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“If I recall correctly, I asked you that very same question.”

  He did. The first night we met, at his house.

  I was there at the behest of my editor, who wanted to do a story on illegal gambling on campus. Jude’s games.

  “I told you why I was there. To check on Fitz.” My brother, who had gotten himself embroiled in one of Jude’s little betting schemes. Fitz had gotten kicked out of his friend’s house, and Jude had lured him into a competition to rent a room.

  Jude tsks. “A lie that doesn’t improve itself upon repetition.”

  “If you’re so certain you know why I was there, why do you bother asking?”

  “Because I don’t know why you were there. If I knew why, I wouldn’t ask. I know you had reasons other than those you alluded to.”

  “Maybe I’ll answer your question if you tell me what business you had at the township meeting. You didn’t speak on anything.”

  He grins down at me. “Darlin’, were you watching me?”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  He called me that before. In his bedroom. The lights down low, his hands wrapped around my ribcage, holding me tight, his voice in my ear, his lips running over the sensitive lobe.

  He smirks, as if he knows the affect he has on me and enjoys it a little too much.

  I’m not going to get any clear answers from him so I continue walking. He keeps up and we move in silence down a side street that will take me to my apartment—the opposite direction of Jude’s house near the university.

  We sidestep a youngish couple taking their dog out for a walk. They wave and exclaim, “Beautiful night, isn’t it?” as they pass, holding hands in domestic bliss.

  “They seem nice,” Jude says once we’re out of earshot.

  I snort.

  “We could have a dog together one day,” he continues.

  I hold back a laugh. “I would not purchase any kind of canine with you. Ever.”

  “You’re right. Felines are definitely better, and I’m not sure Mr. Bojangles would appreciate having to compete for my affections.”

  “No competition here.”

  “So I take it you haven’t reconsidered my offer of dinner?”

  “Answer is still thanks but no thanks.”

  “Just checking. I had thought all of the hostility and avoidance of my general person might indicate a rekindling of your prior interest.” Humor tinges his voice.

  I stop walking and turn to face him. “I’m not going to change my mind. I’m not interested in a relationship. If you want to pursue a physical relationship . . .” I run my eyes down the suit. Dammit, he’s even hotter up close. It doesn’t help that I know what’s underneath. I take a step closer. “Those are terms I might be amenable to.”

  A relationship with Jude would be a threat to my sanity. But a nice roll in the hay? That I could handle.

  My bravado falters.

  Maybe.

  I hope he says no.

  Because the truth . . . the truth is Jude probably wouldn’t want anything serious with me. Not if he knew the real me. I’m an unworthy imposter, undeserving of his regard, but I tuck the thought away like a secret diary slipped beneath the mattress. Or porn.

  He searches my eyes, his mouth set in a line until one corner pops up. “I’ll keep waiting for you to come around to my way of thinking.”

  “It’s gonna be a long wait.” I spin on my heel and march away.

  I need to breathe in air he doesn’t penetrate, but he follows, keeping up the pace until I’ve reached the corner where the sidewalk turns into my apartment building.

  “Y’all take care now, ya hear?” I say in the best, politest, stickiest-sweet voice I can muster, the one I learned to use on cranky teachers and customers, and turn to go, but he stops me with a word.

  “Annabel.”

  His voice is deep and rough and I turn and face him, like I can’t even control it. He’s standing there, hands in his pockets, eyes bright even in the dying light, and as inscrutable as ever.

  He opens his mouth, shuts it. Opens it again.

  It’s a move so unlike the self-assured and confident Jude I’ve come to know that I’m momentarily shocked.

  “Be careful,” he finally says.

  I blink. What is he warning me of? But then he turns and walks away.

  I stand there, staring after him for a few long seconds before turning on my heel and huffing down the sidewalk.

  Jude is a mystery I’ve long wanted to unravel. He’s hiding something. I know he is.

