Dirty Headlines
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
“I’ll buy you another one.”
“I don’t want another one. I like this one.”
Fuck. Why did that make me even harder?
She shook her head, sighing. “You wanted to see me?”
“There are a few matters we need to discuss as a result of the unexpected appearance of Miss Davis at the newsroom.” I loosened my tie.
Jude smiled her sweet, innocent smile. “That’s a lovely way of describing a batshit crazy woman who broke a monitor and ruined my notebook, if I ever heard one.”
I smirked. Sat back. Knotted my fingers together. “I sent Brianna to the third floor to get one of James’ stylists to iron Kipling back into shape.”
Her eyes widened, her lower lip poking out. “How did you…?”
“Figured it out.” I waved her off.
Not quite. The mystery had occupied my mind for many long nights. So much so that I’d pieced together every encounter in which she’d mentioned Kipling. She’d had the notebook clutched in her palm in all of them.
Jude looked touched, and I needed her not to be, so I continued. “At any rate, Miss Davis will be in no position to further damage property or harass LBC employees anymore, especially seeing as I terminated our engagement.”
Which was really a nice way of saying we could go back to fucking peacefully without Judith giving me the third degree, just not in so many words.
“Is that why I’m here?” she asked, jutting her chin out. “Because you think I’ll jump back into your bed?”
“And couch. And office door. And fucking public toilet, if I say so.” I shrugged, sitting back and smirking at her.
“You’re wrong, Célian. When I told you I don’t do love, I meant it. But I don’t do casual, either. I need it to mean something. I was with Milton because I’m capable of having a relationship. I’m capable of giving.”
I really didn’t want to hear about that douche, Milton. At the same time, my growing need to fuck Judith might very well make my balls explode. I decided I would compromise my truth—if not bend it just a little—to accommodate her needs.
“I can do a discreet arrangement.”
“I don’t want an arrangement. I want a relationship.”
“Whatever you want to call it, Chucks. As long as you realize there is nothing at the end of that tunnel—no marriage, no wedding, no kids, and no cozy evenings watching Jeopardy with your dad—you can have it. Now pack a bag. We’re going to Miami for the weekend.”
I thought about all I’d said and decided to amend one thing. “Actually maybe Jeopardy is okay sometimes. Your pussy will need an occasional rest.”
“Miami?” Her eyes widened like I’d suggested Afghanistan. She recovered quickly, clearing her throat and adding, “We haven’t finished working on the Syria piece.”
Right. Fuck. Of course we still needed to wrap it up.
“We’ll work into the night.”
“I promised Dad I would watch the Yankees game with him.” She reddened.
I hated that I liked that about her—her fierce loyalty to her family. No matter how late she stayed at work, she somehow always made time for her pops.
But maybe Jude wasn’t anything special. Maybe I just had no idea how a normal family worked and was giving her extra credit.
“You may have the night off,” I said curtly. “I’ll send a cab to take you to the airport. Anything else?”
She stared at me for a few seconds, still blinking in disbelief. I guess I’d expected her to be happier about the news, but I didn’t exactly deliver it with flowers and sugary promises.
“You’re single?” she confirmed.
I raked my eyes over her. “Seems that way.”
“You broke it off with her?” She rubbed her forehead, looking around the room. Why? Was she expecting this to be a big prank? Clearly, she thought very little of me in the morals department.
“Do you need this in writing, Humphry?”
“That would be great, actually.”
I smirked. “Get your smart ass out of my office before I spank it.”
“You’re awful,” she said, getting up from her seat and walking back to the door.
I watched her every movement, wondering why I found her so fascinating, and inwardly asking myself what the fuck I was doing, taking this random chick to see my mother—Maman—who was still blissfully ignorant of the collapse of my engagement.
“You like awful,” I retorted.
She stopped by the door, bowed her head and shook it, laughing. When she left, the smell of hope crawled into my nostrils, the smell of her vanilla shampoo and gingery, spicy perfume.
And I had to admit, I liked it a whole a lot better.
Just smile and act normal.
Dad sat at my side, wearing an S. Carter jersey and a Yankees ball cap and drinking soda, which was definitely not on his current menu. I let it slide because he looked completely enchanted with the game. I, myself, wore a huge American flag hat and a Frank Sinatra shirt. Close enough, if you ask me.
I broached the subject when I got back from refilling our bowl of popcorn in the kitchen—another thing Dad shouldn’t be eating, but a little couldn’t hurt.