CHAPTER FIFTEEN Jude

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Jude

I'll admit it—following Olive to her apartment probably isn't the smartest thing I've ever done, but it's pretty clear I'm not in the right state of mind. At least, not when it comes to her.

Hell, I stalked her to her favorite coffee truck, for crying out loud.

Though I do think stalk is a harsh word. It wasn't stalking, per se. I just happened to know where she'd be, thanks to Annie.

And yeah, fine, I totally ran there so I wouldn't miss her, but still. Not stalking.

Just . . . noticing.

These are all the things I repeat to myself as I follow behind her. We don't talk the entire time, no matter how many words I want to spew at her. I know better. If I talk, I risk her telling me to leave her alone.

And I really, really don't want her to tell me to leave her alone.

Those few minutes we had back at the coffee truck? Those were the best minutes I've had in days.

I want more minutes like that, and I want them with Olive.

So I keep my mouth shut. All the way down the street, through the door to her building, and up the stairs. I don't speak a word the entire time.

Not even when we reach her apartment—4D—and she digs around in her bag before producing a key and shoving it into the lock.

She pushes the door open, then strolls right in, leaving it open and me standing out in the hallway.

I don't dare walk inside. Not because I'm some vampire who hasn't been invited in—I lived that experience on a TV show already, and no thanks—but because I'm not sure if I'm allowed to come in.

I don't exactly know where we stand right now. It's evident she's still upset with me, but she did let me walk her back to her apartment. That's progress, right?

My phone shakes against my hip, and I ignore it. I ignore it like I have been for the last several days. I'm sure it's Dylan. Just like I'm sure she'll leave another angry voicemail.

It's been the same cycle since my awful date with Keely: Dylan yells at me, and I ignore her until the guilt eats at me, then I answer. She yells again, and the cycle starts over.

But right now, I have more important things to worry about than my publicist being mad at me for not kissing Keely Haart.

I'm standing outside Olive's apartment, and that takes precedence for many reasons.

I let my eyes slide over what I can see from my vantage point. It's small, that's for sure, but it doesn't feel small. More ... cozy. Comfortable. A lot more welcoming than my place, especially with the photos hung on the wall. There are even a couple of funny signs about it being "wine time." There's a little wooden table by the door with a ceramic bowl holding keys, receipts, and sauce packets from random places.

Nothing truly matches, but it somehow makes perfect sense.

Olive disappears around the corner, and the sound of voices floats down the hall to me. I assume she's talking to Annie, and I wish like hell I could make out what they're saying, but they're talking in hushed whispers.

"Who are you?"

I jump, and the hot chocolate—well, now very lukewarm chocolate—shakes in one hand and the latte's ice rattles against the cup in the other.

A little girl stands in front of me. She has big, round blue eyes and hair so blonde it could be white. There's a headband holding back her bangs, and she's wearing a school uniform. Did the new year start already?

"Um, hello, mister?" the kid probes. "I asked a question. You're supposed to answer when someone talks to you. My mama said so. She's not here right now, but Auntie says she'll be home soon. She's got a baby in her belly, you know? It's going to be as big as me when it comes out. I think. Momma's belly sure is big, so it definitely looks like the baby is going to be big. I sure hope so. I want someone to play with at home and not just at school. Hey, do you like to play? I brought my Barbies with me."

I stifle a laugh at her rambling. She wants me to answer her, but she's not giving me a second.

"I'm Jude," I finally say, when she pauses to take a breath.

"Jude?" She wrinkles her nose. "That can't be your name. I know Jude, and you're not him."

"You know another Jude?"

"Another Jude? There are more than one of you?" Her big eyes are even bigger as this new information sinks in for her. "I didn't know that."

"People share names," I explain to her. "Mine is Jude. Yours is Daphne, just like the redheaded lady from Scooby-Doo. Do you watch Scooby-Doo?"

She shakes her head, and I try to hide my disappointment. How could this kid not know about the greatest detective gang of all time? "How'd you know my name?"

"Because I told him."

Daphne spins around as Olive comes back down the hallway from wherever she disappeared to. I don't know, as I'm still hanging out in the doorway, waiting to be invited in.

"You did?" the kid questions.

"Yep. He was nice enough to carry your hot chocolate for you."

"Hot chocolate?" She groans, tossing her little head back dramatically. "But I wanted coffee!"

This time, I don't even bother trying to hide my laughter, which earns me a boot-shaking glare from the four-year-old.

"Yeah, and I want you to go to bed at a decent time." Olive sticks her tongue out at the kid. "How about this: we can pretend it's coffee, and I'll let you read the newspaper as you drink it. Deal?"

"The whole newspaper?"

"Just the comics."

