And here I thought Stone was the coldhearted one.
Turns out it was Jude all along.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Stone
* * *
“You’re early.” Jovie greets me with a mile-wide smile Friday night. “I don’t remember you being this punctual back in the day.”
I don’t tell her it’s a miracle I’m here at all.
Yesterday I decided we were both adults and it was just a concert, so I told her I’d come.
But ever since then, I’ve done nothing but attempt to talk myself out of going. Three hours ago I was scribbling a list of pros and cons on my yellow legal pad at the office, only to crumple it into a ball and chuck it into the nearest trash can.
The pros were just as stacked as the cons.
It was win-win—or lose-lose, depending on how I looked at it.
Ultimately, I deemed it a draw.
She fishes her keys from her purse as she locks the door behind her. The scent of her soft perfume fills the air in the hallway, enveloping us both in an invisible embrace. It’s unfamiliar to me yet perfectly Jovie. Pleasing, unpretentious, and sexy.
“You ready?” She brushes a blonde wave off her bare shoulder.
I nod. “I’m parked out front.”
We make our way outside, and I offer her my hand as she navigates the narrow front steps in platform sandals.
The curled hair, the strapless sun dress, the heels … I can’t help but wonder if she always gets this dolled-up for concerts?
I scold myself for entertaining those kinds of thoughts.
We’re merely two acquaintances attending a show.
Nothing more, nothing less.
We climb into my car. She fusses with the hem of her dress, straightening it just above her knee.
“Did you listen to those songs I sent you?” she asks, eyes sparkling in the fading evening sun.
For a moment, I get lost in her ocean blues, stuck in this moment, in a rare bout of forgetting where I am and what I’m doing and that life exists beyond the glass and metal that encapsulates us.
“I did,” I say, hoping my pause wasn’t too obvious.
“They’re amazing, right?”
“I won’t disagree with you there.” I listened to the songs she sent, plus all three of their albums. “Their original stuff is impressive.”
I pull into the street and head to the venue, an outdoor amphitheater on the east side of town, overlooking a popular bay.
“Isn’t it?” she asks. “I swear, the first time I heard Beautiful Regrets I listened to it on repeat for hours. It’s one of those songs I can never get sick of no matter how many times I play it.”
“How’d you hear about this band?”
She rolls her eyes. “My ex. They were playing a show at some bar last year, and he knew the manager and got us the hookup. But I refuse to let that keep me from enjoying them.”
“Rightfully so.”
Thirty minutes later, we’ve made it through the security checkpoint, gotten our wrist bands, and beelined it toward the drink tent.
An IPA for me
A pineapple margarita for her.
“Did you know, back in Regency days, a pineapple symbolized friendship and hospitality? People would give them as gifts or set them out when they had company. These days it’s code for being a swinger or something …” She takes a sip, her eyes rolling in the back of her head. “This is so good, you want to try?”
She lifts it in my direction. My gaze immediately lands on the straw and my mind immediately muses on her lips.
“No thanks,” I say. “Not a fan of sweet alcohol.”
“You only like the bitter stuff. The stuff that puts hair on your chest.”
“We all have our preferences.”
“I could eat pineapples for days,” she says. “Chunks, tidbits, juice, adult beverages … I’m not picky.”
“I remember.”
The year we lived together, she would stock our fridge full of those skinny cans of Dole pineapple juice, the ones with the metal pull tabs. And she’d drink one every single morning at breakfast.
“People have a way of taking perfectly lovely things and ruining them,” she says. “Like the pineapple and its symbolism. Stripped the poor thing of all its dignity and made it sexual.”
“Is it that deep?”
She takes a drink, peering up at me over the rim of her plastic cup.
“Do you know why I write historical romance?” she asks.
“No, not at all …”
“Courting and passion and desire was basically an art form once upon a time. People took it seriously. There were protocols and rules and respect. People weren’t afraid of a little sacrifice back then, whether it was their land or their title or their ego. They’d give it all up for the right person.”
“You don’t think you’re romanticizing it a bit?” I ask. “Surely it wasn’t always rainbows and butterflies. I’m sure there were fathers marrying their daughters off for political and monetary gain.”
“Shh.” She clamps her hand over my mouth, an unexpected move that sends a tingle through me if only because she’s standing that much closer now, her face mere inches from mine. “Don’t ruin the good stuff with the bad.”