CHAPTER THIRTEEN Jude

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Jude

If I'd known when I got up this morning that I'd spend the day in the hospital taking care of Olive, I probably wouldn't have gotten out of bed. At least it would have kept her from being where she is right now.

She's pale as she argues with Annie about whether she's good to go home or should stay. She wants to leave, and I don't blame her. It's now after seven, and we've been here for hours. She's just been resting, something she can easily do at home too.

"At least wait until I get off so I can take you," Annie pleads as Olive walks slowly out of her room after finally convincing Annie she'll be okay on her own for a few hours, wincing only a little when she puts pressure on her bruised knee. The gash is bad, but the bruising is even worse. She'll need to ice it for at least a few days.

It's all your fault, Jude. You did this.

I shake away the thoughts, then push off the nurses' station.

"I'll make sure she gets home okay," I tell Annie, going to Olive's side. I try to grab her forearm to help her, but she pulls away.

I don't blame her for that either.

Annie bounces her eyes from Olive to me, worrying her lips between her teeth before finally relenting.

"Fine. But I'll be home in two hours, tops." She looks at me, and I try not to shrink back at the inferno in her gaze. Annie might be little, but she's scary as hell. "Take her straight home. No funny business. I don't care who you are—I'll cut your balls off if anything happens to my best friend."

I look to Olive, expecting her to admonish her friend for her rude behavior, but she just shrugs, pushing past me to the desk to finalize her paperwork.

I fight the urge to slide a hand over my threatened balls and nod. "I'll get her home in one piece. I promise."

"Good." Annie narrows her eyes again before turning to help Olive.

We get everything settled; then, armed with paperwork and a prescription for pain meds, we make our way from the hospital.

By some miracle, there are zero paparazzi waiting for us when we leave.

There's also a cab waiting, courtesy of the nurse at the front desk I sweet-talked into calling one for me.

"Watch your head," I say to Olive as I help her inside.

"I'm not an invalid," she grumbles in return, but she climbs inside gently. She winces only once, and I take that as a good sign.

She's already looking better than she did when we first got here, but she's still clearly in pain.

"Do we need to get this filled?" I hold up the slip of paper.

She shakes her head, then leans it against the cab window. "Nah. I'll be fine."

I don't believe her but let it go, making a mental note to let Annie know. Maybe she can convince Olive to get the prescription filled.

"Where to?" the cab driver asks.

Olive rattles off her address—a place in Hell's Kitchen.

No wonder she's always at JT's. It's parked almost perfectly between us and definitely has the best coffee I've found in the city.

The cab driver keeps the music turned low, and Olive naps beside me while I check my phone.

Dylan: Where are you?

Dylan: JUDE

Dylan: I SWEAR

Dylan: What did you do?!

Dylan: Call me.

Dylan: Now.

Dylan: I AM NOT JOKING, JUDE.

Dylan: Dammit, Jude.

I switch to the other messages waiting for me.

Cait: Did you get everything sorted?

Ha. Not even close, little sister.

Back to my inbox.

Jasper: I talked to Cait. She said you ran out of the bakery. You good?

Jasper: Why is YOUR publicist blowing up MY phone?

Jasper: I just saw TMZ. What the hell happened, man?

Jasper: You'd better at least tell Mom you're okay. She's freaking out.

I groan, checking to see what she has to say.

Mom: JUDE ALLEN RAFFERTY

Mom: When your mother calls, you answer.

Mom: Fine. Then don't answer. Let me worry myself to death over you.

Mom: I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. I love you. Just call me, okay?

And finally, one from my father.

Dad: Call your mother.

Other than the twenty missed calls—ten from Dylan, eight from my mother, and the other two from my siblings—that's it.

It could have been worse, and I'm sure it will be if I dare go on the internet, but I don't want to deal with that—or any of this—now. I can already predict the headlines.

Jude Rafferty: A Hero!

Is Jude Rafferty a Hero or Villain? Eyewitnesses Say She Was Running Scared!

Jude Rafferty Brings Mystery Girl Back from Dead with Hotness

All right, fine. That last one is a bit of a stretch, but still. I'm sure it's already plastered all over the place, and I'd rather not witness being hailed as a hero.

I'm no hero. Especially not to Olive.

Instead of enduring all my worst fears, I tuck my phone back into my pocket and turn my attention to the person who deserves it most, especially after today.

It's wild to me that the woman lying in the hospital bed was Sunshine—yet somehow, being this close to her in the cab and knowing ... it all just makes so much sense. I couldn't see it before, always too blinded by her oversize sunglasses and colossal attitude, but I can't unsee it.

