Don't Kiss the Bride

I want my mother. Maybe not my mother, but a real mom. I want someone to tell me what I should do. I want someone to tell me I’m going to be okay.

Even though my feet clomping down the basement stairs make quite a bit of noise, it isn’t loud enough to be heard over the rock music blasting from the Bluetooth speakers mounted on the wall.

“Jude,” I call out and stop short about six feet away from his gym area.

I debate turning around and going back upstairs before he sees me. I shouldn’t be down here when he’s working out. It feels like I’m invading his privacy—seeing him shirtless, on his back on the bench. Hearing his primal grunts as he presses the weighted bar up, then down, then up again. Sweat glistens over his body, beading up on his chiseled chest and abs, brightening the ink of his tattoos.

Standing by a stack of Erin boxes, I’m mesmerized by the bulge of his biceps when he pushes the bar up one more time, then rests it on the rack. Swallowing hard, I watch as he stands, grabs a towel, and wipes it across his face. This is the first time I’ve seen him with shorts on, and I’m not surprised to see tattoos on his thighs and calves. Nor am I surprised to see the muscles in his legs still pumped from whatever workout he was doing before I came down here.

Sweaty people usually turn me off, but he’s incredibly sexy with his damp hair and shiny muscles. I have the urge to run my hand down the middle of his chest, trail my fingers through the tiny patch of damp hair there.

When he turns and catches me watching him, he takes a step back, almost knocking over the rack of free weights.

“What the fuck,” he says, breaking me out of my trance. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“I-I’m sorry,” I stammer, startled by the deepness of his voice echoing in the cellar. “I wanted to talk to you and I—”

And I what? Got all distracted drooling over him?

“What’s up?” he asks casually, as if he’s not oozing all kinds of sexiness as he wipes the towel down his chest to his abs.

Regaining my composure, I take a few steps closer to him. “I went to the dentist today, but they told me dental procedures aren’t covered under our insurance plan.”

His brows pull together. “Your eyes look weird. Havin’ a bad day?”

Jude always knows when I’ve taken the extra pill.

“Yes. A totally sucky day,” I explain. “I’ve had this bad pain in my jaw that I thought I could ignore away, but it didn’t go away. Rebecca sent me to a dentist friend of hers this afternoon.”

He throws the towel over his shoulder and pins me with a concerned look. “What did she say? Are you okay?”

“I have two impacted wisdom teeth. I have to have them pulled, and I’m too scared to be awake while it’s happening. I’m afraid I’ll freak out. But the anesthesia is wicked expensive. The whole thing will cost around two thousand dollars.”

“Fuck.” He blows out a breath. “That sucks. We have a dental add-on. There’s a different ID card, though, I’ll have to get you one. I gotta warn you, it doesn’t cover much. Mostly cleanings and x-rays, maybe a cavity.”

Shit.

“Okay. I just wanted to check,” I say, chewing my lip.

I’m totally screwed. How on earth am I going to pay for this? Dr. Katz made it sound like the surgery shouldn’t be put off.

“I’ll help you, ya know,” he says, moving closer to me. His black sweat shorts have slipped dangerously low on his hips, revealing taut muscles not meant for my eyes. “If you need some money for the dentist.”

“Jude, I can’t let you do that.” He’s already lent me money to pay for my prescriptions and co-pays. I simply cannot let him keep giving me money. Especially now that I know he also helps his aunt and uncle with their bills.

“How come?” he asks.

“Because you’ve done enough for me already. You’re not an ATM.”

Smirking, he shoots an eyebrow up. “So… there’s a limit to how much I’m allowed to do? Guess I missed the memo. You are my wife.”

“On paper. But I’m not your problem. We have an arrangement, and I’m trying to stick to it. It wasn’t supposed to include you totally supporting me.”

It wasn’t supposed to including random kissing and touching, either.

“You’re my friend. Nothin’ wrong with helping a friend. Why is it so weird that I want to do something nice? Everyone acts like I’m breaking some kind of fuckin’ law.”

“It’s not weird that you want to help me. I’m not used to having—or accepting—help. It’s humiliating and embarrassing for me. And it’s just not normal for you to do so much for me.”