“So much for being proud of me. I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that. I’d better go. I need to go figure out where Jude is.”
“You mean he’s not lying next to you naked?” I can hear her pout through the phone line. “You’re ruining my visual.”
“I’m naked,” I admit.
“I’ve seen you naked,” she says with a sigh, “and it looks like Jude is off the market.”
“He might be.” It feels good to say that. “He let me sleep in.”
“I think you’re the spoiled one,” Amie says. “First Max wants to let you sleep in, and now Jude. All these men taking care of you. You really should share.”
There’s nothing I want more in the world than for Amie to find the right guy. A small squeeze of guilt constricts my chest.
“Uh, uh,” she says as if reading my mind. “I should really know better than to joke right now. You are not allowed to feel bad today. Go find Jude and don’t come to work until you’ve had at least three more orgasms.”
“That might be sexual harassment, Boss.”
“I’ll be sure to get HR on it. Now, go, get! But remember, I expect details tonight. If you can find a measuring tape, feel free to come back with specifics.”
I hang up on her before she can ask me to start taking surreptitious selfies with him.
Without Jude here to distract me I can appreciate the luxury of his bedroom. I was aware last night that we were in a California king bed, only because there was a lot of room, and we used every inch of it.
It takes a lot of effort to push myself out of the luxurious sheets. When I stand my knees are still a little bit shaky. I pad over to the windows and take in the spectacular view. On one side the forest encroaches. Tall Douglas firs tower past the window. It’s like being in a five-star tree house. From the other adjoining glass, I take in a sweeping view of the ocean. It’s the same as the one in his living room, but it feels more intimate as though he’s bottled up perfection. All in all, the space has the effect of making me feel like I’ve found myself in paradise. The world outside the house ceases to exist. The only thing I can think of is the man and the memories he gave me last night.
My clothes lay scattered across the floor, but I’m not ready to get dressed yet, not while I’ve been given half a day off. Not that it will take Jude that long to fulfill Amie’s demand. I tug the sheet off the bed and wrap it around my form.
Outside his room I find a narrow hallway. I can’t even remember passing through it last night, but I was rather preoccupied. I peak in doorways to see guest rooms and bathrooms until the corridor opens into the airy living room and kitchen.
Jude is at the easel, which is the only thing blocking his nudity from the floor to ceiling windows. I pause and drink in his toned back and the bulge of his calves. I can’t see what he’s painting, but I admire his technique and the tight curve of his ass. His muscles tense as the brush flickers across the canvas. Occasionally I catch a glimpse of color. He knows exactly what he’s doing. There’s no hesitation as he works. But his body on display, haloed in sunlight, is the true work of art.
“I left fresh fruit on the counter and some coffee,” he calls out, not bothering to turn around. “I figure your blood sugar might be a little bit low. We didn’t really have dinner.
But God, did we ever have dessert.
At the kitchen island I hop onto a bar stool and discover a bowl of pineapple, grapes, strawberries that he’s obviously cut up himself. The coffee is in a stainless steel travel mug. When I flip open the top, steam rises out like smoke. Apparently Jude thinks of everything. After last night I should already know that.
I stab a strawberry with my fork. “What time is it?”
I hadn’t even bothered to check my phone. I’d called Amie in a panic and had other things on my mind when I hung up.
“Around 9:30.”
“Oh, my God, I don’t think I’ve slept that long since I was a teenager.”
“Well, you weren’t sleeping most of the night.”
“Do I detect a cocky undertone, Mr. Mercer?” I dig around in the bowl, my appetite giving way to butterflies in my stomach.
“I have to admit, I’m pretty pleased with myself.”
I’m pretty pleased with him, too.
I can see his canvas now. Today it’s full of violent strokes of blue and grey, with splashes of yellow.
“Do you always paint the ocean?” I ask.
“I haven’t grown tired of it yet. I don’t think I ever will.”