How did I miss this before? How could I have not noticed her like this?

I let my eyes trace over her soft features, loving that even when she's sleeping, she looks annoyed. Her long lashes cast shadows over her cheeks, and I wish she weren't feeling so awful right now because I'd kill for a glimpse of her eyes again. If she hadn't been wearing those damn sunglasses every time at the coffee truck, they would have been a dead giveaway. They're too unique for me not to notice.

"You're creeping me out."

I chuckle. "Just making sure you're still breathing."

"Scared Annie is going to kill you if I die?"

"No. I'm scared you'll haunt me for the rest of my life."

A smile tugs at her lips. "I will."

She peels her eyes open, then slowly turns her head toward me, finally giving me another look at her baby blues.

They're more clouded than usual, but I guess that's from the grogginess. It doesn't make them any less intoxicating, though.

"What?" she whispers.

"What?"

She lifts a brow. "You're staring."

"I like your eyes."

My confession startles her. It startles me too.

I didn't mean to say it, but now that I have, I don't want to take it back. I mean it too much.

"Thank you," she says quietly, then averts the gaze I can't get enough of. She looks out the window, watching the city pass us by as the cabbie whips in and out of traffic, a seasoned New Yorker.

City lights reflect off her pale skin, making her look like she's a heroine in an indie film experiencing New York for the first time, her eyes wide with wonder.

"I love this city."

"I know," I tell her, still unable to take my eyes off her. "You've talked about it a lot." She casts her eyes over at me, brows drawn together. "In your journal," I clarify.

Gone is the wistful look and back comes the anger.

Her arms go back over her chest—her signature and telling move—and her lips turn down at the corners. "Right. I forgot you invaded my privacy and read that."

"But you were okay with me reading if I was Jasper?"

"No," she snaps, lifting her chin and looking back out the window.

I wonder if that's what this is really about. That she's mad I'm not my brother.

I turn that thought around in my mind for far too long as the buildings pass. By the time we turn onto 9th Avenue, I think we may make it all the way to her apartment before she says another word.

"No," she says again, but softer this time. "I wasn't okay with it. I was mortified by the thought. But I ... I thought I had maybe met someone who understood."

"Olive."

It takes ten seconds for her to look over at me, and when she does, I see it—unshed tears.

In that moment, I hate myself.

Hate myself for lying to her. For pretending to be someone else. For losing her trust.

"I might not have told you who I was, but everything—and I mean everything—else I told you was true. I didn't lie about any of it. It was real. We were real."

She just stares at me, her eyes darting between my own as silence fills the cab, my words blanketing us in a moment of understanding.

Then, finally, she says, "Even the aliens?"

I feel the corners of my mouth pull up. "Especially the aliens."

She smiles as the cab comes to a halt.

"We're here," the driver announces.

He gives me my total, and I add another fifty bucks, hoping it'll help keep him quiet about who was in his cab.

I crawl out the back, then hold my hand out for Olive. I'm surprised when she accepts it without a fight, placing her soft palm against mine, letting me help her from the car.

She doesn't wince this time, but I still see the tightening of her lips as she puts weight on her messed-up leg.

She allows me to lead her up to her building. She even puts in the code for the door and doesn't protest when I follow her up the stairs, my hand on her lower back and my eyes trained anywhere but her ass I so desperately want to stare at.

In fact, we make it all the way to her door before she finally has a complaint.

"You can't come inside, Jude."

I nod, figuring that's what she'd say. "I know."

"Annie will be home in an hour. I'll be fine until then."

I hate the idea of leaving her alone, but I can't force my way inside her apartment. She doesn't want me here, and I have to respect that.

And I guess I get it. I'm not the guy she was expecting me to be. She wanted Jasper. Not me. The knowledge twists into my gut.

I tuck my hands into my pockets to keep from reaching out to her like I'm itching to. The small touches we've had today weren't enough. "Will you at least let me know you're okay?"

"I won't do that either."

Again, I nod because, again, I expected as much.

It doesn't mean I like it, though.

"I'm sorry," I tell her.

Sorry for lying. Sorry for hurting her. Sorry she got hurt because of me. Sorry for it all.

I want to tell her all that, but I have a feeling she already knows.

She nods. "I know you are."

But that's all I get. No forgiveness. No "It's okay." No indication that this isn't going to be the last time I see her.

I hate it, but I know it's what I had coming.

I knew this was never going to end well, but now I realize I didn't want it to end at all.

This sucks.

"Good night, Jude," she says.

"Good night, Olive."

Then, because I can't help myself, I take a step toward.

She doesn't flinch. She doesn't move.

