His eyes sparkle as he tugs at the fabric of my shirt again. “My problem . . .” He takes a deliberate pause as he holds the material in those fingers. My blood heats as I imagine those fingers tearing that shirt off me, then traveling down my chest. “Was that it was on.”
I laugh—I wasn’t expecting that. Jude laughs too, then turns away from me, which is for the best. If he keeps looking at me like that, with flirt in his eyes, I just might grab his face and kiss the fuck out of him in the shower curtain aisle at TK Maxx.
I move to new topics. “I’m getting the sense you’re saying I have no style?”
Jude swivels around and adopts a too-sweet expression. “Let’s just say, the way I feel about your style”—he waves a hand dismissively at my T-shirt then at the shelves of curtains—“is on par with how you feel about my love of Led Zeppelin.”
Yes! Another thing we don’t have in common. Shower curtains, clothing style, and musical taste will work in combination to turn me off. “Fine, go ahead and play Zeppelin tonight. It’s cool,” I say with a shrug.
He snort-laughs. “Oh, please. You’re a terrible liar.”
“I’m not lying,” I lie.
Jude stares at me with a smile that says he’s caught me red-handed. “You only want me to play Zeppelin so you don’t think about me naked.”
Jesus.
He’s electric. He’s unstoppable.
“Feel free to add in Jethro Tull, then too,” I say. I’ve got to try to keep up with him.
“Wait. I figured you out. You hate all the English rock bands that had their heyday in the seventies?”
“Yup. But not just English bands. American ones too. Case in point: The Allman Brothers Band.” I cringe for effect. “Queen aside, the seventies were a musical wasteland worldwide.”
“But what about ABBA?” He sounds like hating the Swedish pop group is blasphemy.
“Especially ABBA. So yeah, feel free to love on them all you want,” I challenge.
With curious eyes, Jude seems to size me up. “Because . . .” He wags a finger. “Because that would help our necessary friendship? If I love the bands you hate?”
“Yes, exactly.” Though, so far, that doesn’t appear to be true whatsoever.
He stares at me like a cat, taking his sweet time. “No. I don’t think I will play them.”
“Why not?” I ask like I don’t care, but I really want to hate him. I swear I do.
“Because I think you’d rather I play some alt-rock. Some cool new bands. Something I find in the clubs. I bet that’s your scene, right?”
I am cellophane with him. I need to find a trench coat to cover my see-through self. “No,” I say with an offhand shrug.
“You’re a terrible liar, TJ,” he says again, amused this time.
“I’m not,” I insist.
“You are. Want to know how I know?”
“Sure,” I grumble.
Jude points at my face. “Your eyes lit up when I said, cool new bands. That’s what you like, right? And you think if I play something you don’t like, it’ll make you stop thinking of all the presuming we’re not doing.”
I’m naked with him. “Why are you doing this?” I ask softly, feeling wobbly.
“Because I don’t want you to hate me,” he says earnestly. “I want us to be friends. Truly, I do. And the thing is, I’m rubbish with music. Maybe I can learn about your cool new bands, and you can learn about how delightful it is to have a shower curtain that’s not boring.” Jude pauses, then adds the clincher. “And I don’t think disliking me is going to help.”
He’s called me out, leaving me with no choice but to try.
“Fine. Then how about this? I’ll teach you about musical taste, and you can teach me about style?”
“That sounds so very friendly,” he says.
This is my new world order in London.
I am no longer living in a rom-com.
I’m back to reality.
But first, tools.
The selection is downright abysmal in the tool aisle, and “aisle” is a generous term. It’s more like one tiny sliver of a shelf.
“There are hardly any screwdrivers,” I say.
“Do we need more than one?” Jude asks as if screwdrivers are a nuisance.
“Yes, and a couple of wrenches. The faucet on the sink is on the fritz. The pipes probably need adjusting. I definitely need a decent toolkit.”
That seems to spark his interest. “Is that something you’re good at? Fixing things?”
“I was the de facto handyman in my last apartment,” I say. “And I’ve just always been good at it.”
“That’s kind of . . .” His eyes go a bit glossy.
All my instincts say make a dirty joke. Somehow, I refrain from asking: Do you have a handyman kink? “I just need to get a few tools,” I say, keeping it on the level.
“Things I say every day,” he says in a very flirty voice.
I shoot him the side-eye. “You’re not helping.”
Jude gives me a too-innocent look. “Maybe you could get a hammer, for instance. And some nails. In case anything needs to be . . . nailed.”
Filthy images snap before my eyes. Not helpful. “Is this your definition of friendly?”
“Is it working?”
“Absolutely. I feel all sorts of buddy/buddy with you,” I deadpan as I grab a basic tool set and we get the hell out of that aisle.
I don’t trust my common sense anymore. It’s haywire with Jude Graham. Black is white and up is down, and before I know it, tea will taste good.
But at least there are towels to focus on. Jude taps his chin thoughtfully as he checks out every style and color, asking my opinion on each set. It’s both endearing and annoying.
“Are you prepping for a role as a towel inspector? And I mean that literally,” I say.
“No, but that reminds me—I have to do a little prep work tonight. I’m auditioning for a role as a scientist who falls in love with a robot that he makes,” he says brightly, like he’s been looking for the right opening to share this news.
Jude’s genuine enthusiasm makes me turn off my sarcasm. “That sounds cool. What’s it for?”
“Do you really want to hear about it?” He sounds surprised like the default is that I wouldn’t.
“I do,” I say.
The giddy expression on his face is familiar. That’s how I feel when an idea for a story zings just so—that magic moment. I hope it’ll hit me soon, and I can start on my first novel. I’ve got a few concepts to noodle on. Maybe I can do that after work tomorrow.
“There’s a studio here producing a new web series about robots and scientists in love. The head scientist falls for the robot he created. She’s a perfect replica of a woman and even starts to develop sentient feelings and independent thought, and it freaks him out and thrills him at the same time. It actually sounds like a cool project,” he says.
“It does. Do you have a script?”
“They sent over sides. Just a couple of scenes. I need to go over them tonight.”
Jude sounds both nervous and excited. I should invent a reason to get out of the flat tonight, somewhere I’m far, far away from him, but I don’t. “Do you want me to . . .” I clear my throat because this feels like a different sort of closeness. “Run lines with you?”
It’s like I told him I’d clean the flat for a year. “Would you?”
“Sure. I like stories a lot more than shopping for towels. How about you pick a set right now, and when we get home, we’ll run lines.”
“I have to pick right now?” He sounds mildly aghast.
“You can do it,” I encourage.
With a deep breath, he darts out a hand and picks a deep, dark blue towel. They aren’t at all what I’d have thought he’d choose—they aren’t perky. But I don’t ask his reasoning since this selection gets us out of the store.
Which also puts us one step closer to the danger zone.