CHAPTER SEVENTEEN Jude

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Jude

"You really don't think it's a little convenient that she kisses you when the paparazzi are there? That she's just a little too comfortable about all of this?"

"No, Dylan. I don't. But I'm glad to know how you really feel about it."

She sighs, side-eyeing me from her spot on the uncomfortable couch we're both sitting on while we wait backstage for my turn to be interviewed by the ultra-obnoxious Timmy Jeffers, late-night host of Late! At Night with Timmy.

Considering my last appearance on television ended with me flashing my underwear to the entire world, it's safe to say I am not looking forward to this interview for many reasons.

I even made sure to wear plain black boxer briefs, just in case.

"I'm just looking at this with a more critical eye than you because clearly you're not paying attention," Dylan says. "She's gained three hundred thousand followers just since you've been linked. How do you not think she's using you to gain fame?"

"Because I just know she's not."

Dylan doesn't know her, so she doesn't understand that Olive isn't like that. I know she's not ... right?

She did kiss me, though. She knew the cameras were right there, pointed at us, and she kissed me. Did she do it on purpose? Did she want to be in the spotlight?

I shake away the thoughts as soon as they slam into me.

No.

She's not like that. Not at all. I've had my fair share of people like that in my life. Olive isn't that kind of person. I can feel it.

And I'm not just saying that because kissing her was the best damn thing in the world. Having her in my lap ... feeling her mouth on mine ... my hands on her hips ... It was fucking perfect. She was perfect.

I'm usually careful about public displays of affection. I know how easily they can get blown out of the water, how much the cameras eat them up. But when Olive pressed her lips to mine, none of that mattered anymore. I was all-in with her, and there was no stopping it.

I honestly haven't even looked at the photos, and I'm sure I don't want to. I already know what we were doing was too much in public. I don't need to see the evidence spread before me.

It was reckless, totally senseless—but also so, so good.

And I cannot wait to do it again. Two days is too long to go without her.

"Look," Dylan says, pulling me from my thoughts, and it's probably a good thing. My mind was getting ready to slide down a slippery slope, and now is not the time. I'm already a bundle of nerves. I don't need to add to my anxiety at this moment. "I might be your publicist, but I can't tell you how to run your life. If you trust her, then fine. Just don't be surprised when it crashes and burns, and the truth comes out."

I grunt at her harsh words. "Thanks for believing in me."

Another sigh. "I'm sorry. I'm just ..." She waves her hands in the air. "It's nothing. Ignore me."

"I always try to, but you never let me."

She laughs, but it sounds forced. So not like the Dylan I know.

"Is everything okay with you?"

"Hmm?" She peeks up at me. "Oh yeah. It's nothing. I'm good. Totally fine."

"Are you sure? You seem a little extra doomy and gloomy."

"I'm good." She clears her throat. "Timmy is going to ask about you two. You know that, right? He's nosy as hell and obnoxious enough to do it."

And just like that, we're back to business. "Yeah, I know."

"Then have an answer ready. For her sake—and yours."

"So you do care about her?"

"No. I don't know her. But I do know you, and I'd rather you not make another mess I have to clean up."

"Tell me how you really feel, Dylan."

"You couldn't handle it, sweetie."

I laugh because she's probably right. Dylan can be mean when she wants to be, and I'd bet a thousand dollars that right now, she wants to be very mean.

Something's up with her lately, but I'm not going to push it. If she wants to tell me, she will. I just really hope that whatever it is, it doesn't have anything to do with me giving Jasper her number. He's an ass, but there's no way he'd do anything to hurt Dylan and jeopardize my career.

I make a mental note to check in with him about it later, see if I can casually bring it up without giving too much away.

The door creaks open, and I snap my head up to find a PA stealing a quick look into the dressing room.

"Mr. Rafferty? We're ready for you in five."

"We'll be right there," Dylan says, a fake smile plastered on her face before turning back to me. "Just remember ..."

"Give a good answer, and don't say anything stupid. This movie is my gateway to other leading roles. I know, I know."

She shoots me a wink. "That's my boy."

She steps out of the room, ushering the PA away and giving me a few moments to collect myself.

So that's what I do.

I rise from the couch and begin my usual ritual—pacing.

I count each step.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.

I turn, then walk the length of the room again.

I do this four more times, inhaling and exhaling deep breaths in an attempt to get my nerves in check. I even recite the damn alphabet backward to get my mind to focus on literally anything else.

If the way my heart is beating erratically is any indication, it's not working.

I'm a fucking wreck.

My phone begins to pulsate, and I snatch it off the table with shaking hands. I glance at the screen, grinning when I see who it is.

Olive.

And just like that, all my nerves fizzle away.

Sunshine: Break a leg!

Sunshine: Wait. Do non-stage actors say that too? I have no clue.