She just inhales sharply, her eyes widening to twice their size as I lean forward and press my lips softly against her cheek.

I pull away and dart back the way I came before I do something really senseless, like kiss her until we're both completely breathless. Or beg her to let me inside.

I don't deserve it. I know that. But I want it all the same.

I'm halfway down the stairs when I finally hear her exhale.

Me too, Olive. Me too.

"Well, you're an idiot, but you're being hailed as a hero for it all."

I groan because my exact worst fears have come true.

Those headlines I was dreading so much? I wasn't far off at all. Hell, even a few were exactly what I had predicted. The media is so cliché sometimes.

"I'm not a hero."

"I never said you were. I said you were an idiot."

I laugh. "Thanks. I can always count on your honesty, Dylan."

"Damn right you can. That tie is awful. Wear a different one."

I grumble but do as she says, heading for my closet to find a better option.

"You know," Dylan says, her voice muffled from the spot on the dresser where I have my phone propped up against a stack of books, our video chat filling the screen, "this is really going to help move things along. People are going to focus on your new superhero status rather than your dumbassery. When I said we should make headlines, I didn't mean like this. But this is a winning situation."

Leave it to Dylan to find the only bright spot.

It's been less than twenty-four hours since I dropped Olive off at her apartment, and according to Dylan, my name has been searched nearly one million times.

To most of the internet, I'm a hero.

But if you ask me, I'm every bit the asshat Olive loves to say I am.

"You forgot about the part where I lied to someone and pretended to be my brother," I say, coming back into the room, two new ties in hand. I hold them up so Dylan can see. "Which one?"

"Hmm. Neither. Go tie-less. And drop a button."

"I might be an idiot, but I'm not a douchebag."

She arches a brow. "Do you really want to argue with me right now? After everything?"

I may have skipped out on calling anyone back last night.

After I left Olive at her door, I went for a walk. A long, long walk. I didn't find my way back to my apartment until well after midnight, and by that time, my phone was dead. The first thing I did was plug it in and check Jasper's Instagram for a message from Olive.

There was nothing.

Nada. Not a damn thing.

I was hoping that maybe she'd reach out to let me know she was okay, but she didn't.

I fought the urge to message her first for far too long. Hell, I'm still fighting the urge.

I want to know she's okay. I need to know.

And it's not even because I'm desperate for her forgiveness—it's more than that.

I want to make things right with us. It may sound ridiculous, but I miss her. I miss her random messages, her life updates, and I miss the way she could make me laugh with something as silly as talking about aliens. Miss the way she could make me light up with just a simple message about her day. Miss the way she could make me feel warm and fuzzy, just like sunshine.

I want that feeling back. I want her back. I just wish I knew how to make the first move to fix this.

She hasn't blocked me or Jasper. That has to mean something, doesn't it? Maybe she wants the same thing. Or maybe, in her confusion from the concussion, she just forgot.

Either way, I'm taking it as a sign that perhaps there's still hope. At least, I really, really want there to still be hope.

"That's what I thought," Dylan says, bringing me back to the present. "Besides, if her dating history is anything to go by, Keely loves douchebags."

Tonight is the night I pay Dylan back for all she's done—one date with a starlet of her choosing. When I agreed to it, I didn't even think about who she might pick, but I should have known who it would be.

My date is none other than Keely Haart, granddaughter of the acting pioneer Henry Haart and the most in-demand actress working right now. She's good in front of the camera, I'll give her that, but that's as far as my praise goes. I've had a few brief interactions with her over the years, and it's safe to say she is not my type. Not by a long shot.

But I owe Dylan. Big-time. This is my repayment, even if it is the last thing I want to be doing tonight, especially after yesterday.

"Remind me then why I'm going on a ... date with her?" The word date sends a shiver down my spine.

"Because she's the Keely Haart. She's huge and all over the place. It's basically the equivalent of you dating your brother."

"I'd rather you not phrase it like that."

Dylan throws her hands in the air. "You know what I mean. She's famous on the caliber Jasper is. Being spotted with her is good."

"‘Spotted'? You make me sound like I'm on Gossip Girl or something."

"Ha. You'd never survive New York's elite, but Keely would. She'll shoot your name to the top of searches for good reasons, instead of Snoopy-underwear reasons. We still really need to talk about that."

I ignore her underwear comment. "I thought my new superhero status did that already?"

Dylan shrugs. "Maybe. But there's no harm in making sure a good thing stays good, right?"

I don't respond because I don't have a response other than I really don't want to fucking do this. I am only doing this for her. It sure as hell isn't for me.

Tossing the ties to the side, I heed Dylan's directions and undo the top button of my shirt.

