Don't Kiss the Bride

“I’d protect her with my fucking life.”

“Well, you’re not doing such a great job at that, are you?” she accuses.

“Fuck you. What happened to her was an accident. I had no idea my sister was even alive.”

“You have sleazy connections, Jude. You always have. They follow you like rats.”

“Not anymore.”

She raises her brows questioningly. “I know all about falling in love with the wrong guy. Getting caught up in someone sexy and intriguing and totally losing yourself and any sense of right or wrong.”

I stare her down. “Don’t make this about you because you married an asshole.”

“It’s not about me. But I know a toxic relationship when I see one. She’s a teenager. Let her be one. She should be out dating boys, going to movies, doing teenage-girl stuff, not shacking up in a house with an adult man living some farce of a marriage. It’s disgusting and belittling to the real marriage she will have someday. I see the way she looks at you, Jude. You’ve got this magnetic thing about you and she’s all caught up in it. She’s going to get her heart broken and she’ll never get over you. Do you want to be the one who helped her, or the one who destroyed her for all future relationships? Is that really what you want for her?”

If anything has ever made me feel like a low-life piece of scum, it’s this verbal lashing right here.

“No,” I reply. “I don’t want that.”

“I have a niece a few months younger than Skylar. I can’t even imagine a guy your age trying to fuck her. I’d be in jail for his murder. If you don’t get your act together, I might contact the school and talk to her guidance counselor.”

“Hey,” I say, stepping closer to her. “I’m not fucking her. I care about her.”

“What if you had a daughter her age? Or a sister? How would you feel if she was in this arrangement?”

I think about my sister at sixteen, running off to Florida with Jimmy Vantz—a man old enough to be her father—and getting her life all sorts of fucked up.

“It would make me sick,” I admit.

“Then keep your hands and your mouth off her. She’s never even been in love. You’re not playing on equal ground, and you’re taking advantage of her innocence and her need to feel loved. It’s sick. Do the right thing.” She turns and stalks back toward the boutique. “And stop eating my cookies,” she throws over her shoulder before opening the door.

I don’t look through the window to see if Skylar’s watching me. I can’t bear the thought of looking into her eyes right now.

I’m afraid she’s going to see the man Rebecca sees.

Chapter 39

Skylar

I spritz on perfume—something in a pretty glass bottle called Design that has a light, sweet scent that Jude loves, then slip into a light-pink, off-the-shoulder sweater that reaches the top of my thighs. Bending over, I pull on a pair of gray thigh-high socks and slouch them a bit. Under the sweater, I have on a pair of champagne-colored lace bikini panties, and no bra. One good thing about having small, perky boobs is not having to wear a bra all the time.

Especially when I want to look sexy.

My hope is that this little outfit will cheer Jude up. For the past few days, he’s been distant and quiet. Out of nowhere, he’s almost done a complete U-turn. One day things were amazing—lots of kissing, cuddling, and date nights, then suddenly he’s either working late, or out in the garage, or going to bed early claiming his back hurts.

He’s declined my numerous offers to give him a back massage.

Earlier, instead of greeting him at the front door like I usually do when he comes home, I waited in my room with the door closed to see if he’d come looking for me.

When he didn’t, my worry started to morph into a panic attack consisting of racing thoughts, heart palpitations, sweaty palms, and that awful feeling like I have a blob in my throat.

Not wanting to waste the entire night curled up in a ball succumbing to worrying about things that I don’t even know are valid, I took a hot shower. After that I sat in my favorite thick terry-cloth robe and patted Gus. Her little purrs always have a calming effect on me.

I heard his shower as I was blow-drying my hair, and thought he’d be knocking on my door any minute to ask me to make dinner with him, which has become a new thing for us.

But that was forty minutes ago.

Frustrated, I walk down to his room. His door is open a few inches, and I can see him sitting on the floor, leaning back against his bed.

“Jude?” I say. “Can I come in?”

It feels weird asking for permission to enter his room, but his stand-offish-ness isn’t exactly welcoming.