Page 26 of Finding Mr. July

W hoa, Aunt Holly. You look great!” Ava gives me an appreciative scan as I enter the kitchen Friday evening.

“Thanks.” I set my bag on the counter and open the fridge. I need something to drink. Nerves have turned my mouth into a desert.

“Do you have a hot date or something?”

I’m in a long-sleeved, black shirt with a deep V-neck and woven-in metallic accents, and my favorite knee-length, black skirt. It’s a confidence booster of a getup, and one I’ve not worn in a long time. I run my hands over the skirt and tweak the seams so they align with my hips.

I open a bottle of water and lean against the counter.

I’m not sure I want to talk about Jonathan with my niece.

“It’s a meeting to go over the photos we have for the calendar so far, tweaking edits, that sort of thing.

” I almost canceled. With two photo shoots going bust this week, I don’t know that I’ve earned a night off, but Jonathan promised we can brainstorm more model recruitment over dinner, and to be honest, I need to see him.

“A work thing?” Ava frowns.

Before I can respond, Jude joins us, carrying a dirty mug from the den, and Ava turns away.

It’s official. He’s got a job offer from a Texas firm, and consequently, she’s stopped speaking to him altogether.

Which means Jude is barely speaking to me.

Something about “doing more harm than good” in talking to her.

Apparently, her only takeaway from our conversation was that I agree Jude is being unfair. Go figure.

I wait for Ava to probe further, but to my relief, she’s found the snacks she needs and has already moved on. “Have fun,” she says, disappearing up the stairs. No acknowledgment of her dad’s presence.

“Whew, arctic,” I note when she’s gone.

“Getting used to it,” Jude says. “Sooner or later, she’ll need something from me.” He grabs a handful of grapes from the fridge and studies me for a long moment as he chews. “I think the more important topic here is, who is coming to this meeting of yours.”

Now he wants to talk? “I thought you weren’t speaking to me?”

He shrugs. “I’m bored, and you’re dressed for a date. Sue me.”

“Fine, it’s not not a date.”

“Just you and Jonathan?”

I nod. Finally.

“Your top is inside out.”

“What?” I look down so fast I almost pull a muscle in my neck.

Jude chuckles. “Gotcha.”

“Dick.” I throw a forgotten, balled-up receipt at him, but I can’t help but smile. At least some of the tension gripping me evaporates in the presence of brotherly antagonism.

“So what are you kids up to?” He opens the fridge again for more grapes. “Is he picking you up?”

“Maybe you should make some real food instead,” I suggest. “I’m going over to his place.”

Jude’s eyes jump to mine. “Really?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“I hate to tell you, but that’s a date-date. And I thought you were set against that considering the fundraiser and Scotland and everything.”

I check my phone for the time. “Thanks for reminding me.”

“No, no.” He comes around to my side of the counter. “I’m all for this. I’m just surprised.”

“And besides, we’re working, too.” In addition to more model searching, I’ve requested that Jonathan mock up the layouts for me since we only have one week until the printer deadline.

“You don’t have to explain, Hols. It’s your life.”

I know that. But maybe I need to explain it to myself.

I inhale deeply. “Okay, here I go. Keys, phone, wallet, gum.” I also have a pack of condoms in my bag because a girl can hope, but Jude doesn’t need to know that.

“Drive safely.” He picks up the kitchen towel and waves it in the air in farewell, making me smile again. What would I do without him?

“Have some real food,” I say. “And don’t wait up.”

Jonathan lives in a tall, narrow house in the Crown Hill neighborhood of Seattle.

The square footage is moderate, he’s warned me, but it has a garage and is close to everything, which makes up for its other deficiencies.

It’s also around the corner from his dad’s place, which was a key factor when he and his ex bought the property almost a decade ago. Or so he’s told me.

I don’t allow myself to hesitate in the driveway. As soon as I’ve turned off the car, I get out and march to the front door. One shaky breath in and I ring the doorbell.

Continuing his new experimentation with color, Jonathan is in a maroon crewneck and fitted black pants. The fine knit of the sweater outlines every scrumptious ridge of his chest and arms, and I can’t help but ogle him as I step inside.

He does the same to me. “You always look good, but that top is something special,” he says, helping me out of my jacket. His eyes linger an extra beat on the serpentine pendant that’s resting between my breasts before he snaps to it. “Come on in. Want a tour?”

