Behind His Lens(79)

Jude raises his brow and offers me a silly smirk, “And cut this vacation short sooner?” His tone makes my statement sound utterly ridiculous.

I can’t help but laugh as I gesture toward the window. “We’re in the back of a cab, in New York City, a block from my apartment. I think that means the vacation is officially over.”

He shakes his head knowingly, narrowing his intense gaze right onto me. “Charley, until we are outside of your apartment door, this vacation is still happening.” Then he dips his head back against the seat and plasters on an easy smile. “Now relax and enjoy the island breeze.”

I laugh at his playfulness, loving these little exchanges of ours. It’s been too long since I’ve had easy conversations like this with anyone other than Naomi. “I think that’s smog,” I offer cheekily.

He pries one eye open and tips his head toward me. “Ha-ha. Who taught you to be such a smart ass, my dear?”

“It’s au naturel, built in with my WASP-y DNA,” I smile wryly.

“Mmm, we’ll have to get some more Brooklyn in you.”

“Is that where your apartment is?” I ask, suddenly curious to know how he lives. “It’s strange that I haven’t seen it yet.”

“Yeah. It’s just across the river. We’ll have dinner there tomorrow.” Of course there’s no invitation because it’s not necessary. I’d cancel any plans I had to go to his place for dinner.

“Sounds good.”

“There’s an outdoor market a few blocks from my place. We can go there to pick up ingredients.”

“Oh!” My eyes light up with excitement. “Maybe we can make one of my recipes. It’s been forever since I’ve had an actual kitchen to cook in.”

“I’d like that.” He reaches out, puts his hand over mine, and we ride the last few minutes in silence.

I’m scrolling through my rolodex of recipes in my head, purposely ignoring the nagging sensation in the back of my mind. I know it’s there, trying to remind me that we’re home and that this thing with Jude has to change. We either have to take a step forward or a step back. But maybe not. Maybe we can just be in this perfect state of happiness without the world pushing in from all sides, threatening to crumble our budding relationship before it even has time to grow.

“Jeez. Who ordered the limo?” Jude asks as we pull onto my street.

My heart instantly sinks. There’s no way.

Surely, that can’t be her.

“Shit,” I mumble under my breath as we drive closer. I recognize the distinguished looking driver positioned outside of the limo. David. He’s worked for my mother for twenty years, and he’s like a loyal sidekick, staying with her through both marriages; always in the background but consistently present.

My tongue drags along my top row of teeth as my instincts kick into overdrive. Jude cannot talk to her. My two worlds can’t collide like this. It’s too soon. I haven’t had nearly enough time with Jude.

“Charley?” he asks, placing his hand on the back of my neck, gently massaging. “Is everything okay?”

“Um, yes. It’s just…” Crap. Nothing. Absolutely nothing comes to mind, and I don’t want to lie to him. There are so many lies building on one another, this cannot be another.

In a blur of events, the cab driver stops, Jude pays him and hops out to grab our luggage. I slink out of the cab and try to hurry Jude along so he can get back into the cab before the dragon rears her ugly, coifed head.

“Clarissa, darling!” Her voice screeches through the air, like nails on a chalkboard. I haven’t seen her in four years, and this is how she decides to greet me— as if we do lunch three times a week.

I don’t turn toward her. My eyes stay glued on Jude as he pulls my bags out of the taxi and rests them on the sidewalk. But the moment she says my name, my old name, Jude’s head pops up and he looks past me. I know he connects the dots. Unless she’s stopped getting plastic surgery since I’ve been gone, we probably only look ten years apart in age.

“Darling, aren’t you going to greet your mother?” She pronounces every word slowly with her upper-west side hoity-toity accent.

Jude’s gaze volleys from her to me and then back again, trying to keep up.

Fuck.

With a disgruntled sigh, I swipe a hand over my face and turn toward her. This situation is happening whether I want it to or not.