Sunshine: Good luck!

Sunshine: (Is that better?)

Me: It's much better and very much appreciated it.

Sunshine: I know you get nervous ...

Me: That obvious?

Sunshine: Not at all, Snoopy.

Me: I'm glaring at you right now.

Sunshine: Ooooh. I'm big scared.

Me: I can't wait to see you tonight.

Sunshine: I can't believe you're cooking me dinner.

Sunshine: Do you even know how to cook?

Me: I guess we'll both find out, won't we?

Sunshine: Just say the word. I'll order a pizza.

Me: I'm so glad you have faith in my abilities.

Sunshine: I have faith in SOME of your abilities. *waggles brows*

Sunshine: Now, stop being a perv and go kick butt at your interview.

Me: You were being the perv!

Sunshine: Who? Me? *blinks innocently*

Me: Brat.

Sunshine: Your point?

"Sir?"

I glance up. The PA is back at the door, waiting on me, looking less patient than she did a few moments ago.

"Sorry," I tell her, pocketing my phone. "I'm ready."

"So, Jude, tell me about your new movie in your words."

"Well, Timmy, it's an action movie. I play a guy named James who is kind of this jerk that everyone hates. He works for the FBI, and nobody wants to be his partner. He gets saddled with this new agent, a woman—played by the amazingly talented Kendra Hallstead—who hates him too. They get sent on this big mission to save New York from this bad guy, and—"

"They fall in love, don't they?" he guesses, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening as he grins over at me with raised, bushy, near-white eyebrows. "The usual clichéd stuff."

"They fall in love," I confirm, ignoring his other dig, then smile out at the crowd and instantly wish I hadn't.

I've not done a late-night gig like this in a long time, so I'm already on edge. But seeing an audience this huge? It's nerve-racking on a whole new level. This place is filled to the brim with people, not an open seat to be seen in the two stories it takes up.

"That sounds fun, huh? A little cheesy but fun." Timmy laughs and so does the audience. I smile, laughing along, even though I don't find it funny. "Well, based on recent photographs, it's safe to say there's no romance between you and your costar."

"I mean, the fact that she's married should have ruled that out anyway." I force another laugh, enjoying too much how Timmy's eyes narrow at my words.

Yeah, that's right. I can play this game too.

"So, Jude, tell us about this new mystery lady. It looks like you two had a lot of fun in the park the other day." He holds up some cards displaying the photos of us while the crowd whistles and hoots.

I shift in my seat as subtly as I can, trying not to draw attention to the fact that it suddenly feels ten degrees hotter and I have the urge to run far, far away.

Timmy grins at my discomfort and cuts right to the chase. "How long have you been dating social media sensation and plus-size model Olive O'Brien?"

I knew this was coming, but that doesn't make it any less surreal hearing her name roll off his lips, my two worlds colliding.

It's strange. I'm well aware of who I am, and so is Olive. Yet somehow, when I'm with her, I don't feel like a movie star. I just feel like me.

Or at least, I did until we made the tabloids.

Now that weird invisible box we've seemed to be existing in over the last few weeks comes crashing down around me.

I've not had to navigate this before. I've had short relationships, but nothing like this. Nothing so in the public eye. I don't understand how Jasper does this all the time, having such high-profile relationships. It's exhausting.

"Um, it's new," I mutter.

"Like last-week kind of new?" He grins, seeming to feel awfully proud of himself for connecting those dots, as if the media didn't already do that. "This is the same girl you saved on the sidewalk last week, isn't it?"

I swallow, nodding tightly. "That's her."

"Wow! You're a real-life movie hero now. You saved the girl and you got her. Lucky you!"

Timmy laughs. The audience laughs. And I die inside a little bit.

I'm saved by the cue for a commercial, where Timmy ignores me as they retouch his makeup.

The rest of the interview is quick, focusing only on my upcoming movie, and then I'm ushered off the stage so the next guest can take my place.

I've never been so glad to be out from in front of the camera—and that includes the drugged-up Snoopy interview.

"Well, that was something," Dylan mutters as we walk back to the dressing room. "Told you they'd ask about her."

I grunt in response but don't say anything else as I barrel through the door.

Dylan lingers outside as I grab my things; then I meet her back in the hallway.

"Hey," she says, resting her hand on my arm. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." It's a lie. We both know it.

I'm not fine. I'm fucking annoyed.

About the media always trying to link me to my married costar. About reporters asking about Olive. About having to do this damn interview in the first place. I may have grown up in the public eye, but I've never felt so exposed.

"Hmm," Dylan hums, letting me stew in my own anger. "I had those groceries you requested delivered to your apartment."

I feel a smile tug at my lips, remembering that even though the interview sucked, I still have something to look forward to today—Olive.

"The flowers too?"

