Page 21 of Finding Mr. July

T he first thing I do after waking up the next morning is check my messages, and finally, Robert the veterinarian has committed to a day for the shoot.

The second thing I do is log into my Pawsome Partners account to cancel it.

There’s one nice guy I’ve been messaging with a few times, so to preserve whatever dating karma I have left, I send him one more message where I tell the truth.

After detailing my model search, I apologize profusely and wish him the best on his quest for true love, and to my surprise, a response pings in my inbox before I have a chance to close the account.

Xanderful: I appreciate you letting me know. Sounds like a good cause, and I’m flattered that you considered me. Are you set on models then? I’d be happy to help.

See, I knew he was a good guy. What the heck—if he’s volunteering…

Holly St.Bernard: No, still looking. Are you saying you’re interested? We can’t pay.

Xanderful: I figured. Yeah, for sure I’m interested. I only have one condition.

Holly St.Bernard: Which is?

Xanderful: I have a prosthetic leg. Car accident in college. I’d like it to show in the photo, cuz it’s something you never see. Ok?

Holly St.Bernard: Definitely! It’s a great idea.

Xanderful:

Holly St.Bernard: And your dog is on board too?

Xanderful: Milton is jazzed for anything that’ll land him a treat.

Holly St.Bernard: Note taken.

I give him my number, and he gives me his, and then I finally leave Pawsome Partners behind for good. I also revise my earlier count. Only three guys to go. Piece of cake!

Jude is alone in the kitchen when I enter. He’s putting chili ingredients into a slow cooker to bring to his Sunday night poker game later, but when he hears my stomach growl, he promises to leave a bowl for me.

“Nothing for Ava?”

“She’s at Makenna’s. Hating my guts.” He makes a sour face.

I steal a pinch of grated carrots off his cutting board. “I take it you told her things are progressing in Texas, then?”

He nods. “Maybe you could talk to her? She won’t hear me out.”

“And you think she’ll listen to me? I’m not even sure that I completely disagree with her. Just give her some time. She could come around.”

“In a few years?” Jude dumps the carrots into the Crock-Pot and stirs. “I’m serious. I can’t stand the doomsday atmosphere around here. Please. I’ll give you fifty bucks.”

“Ha!” I pour myself some leftover coffee and sit down at the counter.

“A hundred?”

I’m about to decline when a brilliant idea strikes. “You’re pretty desperate, huh? Fine. I’ll talk to her”—I put up a finger to stop him from thanking me yet—“ if you agree to see one of the women from the dating site. Just one teeny, tiny date.”

Jude crosses his arms. “Come on.”

“Those are my terms. Take ’em or leave ’em.”

He grunts, lips tight. “Oh, all right. One date.”

“Plus the hundred bucks.”

“I’m going to give it to you in coins.”

I laugh. “So testy. Who knows, you might even have a good time.”

“Don’t hold your breath.”

Jude opens the fridge and takes out the ground beef, then sprays a pan with oil. We don’t speak while it heats. I know when to back off and celebrate my victory in silence. But after he’s added the meat to the pan, he switches topics on me.

“You were out late yesterday,” he says, glancing my way. “Is that why you’re so obsessed with me going on this date?”

My fingertips instinctively go to my lips.

After a dream-filled night’s sleep, I’m inclined to concede that Jonathan and I were wise to stop things when we did.

Not because I don’t want more, but because it’s taking quite a bit of brainpower to process even the little bit that did take place.

We’re two date-adverse people with no future together, yet last night was the best time I’ve had in a very long time, and I’m counting the hours until the photo shoot later today. How do I make sense of that?

“I was,” I say, ignoring the second half of his question. I bring the cup of dark brew to my lips but quickly set it down again as the burnt smell of reheating reaches my nostrils.

Jude turns, one hand still stirring the beef. “Care to elaborate?”

I hesitate, but Jude knows me better than anyone, and I don’t feel like lying. Besides, I have a feeling he’d like Jonathan. “Jonathan took me out to make up for the grueling model search dates.”

“And did he?” He moves the spatula absent-mindedly. “Make up for it?”

I screw up my lips in a failed attempt to keep a neutral face. “He might have,” I say, hiding the breadth of my smile behind the coffee cup but regretting it instantly as I once more choke on the fumes. “Ugh, get this thing away from me. Is this coffee from yesterday?”

Jude switches off the burner and turns more fully toward me. “You like this guy,” he says.

I blink at him, momentarily stumped. “It’s not really like that. I’m not…” I sigh and stare at the wall filled with pictures of Jolene with Jude and Ava. “What I mean is, there’s no ‘potential’ if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

“Hmm.” Jude nods slowly. “Because of work.”

This is one of my favorite things about my brother—that he gets me. “Right. And because I plan on being far away from here real soon.”

He looks thoughtful for another moment, but then his face brightens with a cheery “okay” before he turns back to the cutting board. For the next minute, he chops garlic like a line cook, and he only stops when something outside the window catches his eye.

“Someone’s here,” he says. “Oh, it’s your friend—Rachel.”