Daphne groans again but nods. "Fine. Deal." She turns back to me with her hand extended. "Coffee me, please."

I hand over the small cup. "Careful. It's still hot," I tell her, playing along with her little game.

"Duh. It's coffee." Her words are emphasized with an eye roll as she takes the drink from my hand, then blows on it like I'm sure she's seen adults do over the years. She takes a sip and smacks her lips together, letting out a loud "Aaah."

She treks down the hall toward the kitchen, stopping every two feet or so to take a sip and let everyone within earshot know just how good it is with her little exhales.

It's ridiculous and adorable.

"Sorry if she was rude."

I shrug. "Figured she learned it from you."

Olive narrows her eyes, and I laugh.

"She reads the newspaper?"

It's Olive's turn to chuckle. "No. But she likes to pretend she does, just like her dad does every morning at the breakfast table. He slides her the cartoons, and she cackles over them, pretending to understand the jokes, while he looks over the sports section. She's ..."

"A hell-raiser?"

"Yep." Olive drops her eyes to the coffee I'm still holding, pursing her lips like she's contemplating her next move.

Is she going to invite me in or tell me to get lost?

I truly hope it's not the latter.

But either way, I'm going to let her be the one to make that decision.

I let my eyes wander over Olive as I wait for her to figure it out.

The bump on her forehead has gone down, but there's no mistaking it's still there. I wonder if her knees have healed and want to check, but I can't.

She looks better than she did a few days ago but somehow just as wrecked.

Is that because of me?

I shake away the thought.

Finally, after what feels like hours of me lingering at the threshold, Olive sighs.

"Just come in," she mutters, taking off down the hall again, leaving me to trail behind her for the second time today.

And I do with glee, closing the door behind me before following her deeper into the apartment.

I take it all in—the mismatched furniture; the eclectic collections of vases, candles, and chipped teacups; the distinct smell of cinnamon.

It feels as cozy as it looks, and I decide right then that this is what I want my place to feel like one day.

We round the corner she disappeared around earlier and step into a small kitchen. It's just as mismatched as the rest of the apartment. Appliances litter the counter, but not in an overwhelming way. Everything seems to have its place, and it works. A long counter stretches through most of the space, which is where I find little Daphne sitting, sipping on her "coffee."

"Are you staying for dinner or what?" Daphne asks me the second I walk into her line of sight.

"Kid, you cannot just keep asking rude questions," Olive says.

"It's not rude to invite someone to dinner," Annie's niece argues.

To be fair, she's right. It's not rude. It's just her approach that's rude.

"Are you being rude in here?" Annie asks from behind me. I have no clue where she's come from, but she's dressed in her work scrubs, clearly ready for a long shift at the hospital. Her eyes shift to mine, and they're a lot less heated than they were the first time we met. I think me coming back to the hospital for an update on Olive might have earned me some points with her. "Jude."

"Annie," I counter.

"You know him too?" Daphne questions. "I didn't even know there could be two Judes!"

"You know two girls named Charlotte," Olive points out.

Daphne huffs in a way only a kid can—exasperated and annoyed and yet so damn cute. "So?"

"Well, this is just like that."

She still doesn't look like she believes us, so she looks to her aunt.

"There are probably millions of Judes. There's even a song about one," Annie explains, and Daphne's mouth drops open in shock, her mind probably reeling from this news. "But yes, I know this Jude. Kind of."

"Kind of." Olive snorts. "Does anyone truly know him?" she snarks not so quietly.

"He's going to play Barbies with me." Daphne pushes her shoulders back, tipping her chin high. "I know him."

Olive snorts again, then pulls open a cabinet. She grabs a box of cheese crackers and a bowl from the row of dishes drying on the counter. She dumps a few crackers in, then slides the bowl over to Daphne.

"Eat some crackers. He's not playing Barbies with you. We can play later."

"I will," I offer sincerely. "I'll play Barbies with you, Daphne."

Her eyes light up. "Really?"

"Yes, really. But only if you'll be really, really, really good for Olive while your auntie's at work. Deal?"

She nods with enthusiasm. "Deal. I'll go set them up! Olive, help me move the couch!"

Move the couch?

But I guess it's not such an odd request, because Olive does just that—she waltzes right past me, heading into the living room, where she rolls up her sleeves and "helps" Daphne push the couch out of the way.

"I'm glad you got my text," Annie whispers from beside me.

It took a few trips to the hospital, but I finally wore Annie down, and she gave me her number so I wouldn't have to keep coming back. I've been texting her every day in hopes that Olive's changed her mind about seeing me.

She hasn't, but when Annie told me she'd be at JT's coffee truck, I knew there was no way I was going to miss my chance at seeing her, even if just for a minute.