"Of course. And wine."

"Good. She likes wine."

Dylan lifts a brow but doesn't say anything—though I can tell she wants to.

We leave the building through the stage door, and we're almost instantly bombarded by photographers. I fight the urge to glare at my publicist, knowing good and well she was the one who called them.

I wonder if she sent them to the park too.

When we're tucked safely inside our SUV, I ask just that.

She barks out a laugh. "Ha. No. That wasn't me. That was all your own fault for not wearing your disguise."

"My stalker disguise?"

"What?" Dylan asks, only half listening, her attention already on her phone, which is buzzing incessantly in her hands.

And that's how we spend the rest of the ride—Dylan on her phone and me thinking of all the things I want to do to Olive tonight.

"All right, fine. I'll admit it. You win this round."

"You liked it?"

She gestures to her empty plate. "Clearly."

"Well, I didn't want to assume anything. You could have totally just eaten it to make me feel better."

"Just like I could be telling you that you win this round just to make you feel better." She takes a sip of her wine, her brows arched in a challenge over the rim of her glass.

Dylan had that delivered too. I'm not a wine guy, much preferring whiskey if I'm going to drink, and I didn't have a single wineglass in this place.

I'm sure I could have served it in any cup, but I wanted this date to be special. For Olive.

"I'll let you in on a little secret ..." I curl my finger, beckoning her closer.

She leans across my kitchen island, where we've just had dinner. "You totally had this delivered, then plated it to look like you made it?"

I shake my head. "Better. I called my mom and FaceTimed with her the entire time I cooked it just to make sure I didn't mess anything up."

"It was macaroni! How could you mess up macaroni?"

"Excuse me. I had to cut chicken for that macaroni. I could have easily messed that up. We're both lucky I'm not bleeding out right now."

"Don't worry, I'll sit by your hospital bed."

"You're damn right you would. You owe me."

She grins, taking another sip of her wine. "Can I at least help you clean up?"

"Nah. I've got it."

I pull open a cabinet, expecting it to be the dishwasher, but find only a drawer.

This place has a drawer inside a cabinet? Who designed this loft?

I reach for another one, and this time I find a trash can.

I have a trash can under my sink?

"Jude?"

"Hmm?" I ask, checking another cabinet.

"Do you not know where your dishwasher is?"

The tips of my ears grow warm as I straighten, looking over at Olive, who seems very amused by this. "No. I, um, I'm not even actually sure I have one?"

She lets out a loud laugh, tossing her head back even, then rises from her stool.

"I'll help," she insists. "You wash, I'll dry."

So for the next ten minutes, we work side by side in comfortable silence, washing the dishes like we've done it a thousand times before.

It's comfortable—comfortable in a way I've never experienced before.

I saw someone casually in college and even dated a few women afterward, but nothing ever lasted very long. I've definitely never had someone over at my apartment before. It's always easier to be the one who comes and goes, who keeps their private life out of dating.

But with Olive ... it just feels right. Normal.

I really like normal, and I especially like normal with her.

And I really hate that I'm going to have to leave that feeling behind when I head to Vancouver. For the first time since I got the role, I'm not excited about it. Yeah, this is everything I wanted, but I feel like Olive and I just got to a good place. I don't want the distance to jeopardize anything. Dating someone is hard enough. But dating an actor who travels often? It's even harder. I don't want to screw this up so soon.

When we finish up and Olive stacks the last plate into the cabinet, her short little sundress riding up just enough to drive me wild, I can't help myself.

"Oh!" she gasps when she turns around and I'm right there, her hand even going to her chest.

"Hi," I say, sliding closer.

"Hi back." She giggles, and I love the sound.

"I've been thinking . . ."

"Uh-oh."

"No. It's a good thought. I think."

Her lips twitch. "Very reassuring."

"I've just been thinking, Why should Ollie get to make the first move and not me?"

"Because I'm not a chickenshit?"

I pull my head back, smirking. "Did you just call me a chickenshit?"

She lifts a shoulder, pulling my eyes to her soft, exposed skin peppered with freckles. "Maybe."

I shake my head. "Anyway. I was thinking about it. Thinking about how unfair it was to be ambushed like that."

"I don't know. Based on the way you reacted, it didn't seem too unfair to me. I mean, even I've seen the photos. You were rather ... enthusiastic."

"I'll show you ‘enthusiastic.'"

"Is that a promise?"

"Maybe." I stalk closer, pressing myself against her until her backside hits the counter and there's nowhere for her to go. She doesn't look too scared, though. If anything, she looks excited, almost like this is where she wanted to end up anyway. "Maybe I'll ambush you when you're least expecting it and give you the most enthusiasm you've ever had in your whole life."

"You can't tell me you're going to ambush me. That ruins the surpr—"

I swallow the rest of her words, pressing my lips against hers.