I join him at the window. Rachel is here?

I beat her to the door, holding it open as she marches right in and spins on me in the middle of the foyer, hands on her hips.

“You didn’t call me,” she says. “Didn’t text. Nothing.”

“Um, I… didn’t know I was supposed to?” I phrase it like a question because that’s what her presence feels like to me.

She stares at me, dumbfounded. “Wow, you really are bad at this stuff. Holly, it’s implied. If you say, ‘I have a date with this guy at work I’m thirsting for,’ any girlfriend worth her mettle will finish that sentence in her head with ‘and I’m gonna call you right after with the deets.’ Come on.”

I close the front door carefully. “Thirsting?”

“You know.” She does a crude motion with her hands. Then she stops abruptly to sniff the air. “Mmm. Something smells good.”

I roll my eyes but gesture for her to come inside. “Sorry, I didn’t realize I would be held accountable for things you thought I implied.”

As we step into the kitchen, Jude raises his hand in greeting, which stops Rachel in her tracks. “Oh shit, I forgot you live here,” she says.

Jude gives her his megawatt smile. “It would be weird if I didn’t since it’s my house.” He points to the slow cooker. “Making chili. Don’t mind me.”

“You cook, too?” Rachel turns to me and mouths, “He cooks, too,” her eyes going heart-shaped.

I don’t reward that with an answer, but is it just me or does Jude suddenly start cooking with a touch more flair knowing he has an audience? Because Rachel is definitely paying attention.

But this could work out for me. She appears to have forgotten why she’s here, so maybe if I’m quiet, I can slip up to my…

“Hey!” Rachel catches on when I’m almost to the threshold. “Sit your skinny butt down and spill.”

“In front of my brother?”

Her eyes widen. “Stuff happened?”

“O-kay,” Jude says, voice starting out about an octave higher than normal, then dropping down. “I’m basically done, only need to…” He dumps a series of spices into the pot, covers it with a lid, wipes his hands, and gives us both a curt smile. “All yours. Nice to see you again, Rachel.”

“Bye, Jude,” Rachel calls out after he’s disappeared. To me, she whispers, “I can’t believe you won’t ask him to be in the calendar. Robbing women all over the country of that treasure.”

“Keep it in your pants, will you? Gross.”

“Only if you tell me about your shenanigans with Mr. Summers.”

There’s a twinge inside my rib cage at his name, his voice ringing in my ears. This is kind of complicated, right? Complicated and exhilarating. Hard to describe. Personal.

“We ran into my ex,” I say. “Can you believe it?”

Her face falls. “What? No way.”

“Yup. With his most recent girl.”

“Ugh.” Rachel screws up her face. “Fucking Chris. What a buzzkill. I take it any mood was assassinated by his presence? Damn it!”

I chuckle at her expletive. “You know you are way too invested in this, right?”

“Define ‘too.’”

“Why are you, though? Aren’t you busy with beach volleyball Nick?”

Rachel looks away. “Can’t a friend want a friend to be happy?”

“Sure, but that’s not what’s going on here.” I waggle a finger between us.

“Yes, it is. Mostly.”

“Mm-hmm…” I stare at her until she continues.

“I do want you to have some fun,” she says. “And ever since I figured out what you two got up to the night of the announcement, I feel… involved. Responsible. It’s bringing out the facilitator in me.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Hey, don’t knock my skills. My high school bestie is married to the man of her dreams thanks to me.”

“Who said anything about marriage? I’m banking on moving soon.”

“I know!” Rachel grimaces and mumbles something at the countertop.

“What?” I ask.

“I said, maybe I’m not looking forward to that so much.” She peers up at me. “And if you and Jonathan hit it off…”

So that’s what’s going on. “If we hit it off, you think I might reconsider leaving.”

She shrugs. “Worth a shot.”

Back in freshman year of college, Rachel and I may have been tight like Bonnie and Clyde from day one (except less focused on criminal endeavors and more on global warming), but our friendship has never been touchy-feely.

Seeing her like this—vulnerable and tender—tugs at my heartstrings more than I expect. “You forget I haven’t won yet.”

She tsk s. “You will, and you know it.”

“All I know is I’ll do my very best.” I decide to throw her a bone. “No matter how great the date was last night.”

Her head jerks up. “But I thought you said—”

“You assumed,” I say, cutting her off. “Because I brought up Chris. Sorry I didn’t call. I honestly don’t know how to talk about it.”

“But it was good?” Excitement tinges her voice. “Did you…?”

“No.” But that’s for the best, I remind myself.

She frowns, but to her credit, she drops any further questions about my potential sexcapades. “So, what happens now?” she asks instead.

The question deflates something inside me. With the topic reaching a dead end, so does the thrill that’s run amok inside me since last night. “Probably nothing,” I say with a lift of one shoulder. The words taste bitter and real. “Like you said, I’m on my way away. What good would it do?”

She studies me for a long moment, and then she echoes what Jude said not even an hour ago. “You like him like him, don’t you?”

And damn it all to hell if they’re not both right.