  But more disturbing to me is how much I want to spend time with him. How much I actually enjoy the banter.

  He’s dangerous to the safe little bubble I’ve built. One poke, and it could pop.

  Chapter Two

  The power of a glance has been so much abused in love stories that it has come to be disbelieved in. Few people dare now to say that two beings have fallen in love because they have looked at each other. Yet it is in this way that love begins, and in this way only.

  ―Victor Hugo, Les Misérables

  Jude

  I stop at the corner and turn to watch as Annabel huffs herself into a right tizzy, stomping off toward her apartment. This isn’t the first time I’ve made her angry.

  The first time, she was rescuing my cat.

  Mr. Bojangles, spoiled feline extraordinaire, has a penchant for climbing himself into precarious positions and then wailing for assistance. It’s his way.

  Two months ago, a party was just getting started at my house. I was otherwise distracted with preparing for the event, and Mr. Bojangles had once again got himself stuck up a tree.

  She was wearing a dark wrap dress, more fitting for the office than for a college party. Said wrap dress lifted slightly as she stretched up to liberate Mr. Bojangles from the low-hanging branch from which he could absolutely jump but preferred to sit and howl for a rescue. My gaze snagged on a brief glimpse of creamy thigh. Not much, but enough to tighten my chest and other parts of my anatomy not worth mentioning without offending delicate sensibilities.

  I made my way through the throng of revelers taking up a majority of the space in my backyard—most of whom were more scantily clad, yet not as appealing as my feline rescuer—and came to a stop maybe ten feet behind her. She turned, Mr. Bojangles in her arms.

  Our eyes met.

  Now, I’m not one for flowery prose, but it wouldn’t be overstating to admit that first glance carried weight. Heavy as a dead preacher. Whether it was the weight of a future enemy or lover, I still have yet to determine.

  Heart-shaped lips, dirty-blonde hair, eyes the color of the smoothest whiskey this side of Kentucky, and the lushest body I had ever seen in my life.

  “I see Mr. Bojangles got himself into a right pickle. Thank you kindly for coming to his rescue.” I put on the mask I always wore in these situations and offered her my best humble, yet charming grin.

  Mr. Bojangles started up a loud purr, louder than the conversations filling the yard, and set a dainty paw on one voluptuous breast.

  Lucky little beastie.

  Her brown eyes, the color of a steamy cup of hot cocoa on a winter day, narrowed on me. “Is this your cat?”

  Now, I wasn’t exactly expecting her to fall at my feet. And being a gentleman, I would never intimate that every woman I smiled and flirted with was required to reciprocate, but I’d be lying if her serious tone didn’t somewhat deflate my confidence.

  “Yes, ma’am.” I kept my voice light.

  “And this is your house?”

  There was a sharpness to her words, something piercing like a blade and penetrating like a probe.

  I cocked my head, an intuition I’d learned to trust cautioning me to proceed with prudence. “For now.”

  “You must be Jude Parker.” She mimicked my head tilt. “I’ve heard weird things.”

  “But you have heard of me.” I grinned again, but she just lifted a cool brow.

  Attempting to disarm, I offered her a flourishin
g bow. “In the flesh, madam. And who am I having the pleasure of conversing with?” I held out one hand to take hers.

  “Annabel Moreland.” She lifted her free hand reflexively and then used it to hold Mr. Bojangles tighter, ignoring my proffered fingers.

  I let my hand drop. I knew who she was. The sister of my new roommate. I knew this because I wouldn’t allow someone to live here without running a thorough background check. Drastic times and all that.

  I knew all there was to know about Fitz. And consequently, Annabel. On paper, anyhow.

  She stroked my cat and viewed me from under her lashes. “Can you help me understand something?” She smiled and the sudden shift to politeness had my hackles rising. Miss Annabel Moreland was not one to be trifled with.

  “I’m at your leisure, Miss Annabel.”