We’re in a narrow foyer that leads past a set of stairs to a closed door beyond. Jonathan pauses with his hand on the railing. “That’s the laundry room. Everything else is upstairs.”

I follow him, taking care not to let my heels trip me up.

He’s telling me about the neighborhood when my eyes snag on his right hand where his thumb keeps worrying the wide silver band he always wears on his index finger.

That knot of nerves that made me speed on the way here eases a bit. He’s anxious, too.

We go all the way up to the third floor, where he shows me a small sitting area lined with full bookcases that leads onto a large, partially covered deck with views of endless rooftops, mature trees, and the occasional church.

Somewhere in the distance is Puget Sound, and beyond that, the Olympic Range.

“Putting this roof here was the best decision I ever made,” he says.

“The only time I’m not out here is when it’s too cold for the heaters to make it comfortable.

Other than that—rain, wind, sun, hail—this is my spot.

Sometimes I even sleep out here in the summer. ”

“Over here?” I ask, sitting down in an upholstered lounge chair.

“Yup.”

I stretch my legs out and try to picture him moon-gazing at night, sipping his coffee in the morning, and taking in the uneven roofline of the neighborhood. “Your love for open spaces—is that because of the claustrophobia?”

“Nah, I just like perspective and air.”

I nod. I’ve always lived in places where the horizon was obstructed, but I could get used to a view like this. “It’s lovely.”

Back inside again, he points to the only other door on this floor. “My bedroom,” he says, but then he heads toward the stairs.

“I can’t see it?” I ask.

He turns, one foot on the step below. “It’s not very interesting.”

“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?”

He lets out an amused noise but then gestures toward the door. “Be my guest.”

He’s right behind me when I push the door open and turn on the light.

The room is painted white, but most of the space on the wall behind his queen bed is taken up by black-and-white photographs in pewter frames.

The bedding is also white, except for a loosely knit, multicolored throw at the foot of the bed that brings warmth to the masculine space.

“Like I said, not very interesting,” he says, his hands snaking around my waist in a stealthy hug from behind.

It’s our first physical contact since I got here, and paired with the amplified scent of him in this room, it takes effort not to drag him to bed this instant.

“I beg to differ,” I say, covering his hands with mine.

“Did you take these pictures?” I free myself from the embrace out of pure self-preservation but hold on to his hand as I move deeper into the room.

“I did.”

I take my time studying each and every one. Foggy forests, snowy tundra, stony mountains, a herd of elephants. “No people,” I point out.

“Like I said.”

I release his hand and go to examine his nightstand instead.

He has two books in progress if the bookmarks are anything to go by—one about the UW rowing team in the 1930s Olympic Games and the other a memoir by a photographer I’ve never heard of.

I pick it up and leaf through it. “You’re a better photographer than her,” I say as I put it down.

He chuckles. “I’m objectively not.”

I run my palm over the colorful blanket on my way back to the door before doing another full turn of the room. “I subjectively disagree.”

He pauses with his hand on the light switch. “Seen enough?”

Not nearly enough, but all in good time. I give him a cheeky smile as I pass him. “For now.”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Came here with an agenda, did you?”

“I’m not the one who put clean sheets on my bed today.”

“Ha! Fair point.” He follows me down a flight of stairs.

“So let me guess,” I say, standing at the landing. “If downstairs is for car and laundry, and upstairs is for sleeping and reading, this must be where you work, eat, and play.”

“Excellent deductive reasoning, Ms. Watson.” Jonathan opens a door to a room above the garage.

“Office slash guest room.” Then he points to a closed door in the hallway.

“Bathroom.” Rejoining me, he puts a hand to my back and steers me into the open kitchen and living room.

“And I’m sure this is fairly self-explanatory. ”

I stop at the two-level island and put my bag down before proceeding into the living room where a grand piano takes up a quarter of the space.

There’s also a plush-looking couch, a media stand with a large TV, a vintage armchair in worn leather, and a coffee table.

Again, the walls are full of photographs, but here, they’re interspersed with other artwork.

I do a full lap while he watches me from his perch on a counter stool. The far wall has two large windows and a sliding door that leads to another deck that fits a small table and chairs and a grill that’s currently smoking hot.

“I don’t cook a ton in here, but I can do almost anything on the grill,” he says. “Comes in handy when you’re on assignment away from civilization. I hope you like salmon.”