Page 107 of The Surrender

I stare at the door, at a loss.

I’m mentally drained by the time six o’clock rolls round, my mind turning in circles over Nick’s surprise visit. Anger has taken pole position now. Sue wasn’t available to talk to, and Gary hasn’t answered my calls, but when I do get to speak to either of them, I will be pleading with them not to take Nick on. And don’t even get me started on how I will explain this to Jude. Hopefully I won’t have to.

I drag myself out of my office to meet him, finding him waiting at the end of the street, his arse resting on a post, and God, he’s a sight for sore eyes and a shot of energy into my tired bones.

Concern makes his smile falter, his shoulders falling. “You really look like you need that holiday.”

I stop before him, heavy. “It’s been a shitty day,” I say, drained. “I don’t know if I’ll keep my eyes open for much longer.”

Jude pouts, unable to hide his disappointment. “Let’s do dinner in the city.” He slips an arm around my shoulders and pulls me close, practically holding me up as we walk. “Do you think you can stay awake for that?”

“Yes, I’m starving.”Because I missed lunch, thank you very much, Mr. Jarvis.

“What’s close by?” he asks. “I’ll stay at your place tonight.”

“There’s a few restaurants in a courtyard down the street.”

“Sounds good.”

We settle on a casual pub and order a chicken burger and chunky chips each. I need stodge. “Not quite Michelin star, is it?” I muse, dunking a chip in some mayo and popping it in my mouth. “So what did you get up to today?”

“I had someone come out and take a look at your car,” he says, and I wince. “It needed respraying.”

“It’s been done already?” I ask, surprised.

“He did it on site. Then I got a lecture from Anouska because the smell wafted around to the front of the hotel and polluted the traditional countryside stench of cow shit.” His face bunches, and I laugh. “And what made your day so challenging?”

I groan. I absolutely don’t want to talk about my work. Or Nick. “I’ve had a bellyful.”

“Okay, let’s talk about Florence. When can I take you? Tomorrow?”

I nearly choke on my chip. “Tomorrow? I can’t go tomorrow; I have my meeting with Tilda on Wednesday. What’s the rush?”

Jude peeks up through his lashes as he pushes the coleslaw around his plate. “No rush,” he says quietly, straining a smile.

My chewing slows, another chip halfway to my pot of mayo. “Is there something wrong?” I’ve caught him many times these past few days lost in thought, like there’s something on his mind.

“No, nothing.” Another strained smile. “I’m tired, that’s all.”

I don’t believe him. Dropping my chip to my plate, I brush my hands off. There’s more to it, and it’s not helping the lingering something inside me that’s wondering if I’m reading into nothings and making them somethings. “I don—” Someone in my peripheral vision catches my eye, making me do a double take and snap my mouth shut.Fuck.My eyes quickly dart to the table, my shock obvious.

And Jude doesn’t miss it. “What’s up?” he asks.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.“My ex just walked in.” It just falls out of my mouth, like my brain won’t take time to weigh up the consequences of such a catastrophic word vomit. What the hell is Nick doing here?

Jude cranes his neck, every inch of him tensing. Oh Jesus, this could be messy. Nick’s emotional, and Jude’s got a vicious temper.

Mortified, knowing Nick’s seen me, I brave looking up. His eyes are batting between me and Jude. My unease grows. Shit, I don’t know how to handle this.

“Fuck,” Jude exhales, as Nick approaches, his face a picture of disbelief.

“Nick.” Standing from my chair is an effort. My legs shake, adrenaline pumping as my body braces for a showdown.

“Jude, this is Nick Phillips,” I say quietly, once again at a loss. “Nick, this is Jude Harrison.” So I introduce them?Oh God, this is fucking awful.

“Jude Harrison?” Nick says, not with hatred as I’d expect, but in question. I tilt my head. And then Nick mildly inhales, taking a step back.

“Yes, Jude Harrison.” Jude rises, clearly wanting a presence and, God, does he have one, the passive-aggressive possessiveness rising with him. Reaching for his arm, I touch him, trying to interrupt the potential imminent eruption. “That’s me,” Jude grates, his eyes suddenly wild. “NickPhillips?”