Hey Jude (Lennox Valley Chronicles #1)

Teddy came close to catching me and Olena in a very compromising position tonight. If he’d caught us doing what we were about to do, the project at the Faulkner property could have been jeopardized. It could have undermined his trust in me as the leader of our team.

This is my business, the company I built. The reputation I’ve made for myself in Lennox Valley is strong. And this is a small town; people talk. I almost unwittingly sabotaged my career tonight; almost threw away everything I’ve built for a lustful moment with a beautiful woman.

Running a hand down my face, I kick myself for letting it get that close. I’m supposed to be the boss, the decision-maker, the steady hand guiding the ship. I’m sure as shit not supposed to be behaving like some hormone-addled teenager.

Hadn’t I spent the last week vowing to be professional around Olena for just this reason? The scope of my failure to keep my feelings in check rests heavily on me now. No matter how attracted I am to her, I can’t let this happen again. I need to protect the life and career I’ve made for myself. Getting close to her would be short-sighted, anyway; I can’t risk another loss—another heartbreak.

It’s better this way. She can’t leave you if you don’t let her in in the first place.

Looking down at Murphy, I see things in a new light. His barking was the warning I needed to stop things with Olena before they went too far. Before we got caught. Before everything got complicated.

I pat Murphy’s head gratefully, absentmindedly letting my fingers rest on his soft fur. I needed his warning as a wake-up call to see tonight for what it was: a huge mistake.

And yet, doubt prickles. There’s something about this whole thing niggling at the back of my mind, something I can’t name, but I’m mentally and physically out of steam and I’ve got nothing left in me to chase the thought down. Finishing my food, I can’t be bothered to get up, so I rest my head back on the couch and close my eyes. I’m out like a light.

15

OLENA

Pouring my guts out to Wyatt is an old tradition. He knows my protocol, which was the brainchild of our boy-obsessed teenage selves: tissue box, ice cream, and warm blankets. While probably the most cliché girly thing I’m associated with, it always works to help me feel better, so I don’t question it.

So, when he sees me come in the front door of our apartment—sopping wet, exhausted, and with a tearful expression on my grime-caked face—he launches into action.

“Oh, honey.” He stands in front of me and tentatively reaches out a hand, then pulls it back, taking in the full head-to-toe picture of exactly how wet and dirty I am. “Can I… run you a bath?”

“No.” I sniff, my expression flat. “It’ll be like sitting in a dirt soup. I need a shower.”

“Okay, I’ll get it started for you, and then I’ll make you a blanket nest on the couch with a hot water bottle.” He walks toward the bathroom, then stops, looking back at me. “What flavor of ice cream?”

I level him with a look. My brain is not available for decisions right now.

“Any ice cream; got it. Let’s go.” He waves me along to the bathroom and helps me peel off my t-shirt, throwing it in the sink. I sit on the closed toilet lid and pull off my socks, adding them in with the shirt.

“You got the rest, babe?” he asks softly, turning on the shower for me.

“Yeah,” I sigh, then blow my nose on a wad of toilet paper.

Why am I so upset about this? I think to myself, scowling. I shouldn’t have been touching Jude in the first place, especially not at work. Murphy probably did us a favor by interrupting.

“Have you eaten dinner?” Wyatt asks.

“I had the Meal of Shame on the way home,” I say with a nod. I remember the concerned look on the drive-thru worker’s face as she handed me my order. I’m sure I looked like I had been auditioning for a horror movie and then had taken a swim in a swamp.

“I thought we agreed to stop calling it that,” he says with a soft half-smile.

“Old habits.” I wave a hand dismissively at him.

Without saying any more, Wyatt steps out and closes the door behind him.

When I emerge in a towel half an hour later, he looks up from his phone and gives me a kind smile, patting the couch next to him. “When you’re ready. No rush.”

I smile weakly back.

* * *

Wyatt convinces me to tag along with him to the grocery store the next day; he hardly ever has Saturdays off work and, even though food isn’t my area of expertise, he says he wants my input for some dish he’s cooking up for Sam. We both know full well that I won’t contribute one useful opinion about the ingredients and instead will probably end up impulse-buying a box of overpriced, semi-palatable protein bars for myself. But I think he knows I need the distraction.

“Do you think arugula or something milder for the salad? Maybe romaine?” Wyatt holds two bundles of leafy greens, looking pensive.