Yep. Douchebag.

"See? You look great!" Dylan claps her hands excitedly. "Now, the florist should be there any minute so you can pick out flowers."

"Florist? Flowers?" My eyes snap to the screen. "You didn't say anything about that."

"It's a date, Jude. And we're trying to make you look like a damn gentleman. Flowers are expected. The cameras will go wild over it."

I can read between the lines just fine: You're bringing her flowers. End of discussion.

I gnash my teeth together, annoyed that once again, Dylan has the upper hand. "Fine."

Her white teeth stand out brightly against her red-painted lips. "Good. Glad we're on the same page."

She runs over the rest of the evening she has perfectly planned, including a "casual" stroll through Central Park just when the sun begins to set, giving all "candid" photos the perfect glow.

Dylan's a damn maestro, and I'm just an instrument in her symphony.

"And, Jude?" Dylan says. "You'd better kiss her at the end of the night."

There's no way in hell. "I will."

"So then she was like, ‘I can't work with Keely Haart. She's too beautiful, and I don't want to be second to her.' So she quit, and I got the lead role."

The actress sitting across from me lifts her shoulders, then grabs her wineglass—her fourth of the night—and tosses back the remaining contents. She taps her glass with her gaudy ring several times, lifting her other hand and snapping.

"More wine!" she calls to the waiter, who has been bending over backward all night to keep her satisfied. She looks over at me, her bright-pink lips pulled up in disgust, then shakes her head. "Can you believe this? I shouldn't have to ask."

I shoot her a tight smile, not really interested in engaging with her.

Truth be told, I'm fucking miserable. And it's not just because I find Keely to be the most self-centered and aggravating person I've ever met. There's somewhere else I'd much rather be right now: with Olive.

I check my phone for what feels like the fiftieth time in the last two hours.

Nothing. Again.

"Are you waiting on a call or something?"

I find Keely watching me with shrewd eyes. "Pardon?"

She dips her head toward my phone. "You've checked your phone no less than twenty times since we've sat down." It's more. It has to be. But I'm not about to correct her on it. "I just assumed you're waiting on a call. Maybe from a certain director?"

"Not a director."

"Then who?" she inquires as the waiter appears and refills her drink. She doesn't even acknowledge him, just flicks her long, sleek black hair over her shoulder and waits for my answer.

"Sir?" he asks, holding up the wine bottle.

I've already had two drinks. I should stick to my two-drink limit and say no. But if I'm going to survive the rest of this date, I'll need more booze.

"I'll take a whiskey. On the rocks, please, Daniel."

He looks taken aback when I use his name, and it makes me sad. Is it really such a shock for me to treat him like a human?

"Goody. More wine for me." Keely taps her already half-empty glass, begging for a refill. How the hell did she guzzle that so fast?

Daniel refills my date's glass, then tells me he'll be right back with my whiskey and disappears to the bar.

"So, who are you waiting on a call from if not a director?"

"Just a friend," I tell her, even though I don't owe her an explanation at all. I don't know this woman—not really. She's just a date set up by my publicist. This isn't real, and it never will be.

She narrows her eyes, seemingly annoyed by my answer, but the strained expression quickly transforms into a smile so wide and fake it hurts even me.

"You're mysterious, Jude." She takes a sip of her wine, her eyes sparkling at me over the rim of her glass. "I like mysterious."

Daniel drops off my whiskey, and I sling half of it back in one gulp, relishing the way the liquid burns the back of my throat. It's just what I need to get through this.

Keely might like mysterious, but I like real, which is not at all what she is.

But Olive ... Olive is real, and I miss her.

How is that even possible? I barely know her, but it doesn't matter. I want to know her, and I really want to spend more time with her.

But I've screwed it all up, haven't I? She doesn't want to know me. She doesn't want to spend time with me. How am I going to fix that?

Keely falls into a conversation with herself about some movie she's currently shooting. I'm only halfway listening, my mind in a different place as we wrap up our dinner.

As expected, when we exit, the place is crawling with cameras.

"Keely! Keely! Over here, Keely!"

"Jude, look this way!"

"Are you dating now?"

"How long have you been together?"

"How does your grandfather feel about this union, Keely?"

"What happened yesterday, Jude? Did you really push that woman down?"

I grit my teeth, trying with everything I have to reel in the sudden anger that floods me.

I will not punch the paparazzi. I will not punch the paparazzi. I will not punch the paparazzi.

It's all I can do to keep my cool.

The headlines about yesterday have been mostly positive, but there have been a few blogs trying to drum up drama where there isn't any.

Well, not the drama they're talking about, at least.