It takes her all of three seconds before she realizes what's happening and kisses me back.

Her hands delve into my hair like they did a few days ago, and she runs her fingernails against my scalp in the most delightful way.

I grip her waist, then move down, down, down until I scoop her into my arms and drop her onto the counter.

"Jude!" she gasps. "What are you—"

But her protest is moot when I take her mouth again, and she moans against me, still clutching my head.

I let my hands wander, getting my feel of her soft-as-sin skin. I float my hands over her arms, down her sides, and around her waist, digging my thumbs into every inch of flesh beneath my touch. She feels so, so good underneath me, and I want to feel more.

No. I need to feel more. I need to touch her. Taste her.

I just need her.

I pull away, loving how she whimpers at the loss of my lips. She's breathing heavily, her mouth is swollen, and her eyes are glazed over. She's fucking gorgeous like this, and I want nothing more than to see her truly fall apart.

"Do you trust me?" I ask.

She nods. "Yes."

"Good."

Slowly, I skim my hands past her waist and down her thighs. She wiggles against my touch but doesn't tell me to stop.

I don't.

I keep going, going, going until I reach her knee. Then I start again, dragging my fingertips featherlight over her until I reach her waist again.

I move an inch inward, then start the trek all over, each pass moving closer and closer to between her legs.

By the time I reach the inside of each thigh, she's squirming against the counter and glaring at me.

"Now who's the brat?"

"Your point?" I counter, like she's done to me.

She smashes her lips together, fighting a smile, but that smile turns to a sigh when I run a single finger over her center.

Even through her panties, still hidden by her dress, I can tell she's wet.

She's enjoying this tease just as much as I am.

"Jude ..." she pleads, arching her hips toward my touch as I run the back of my finger over her again. Her legs fall wider apart, granting me more access. "Please."

I move my hand from under her dress, gripping her waist again and pulling her to the edge of the counter. In one swift motion, I hook my fingers into the band of her panties and start dragging them down her thighs.

Catching on to what I'm doing, she helps, lifting herself so I can pull them off, letting them drop to the floor at our feet.

Olive crashes her hands back into my hair, pulling my mouth to hers and kissing me until we're both out of breath.

When she lets me go, she says three words that are my undoing.

"Touch me, Jude."

Who am I to say no to that?

I step back, shove her legs wide, and take my first real glance at her.

Gorgeous.

Dark curls cover her mound, and just below it sits the prettiest, pinkest pussy I've ever seen.

A pussy I am dying to taste.

I drop to my knees like a man possessed, loving how she sets her legs even wider to accommodate my shoulders.

I love even more the sounds that leave her when I press a kiss to the inside of her thigh, then the other.

I love how she wriggles and shakes when I kiss higher ... higher ... right at her center.

"Fuck," she moans.

Oh, Olive, I intend to.

There's no way I won't. Not after knowing she tastes this damn sweet.

I slide my tongue over her again, and another loud mewling sound leaves her. It's not forced or phony—it's all real. This is all real. She's all real.

And she proves that to me as I take my time tasting her, sliding my tongue over every inch of her sweet, sweet pussy. Licking and sucking and feasting on her.

I can't remember the last time I felt so starved like this. So ravenous. So damn needy.

But she does it to me.

I press my hand against my cock, which is straining against my jeans, trying to give myself some sort of relief.

Olive doesn't miss it.

"Take it out," she tells me. "I want to see."

I don't dare deny her.

Instead, I reach into my jeans and pull myself free, sighing when I wrap my fist around my shaft, returning my attention to her.

She moans, and I groan, and that's all we are—a mess of sounds as I pump myself in time with what my tongue is doing to her center.

When I suck her sensitive clit into my mouth, she lets out a loud cry, falling apart just like I wanted.

I give myself a few more pumps, falling right behind her, making a mess all over my jeans and the kitchen, but not caring a bit.

And how could I? Not when she's staring down at me with glassy eyes and a satisfied grin.

Man, I could get used to this.

"What?" She giggles, sliding her hand through my hair.

"Nothing." I shake my head. "You just look beautiful like that."

"Post–best orgasm ever?"

"Best ever, huh?" I rise to my knees, tucking myself back into my jeans despite her pout. "That's quite the compliment."

"That's quite the tongue you have there."

I laugh, standing back up and stepping between her legs, placing a gentle kiss against her lips. "We should probably get cleaned up."

Her shoulders fall, but she nods anyway, pushing at my chest until I move and then hopping off the counter.

She snatches her underwear off the floor and begins to pad out of the kitchen.

"Olive?" I call to her.

She pauses, peeking back over her shoulder at me. "Hmm?"

"I want to fuck you, just so we're clear. But not tonight. That's third-date material."

She smirks. "After arson?"

"After arson."