  Her gaze shifted and focused on me with a shrewdness I could not have anticipated. “You’re clearly too old for this scene, yet hosting a myriad of college parties.”

  Her eyes flicked up and down and I knew what she saw: overlong hair, beard, silk robe covered in cats. Ridiculousness. As intended.

  Before I could respond to her observation, she kept going.

  “You’ve got this whole devil-may-care, reliving-the-glory-days stereotype down to a T.”

  An act I was proud of. But her astute observation that it was just that, playing a character, sent a spark of worry trailing down my spine. She couldn’t possibly know the truth.

  “It’s all very . . . clever,” she continued. “But why? What are you hiding?”

  So she didn’t really know anything. The thought brought relief but also something else. Under her unflinching gaze, a miniscule crack formed in my thick façade. In the past six months, not one person had bothered to inspect too closely or ask any questions or think I was anything other than what I chose for them to see.

  A spark of respect flickered to life in my chest. And understanding. Annabel was an observer of people, much like myself.

  She was brash and bold and confident, and yet when I stopped to really watch her posture and gaze, she was not as unaffected as she’d like to seem. She held and petted Mr. Bojangles like she enjoyed having something in her hands to absorb her nervous energy.

  Nonetheless, she watched me, waiting for me to respond, her jaw tight.

  Not as calm and knowing as appearances would have led me to believe. She was hiding something, too. Likely not any kind of major secret, but . . . something.

  “Why are you here?” I asked.

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “Because I have nothing to hide and nothing to answer. Do you?” I kept my tone light.

  She blinked at me. “Fitz is my little brother.” Defensive. She worked at the paper and since the simplest explanation was usually correct, my guess was she’d come thinking she could get some kind of story.

  I watched her and waited, not speaking. It unnerves people. The quiet can be too much to bear in most of polite society. Especially Southern society, where one is daily smothered in proper etiquette.

  Annabel was no exception. Her eyes darted to the side and she licked her lips before she came to some sort of conclusion and then met my eyes and lifted her chin. “I came to check up on Fitz to make sure he’s not getting into a questionable situation.”

  “Trust me, there’s nothing worth questioning here.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that.”

  I extended my hand again, this time gesturing at the frivolity behind me. “As you can see, we are all merely players on this grand stage. Might I interest you in some refreshments while you enjoy your evening?”

  “Uh-huh, right, Shakespeare.” She took a step closer and straightened her shoulders. “Whatever you got going on here, if you mess with my brother, I will end you, you hear me?”

  A slow smile spread across my lips, and it wasn’t even an act. “Loud as a katydid in the middle of July.”

  Mr. Bojangles squirmed in her arms, and she put him down. He wove between my feet, purring.

  Someone shrieked. Behind us, Beast was picking up one of the babies by the scruff.

  I grinned. “It appears the celebration is about to get a proper launch. You let me know if you need anything, darlin’.” I winked at her and turned away.

  “I’m not your darling,” she called out.

  No. No, she was not.

  She was a mighty fine distraction, though. Which, unfortunately, was not something I needed.

  I didn’t need it when we first met, not the first night, not the night I could have had her in any and every way possible—physically, at least—and certainly not now.

  But I want it. And to emphasize the point, here I am, watching her enter her apartment building and making sure she gets inside safely before turning and continuing my own stroll home.

  The walk is nearly a mile, but I don’t mind the crisp night air and having a chance to glance around the homey neighborhoods. It’s always smart to be aware of one’s surroundings.

  I pass a couple kids on their bikes, yelling at each other about being late and getting in trouble. A black cat in a window spies down on the street. A couple blocks later, two neighbors discuss the weather over a row of hedges separating their property.

  They wave and call out greetings as I pass.

  I didn’t know towns like this existed in real life until Grace led us here, but now I reckon I don’t want to leave. I never had a home, and something about this town sure feels like one.

  Maybe it’s just Annabel.

  She shouldn’t feel like home. She’s like a fragile bird with a sharp, sarcastic beak.