"I'm glad you texted," I say just as quietly. "I'm glad you're giving me another chance to make this right and prove I'm not a total asshat."

"Yeah, well, it's not really me you need to convince, now is it?"

"No, I guess not."

It's Olive I have to convince, and that's what I intend to do.

I want to show her I'm not just some douchebag Hollywood actor. That even though I might have not been upfront about my name, I'm still me. I'm still that guy from the messages. The one who made her laugh. The one she told all her secrets to.

I might not be Jasper like she was hoping, but I could still be everything she was looking for in him—a friend. Much as I may want to, I don't even let myself think of being more than that right now.

Annie sighs. "Just don't make me regret it, okay?"

"I won't," I promise her, and I mean it. She won't regret this second chance she's given me. I'll make sure of it.

"Hmm." It's all she says before stepping into the living room and crouching down. "Hug, kiddo."

Daphne abandons Olive, running to Annie.

"Hey!" Olive complains, but her protest falls on deaf ears as Daphne wraps her arms around her aunt.

"I'll see you in the morning, okay? Make sure Auntie Liv reads you a bedtime story."

"The one about the normal lady and the prince falling in love?"

Annie's eyes dart between me and Olive, and she snorts. "Yeah, that one is fine."

They hug again; then Annie shoves to her feet.

She looks at her best friend. "Be nice. To everyone."

I'd be a fool to think the last part isn't pointed right at me.

Olive laughs. "We'll see."

Annie leaves, and I like that she locks the door behind her. It makes me happy to know that Olive has someone looking after her like that.

Then the reality of it all sets in.

I'm in Olive's apartment.

It's just me and her. Together. All alone. No interruptions. Just—

"Which Barbie do you want to be?"

Oh. Right. Daphne.

I sneak a look over at Olive, who is watching us with an amused look.

I clear my throat. "I'll let you pick."

"Hmm ..." Daphne taps her painted nail—really, it's more finger than nail that's painted—against her chin. "This one."

She thrusts a doll with long brown hair into my hands, then plops down onto the floor, peering up at me.

"Well, come on. Let's play!"

I take another glance at Olive, who is very much enjoying this; then I fold myself down to the floor, sitting across from Daphne.

When I woke up this morning, the last thing I thought I'd be doing was playing Barbies with a four-year-old, but here I am.

And honestly, if it made Olive grin at me like she is, I'd do it every damn day.

"We're hungry," Daphne announces, pretending to be her Barbie but not at all hiding the fact she's really talking to Olive as herself. "And we want cheese pizza."

"Cheese pizza, huh?" Olive asks.

"Yep!" Daphne looks over at me. "Is that okay? I don't really like pepperoni, but I'll pick 'em off. Mama makes me do that sometimes because Daddy loves pepperoni."

"I'm not sure if I'm staying for dinner," I tell her.

"What? You have to! Auntie Liv reads the best bedtime stories." She pauses. "Don't tell Auntie Annie I said that, okay?"

I laugh. "It'll be our little secret. But I'm still not sure about pizza. That's up to Auntie Liv."

"Can he stay?" the kid asks Olive.

"Yeah, can I stay?" I echo.

Olive looks like she wants to make us both leave, but instead, she nods, letting out a resigned sigh. "He can stay."

She can act annoyed all she wants, but I see the way her lips tip up at the corners. The corners that I desperately want to kiss.

She doesn't hate the idea of me staying, and neither do I.

And that's how I spend my evening, playing Barbies and eating cheese pizza with a four-year-old, all while I try to ignore my burgeoning desire to kiss the woman who hates me.

"You know, I think your description of her was on point," I whisper to Olive as we slip out of Annie's bedroom.

After the story of the "normal lady" and the prince, plus four other books, Daphne is finally asleep.

She's a hell-raiser, all right. A total storm. One minute she's bossing everyone around Barbie City, and the next she's eating five slices of cheese pizza, just to beg for ice cream and a movie afterward.

I've spent upward of eighteen hours on set before, but never have I been so damn exhausted.

Olive laughs as we step out into the tiny hallway, pulling the door shut behind her. "It was, wasn't it? She really is a firecracker."

She straightens, and it becomes very apparent just how tiny this hallway truly is.

Her back is pressed against the wall and so is mine, yet somehow, we're almost touching.

Her blue eyes flick back and forth between my green ones as the heat between us gets cranked higher and higher, the air growing thinner and thinner.

Now we're alone, and that's becoming abundantly clear by the second.

Just us. In the hall. By ourselves. No kid to interrupt us. No roommate.

