Can I ask you another question?” he says at last between sips.
“Okay.”
“How long were you living in your car? And why?”
I feel a flash of heat sear through me, and not the good kind. It’s mortifying. Lazarus leans over the table and gently brushes away the hair hanging in my face. I force myself to meet his eyes. They’re so gentle. Still, no words come.
“You shouldn’t feel ashamed,” he says in a low voice, as if there were people sitting within earshot. “I grew up poor, too. I used to drive around town with my mother collecting bottles and cans until we had enough money to put gas in the car.”
My mouth falls open. What the fuck? I also assumed Jude Lazarus came from epic family money. He exudes rich guy confidence. There’s no way he came from poverty. Just like me.
“You can’t be serious.”
“It’s true. My dad was a drunk and died when I was a kid. Choked on his own vomit passed out in the bathroom of a dive bar. My mom worked the check out at our local supermarket. My brother and I practically had to raise ourselves. She died when I was in college. Had a stroke. She was only 51.”
I can only stare at him. It feels like a soap opera story invented to make me feel better. But it sounds too awful. Too real. Too true. The kind of true people like me can recognize. I realize his face has gone ashen and his amber eyes have darkened to coal. He’s looking down at his hands, a million miles away.
“I’m so sorry,” I breathe at last.
Lazarus looks up as if surprised out of his terrible reverie. Now he looks embarrassed. “I haven’t told anyone that since… Hell, I’ve never really told anyone. Not all that.”
I reach over and put a hand on his.
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