Hey Jude (Lennox Valley Chronicles #1)

I shoot Wyatt a look; he gives me a guilty smile.

“But seriously, Olena, we need the whole story. Consider it a birthday gift to me. All the juicy details, please and thank you.” Sam sits at the table, patting the seat beside him.

I pour myself a glass of wine and narrow my eyes at him good-naturedly, shaking my head. I don’t sit down.

“Okay, fine, but no more lumberjack talk.” I raise my eyebrows and point a threatening finger at each of them.

The door buzzer sounds. Wyatt wipes his hands on a tea towel and answers it, letting Nat in, then turns back to his post at the stove.

“Alright, don’t worry,” says Wyatt, “we’ll be on our best behavior. I want to hear more about how things went with Uncle Charles, anyway.”

Because Wyatt had been so busy preparing for tonight, I’d only had time to give him a quick summary of what happened yesterday at the property. Somehow, what seems to have stuck is Jude’s appearance. I may have likened him to a lumberjack, but I definitely did not use the term hunky.

I cautiously sit down beside Sam as Nat lets herself in. “Best behavior,” I remind Sam with a stern look.

He raises his hands in an obedient pose.

“Remember, I’m a consummate professional,” I add, holding a hand to my chest, the picture of restraint.

Nat shrugs off her coat, dumping it and her purse on the chair near the door, then kicks off her shoes.

“Who’s a consummate professional?” she asks. “Ooh, are we hearing about Olena’s new job?” Nat catches up quickly, joining us at the table. She rubs her hands, then wraps her arms around Sam’s shoulders from behind. “Happy birthday, Sammy,” she adds quietly as she gives him a squeeze, a few of her dark braids falling forward over his shoulder.

He smiles up at her.

“Yes, I’ve been roped into recounting the whole messy tale,” I say, glancing pointedly at Wyatt. He’s drizzling sauce into the skillet, steam hissing up from the pan.

“I want to hear everything,” Nat squeals, sitting down with us.

Wyatt begins clearing away the appetizers to make room for the feast he’s prepared. He’s been teaching himself how to cook traditional Vietnamese dishes lately, even secretly calling Sam’s mom from time to time for guidance on technique so he could get everything right for the party.

I take a long, steadying breath. “Well, I guess everything started on the drive out there…”

* * *

“Wait, so, he just left in a huff for no reason?” Wyatt asks, looking confused and surprised.

“Well, I wouldn’t say he was in a huff, but I guess it was kind of abrupt?” I’m still not sure what to make of Jude’s behavior; he’d taken off so suddenly yesterday.

“Huh, that’s kind of… dramatic and weird,” Sam notes.

“Probably just realized he was stuck working with me for the next few weeks,” I joke.

“Shut your face; he should be so lucky,” says Nat. She takes a sip from her glass of wine.

I smile sheepishly. “I don’t know,” I say, pausing to think for a moment. “I’m probably overthinking everything. Classic me, right?”

“I mean, you would qualify for Olympic gold in that sport,” Wyatt teases, now sitting with us at the table. The remnants of his incredible main dishes sit in front of us: bánh mì sandwiches, ph? noodle soup, and bún ch?—pork meatballs. Needless to say, there isn’t much food left. “I remember back in high school we’d stay up until two in the morning talking on the phone about exactly what Brandon Gregson meant when he signed that note ‘love, Brandon’ or analyzing Taylor Copeland’s body language in math class to figure out who he was going to ask to the dance.”

“To be fair, they were both total dreamboats,” I say wistfully.

“You’re not wrong,” agrees Wyatt with a sigh.

Sam clears his throat, looking pointedly at Wyatt.

“Not as much of a dreamboat as you, honey, obviously.” Wyatt leans over to plant a kiss on Sam’s cheek.

Sam flutters his dark eyelashes dramatically. “I was worried that, maybe, now that I’m twenty-eight, you’ll have eyes for the younger guys,” he pouts jokingly.