I swallow the lump in my throat, and Olive inhales sharply. Our sounds are so damn loud in the otherwise silent apartment. It even seems like the city has turned mute just for this moment, which is absurd. But no sound filters in from the street—not a horn is honked, not a pedestrian yells. Nothing.

Just us.

"I . . ."

But that's all I say because I don't really know what else to say, other than to ask Olive what I'm still doing here.

I didn't need to wait around in the living room while she gave Daphne a bath. I didn't need to stick around for the first story, the second, the third, and definitely not the fifth.

But I am still here, and Olive still hasn't kicked me out.

That has to mean something, right? Like maybe we can go back to the way things were before? Or maybe she doesn't hate me as much as she's pretending to?

And fuck me, but I hope that's the case. Because the thought of being cut from her life feels all wrong, and I don't have time for wrong.

Truthfully, I don't even have time for right.

I'm trying to rebuild a career for myself. Working to make a name that's all me. One where I don't have to worry whether I'm getting the part just because I'm a Rafferty or if it's because I've earned it on my own. That's supposed to be my focus.

But I can't focus on all that knowing Olive could possibly hate me, and I really, really don't want her to hate me.

I want to be her friend as Jude, not Jasper.

I want to know her, and I want her to know me.

I suck in a deep breath, then try again. "I—"

"Does Keely know you're here?"

I rear back, the question and the name coming out of nowhere.

"What?"

Olive shrugs. "I saw the photos. I was just wondering if your girlfriend was aware of where you are tonight. Or do you lie to her too?"

My chest stings as if I've been punched in it, and I guess I kind of have been.

And I also guess I kind of deserve it.

"We should probably talk about that."

"There's nothing to talk about. You're free to do whatever you want."

She turns to leave, and before I know what I'm doing, I'm grabbing her wrist and tugging her back to me.

To us.

My hands go to her waist as she lands against my chest with a soft gasp, her eyes snapping to mine. They're even bluer up close, and I realize that, other than when she was lying concussed on the street, this is the closest we've ever been.

I like it. I like it a lot.

"There is something to talk about," I tell her quietly.

Her brows pinch together at my words, and I hear the implication in them too late. She tries to pull free of my hold, but I don't let her, enjoying the way she feels in my arms entirely too much. She's soft in the best places, her hips splaying wider than my hands can hold, but I like it. It feels good. She feels good.

"It was a date, but it wasn't a date. It was orchestrated by my publicist and hers. We were pawns in a game. That's all. It meant nothing."

"You don't need to explain. I—"

"I do need to explain, Sunshine," I interrupt, and she doesn't even react to the nickname like I expect her to. It's almost as if she's resigned to it.

So I test my luck. I move one hand from her waist, ghosting my fingertips over her arm and up, up, up, until I'm caressing her cheek. It's soft, just like the rest of her, and I love the way she feels under my touch. Love how her breaths pick up with each stroke of my thumb. Love how her pupils dilate and her thighs shift back and forth, like this simple touch is doing something to her.

"I need to explain because I need you to know that I never, ever would have gone on that date if I didn't owe it to Dylan. If I didn't have to, I wouldn't have. I would have rather it been you sitting on the other side of that table."

Her breath catches, but I don't stop.

"I would have rather it been you in the park," I continue.

Another brush of my thumb. Another stuttered inhale from her.

"I would have rather it been your cheek my lips were pressed against."

Her chest brushes against mine with each labored breath she takes. One breath, one stroke of my thumb.

"Not her. You, Sunshine."

Olive's eyes widen, taking in my words—my confession—as she blows out another strangled breath.

She studies me, watching for any tell, any hint of a lie. She won't find one. I never wanted to be there with Keely. I wanted Olive, and I still do.

I don't understand what it is about her, but I can't stay away. I couldn't from the start, and I really can't now. Not after I know how fun it is to rile her up or how loud she laughs or how smug she looks when she's won an argument.

I like Olive, and I think she could like me too.

Then, finally, she swallows and says a single word.

"Okay."

It's the sweetest word I've ever heard.

"Okay?"

"Yes."

"Good." I exhale a relieved breath. "Because I know I messed up, Olive. I know I did. I should have been honest with you, but I wasn't and I'm sorry. I just really, really don't want you to shut me out. I ... I like you, and I want to get to know you. For real this time, if you'll let me."

"Jude, I—"

"Please," I interrupt. "I'm not afraid to beg."

"Clearly," she muses with a grin. She sighs. "Fine. All right? You win. I'll give you another chance."

"Is there a but to that statement?"

"No." She shakes her head. "There should be, but no."

"Good. Because, Olive?"

"Yes?"

"I'm totally going to make you like me too."

She grins but doesn't say anything.

And I have the feeling that maybe she already does.