I try not to think about it and fight my way through the crowd, following Cliff's lead. I don't usually have a bodyguard following me around, but Dylan felt it was best for tonight, considering my date.

But as big as he is and as much as he pushes through the crowd blocking the narrow Manhattan sidewalk, they shove back. It's a frenzy, and by the time we make it to the car, I'm exhausted, and my shirt is sticking to my back with sweat.

"God, I hate those vultures," Keely complains when we're seated safely in the back seat of the heavily tinted SUV. "They're the worst."

Finally, we agree about something.

"You could say that again," I mutter as our bodyguard slips into the front passenger seat.

He gives the driver our next destination; then we're off for the second portion of our evening: a casual yet not-so-casual walk in the park. It's so staged and so lame.

I will never, ever go on another date set up by Dylan. I don't care how much I owe her. This isn't worth it.

"Do you have any champagne?" Keely asks the driver.

"I'm sorry, miss, I don't."

She crosses her arms, huffing, and for a moment I'm transported back to standing at JT's coffee truck with Olive and her attitude.

Fuck. I even miss the sassy parts of her. If I'd known Sunshine was Olive, I'd have taken more advantage of the time we had together, especially if I had known it was going to be so limited.

It's not long before we're pulling up to one of the park's 5th Avenue entrances, and it makes me wonder why we couldn't have walked, so I voice the question out loud.

Keely screws her face up like it's the dumbest question she's ever heard. "Uh, because I'm wearing heels, and you don't walk in heels like this."

I want to point out that it's exactly what we're about to do—go for a walk. But I'd rather not get into it with her. I can already tell it will be a losing battle, and not the fun kind.

Cliff opens the door. "All clear, Mr. Rafferty," he tells me in a deep voice.

I slide out, giving him a nod, and turn to grab Keely's hand. She looks down at it, then back at me, and her lips curl up into a sneer.

"We need to make this quick. Ten minutes, max. I can't do any more. The last thing I need is for them to snap photos of me sweating." She shudders like she can't possibly imagine showing the media that she's—gasp—human.

My brain automatically goes to the alien conversation I had with Olive and how fun and goofy it was, a far cry from how this date is going. I'm not having fun and my date certainly isn't goofy. It's stuffy and forced, and I hate every moment of it.

"Um, hello?" Keely yanks on my hand. "Let's go already."

I snap myself out of my melancholy thoughts, then help her from the car.

We're not even ten feet away from the vehicle when swarms of paparazzi appear out of nowhere. It's like a damn movie, them popping out of the bushes, rolling up in vans, and sliding out like ninjas.

It's all so stupid, I think as we wander around, Keely clinging on to me like none of this is fake and I'm some proper English gentleman who's courting her.

She rambles on about something I have zero interest in, and I take in the scenery. Walking through here is one of my favorite things about the city. From the looming, gorgeous bright-green trees to the hot dog vendors and Frisbee players and families roaming through the park. It's always blown my mind that in a city of concrete, there's this beauty tucked away and preserved. It feels like you're in a different world.

And a different world is exactly where I want to be right now.

Just as I'm about to check my watch, Keely tugs on my arm.

I pause, looking over at her.

She's giving me another forced smile. "I'm ready to leave now, Jude."

It's so creepy she's able to talk without dropping her lips or act. It's like she's a robot or a Barbie doll.

"As you wish," I murmur, then steer us as naturally as I can back toward the car.

When we approach the waiting vehicle, she sinks her nails—talons, really—into my arm.

"Kiss me, Jude."

I ignore her, towing her along.

She sinks her nails in deeper, so deep there's no way she won't leave a mark on my arm.

"Kiss. Me," she instructs again.

I pull us to a stop right in front of the SUV. Keely looks up at me expectantly, her eyes filled with a thinly veiled threat that I had better obey or face her wrath.

I'm not scared of her wrath. Or Dylan's.

But because my mother raised me to be a gentleman, I take a deep breath and slide into the role of a leading man. I slip my hand over her cheek, letting my fingers tangle with her hair as I cup her face, stepping closer and leaving just a speck of distance between us.

Keely inhales sharply, and I grin because it's probably the most genuine she's been this entire evening.

I lean in, my eyes never leaving hers.

Closer . . . closer . . .

Our lips are nearly brushing when I move my head just to the right and place a gentle, chaste kiss against her cheek.

I take a step back, a burst of cool air from the sudden space hitting us both.

It's enough to knock Keely out of whatever trance she was in, and I see it—she's fuming.

We were supposed to kiss. It was part of the deal.

It was going to keep her name in the headlines and make mine climb even higher.

But I can't do it. I won't.

She's not the one I want to kiss.