  But there’s something there. She’s beautiful, of course, but it’s more than that. She cares about Fitz. She would rather be anywhere but here and yet she stays for family. She’s loyal. She’s been hurt by something and it’s making her defensive and I can’t help but want to knock down every wall she’s built.

  I know what it’s like to be scared.

  By the time I reach the house, people are milling about, waiting to get in. I lope up the front walk and they clear a path for me.

  “My man!” someone yells.

  “Babies! Sorry for the delay, but your honorable host has now arrived.” Once on the front stoop, I bow, donning my persona like a flamboyant cloak.

  People clap me on the back as I move through the front door, where Beast is collecting the entry fee. He takes up nearly all the space in the doorframe, silently taking funds and handing out poker chips in return. He lifts one dark, thick brow and I respond with a nod.

  Communicating with a mere glance.

  And now it’s time to focus on the present.

  Tonight I am the master of games. It will require very little interference on my part, which has been my main intention as of late. Grace has me stretched too thin with her tasks. Things are coalescing, gathering steam, and I’m not sure if I can keep up with her plan. If only I knew what her plan was.

  The parties will have to be reduced significantly.

  The backyard sold the house when I was seeking a rental. It’s large, stretching back nearly an acre with a wide swath of grass in the center—perfect for nights like tonight.

  Beast, Fitz, and I spent all afternoon stringing up colorful lights around the trees and bushes that encase the yard, casting glowing embers of light over the tables. Each table is set up with a different game—like a casino—except instead of roulette and poker, we have Connect Four, Go Fish, and Scrabble. Each of the players, all my babies having paid for their chips on their way in, will be able to cash out at the end of the night.

  There will be many winners tonight but as they say, the house always wins.

  The yard is full of coeds dressed to the nines. They mingle around the patio in suits and tuxedos, sparkling dresses and jewels. It’s over the top and ridiculous and the story of my life for the past six months.

  Someone nearby hands me the megaphone.

  “Babies!”

 
The one word, uttered with a subtle mixture of humor and fondness, is enough to have the whole crowd clapping and aiming their rapt attention right at me. The master of games.

  “It’s a true pleasure that y’all have seen fit to join me tonight.”

  “I’ve got some pleasure for you right here!” an overly exuberant frat boy yells from the front row, and the crowd laughs.

  “I know babies, I know, calm yourselves. There are more than enough shenanigans to go around before we say good night.”

  Once the cheers have subsided, I continue. “What we have for you tonight is something new. Something different. This isn’t your local fraternity casino night. Oh no, babies. This is Jude Parker’s Fun and Games Extravaganza!”

  They go wild.

  “It’s everything you’ve ever dreamed and more. Don’t be shy. Make your way through each table if you want. Beast will be on hand to give out more chips as needed and he will tally your winnings when you’re ready to leave. Don’t drink and drive, and tip your waiter because the champagne is on me.”

  The pronouncement is met with the largest applause yet.

  More than a few babies are working off favors by playing cocktail waitstaff tonight.

  Beast’s looming form catches my eye as he moves into the previously designated position over at the corner of the yard. I meet his eyes and, after a nod in his direction, yell into the megaphone, “Let the games begin!” I throw up my hands and, with impeccable timing, Beast pulls the string attached to the system of needles and balloons we set up earlier. A series of loud pops fills the night air, shooting a mess of colorful confetti down upon the entire party to gasps and laughter. The babies cheer and flood the yard.

  I grab a flute from a passing waiter and step off the porch onto the yard to make a round before I can safely disappear.

  An excitable jock gets handsy with a lady at the Operation table and I give Beast a heads up with a wave and a shake of my head. A lady playing checkers attempts to slide her opponent’s chips into her bag and I pull her away and tell her to play fair or she’ll be out.

  Beyond that, the night is progressing swimmingly.

  Before I can escape the yard to get to the more important work, I’m waylaid at the edge of the grass.