Page 25 of Elf-ish

The entire evening reiterates how Jude and I are so different. He is all social media and flashing cameras. False smiles and big words, and I just wanted a cheeseburger and the fireplace in our room.

“Thanks for putting up with everything tonight,” Jude says once I exit the bathroom. He graciously offered me the bed and suggested he’d take the floor. Something tells me Jude has never willingly slept on carpeting in his life, but I don’t argue with him. I don’t suggest we share the bed like grown adults who have silently agreed not to touch one another.

Because Jude had a difficult time keeping his hands off me tonight, which was confusing. Every movement made by me was countered by him. His hand on my back or his arm wrapped around me. He tugged me closer if one of his board members came near us, like he was afraid I’d be snatched up like the Burgermeister Meisterburger hunting for forbidden toys.

“Of course,” I say, rubbing in the hand cream I put on every night before I sleep. The vanilla and citrus lotion reminds me of my mother somehow. Her absence hits profoundly at this time of year. Especially as Gran has grown older and more of the holiday responsibilities fall on me.

I tug back the covers on the queen-sized bed while Jude stands in front of the built-in fireplace. The soft crackle of flames behind the protective glass casts a romantic glow around the room.

Ignoring the pinch in my chest, because this is not a romantic getaway, I slip beneath the blankets while Jude continues to stare at the flames.

“What did you miss out on this evening?” he asks, his concentration focused away from me.

“What do you mean?”

“A date, maybe.”

I scoff. “If I had a date, I wouldn’t be attending my brother’s wedding with you.” Or be tucking into this bed with him in the room.

He shifts his upper body to glance at me. “Seriously, then. What would you have been doing tonight instead?”

“Actually, I missed out on a fundraiser. It’s called A Snowball’s Chance. One of the guys at the firehouse has a daughter with a congenital limb defect.”

“What does that mean?” Jude shifts to fully face me, while his hands slip into his pockets. He removed his jacket earlier and unbuttoned a few buttons on his shirt.

“Her legs didn’t fully develop while she was inside her mom.” I smile softly. “But she’s amazing.” I wave a hand and swallow hard, thinking about how fun Tamarra Scroggs is when she comes around the firehouse. “Her dad is a former pro football player turned firefighter, and he started this annual fundraiser to raise money for families who might need financial assistance if their child has a long-term medical condition. A snowball’s chance—”

“In the hell of their life,” Jude finishes.

I sit straighter, defensive and prickly. “Her life isn’t hell, Jude. In fact, I bet her life is more fulfilling than yours or mine. Richer even. And not because she has money or can spend, spend, spend,” I mock Walt’s tone and his accusation, like I’m interested in Jude for money reasons.

Say gold digger much?

“She’s well-loved, adored, even admired, for her spirit and spunk, and she’s only eleven. She’s going to do great things in this world.”

Jude’s mouth falls open, hopefully not misinterpreting the chastising I’ve given him, because I am scolding him. Shame on him.

“Don’t be that guy, Jude.”

“What guy?” He asks, slowly lifting his head. His shoulders stiffening.

“The mean guy in the room.” Maybe he was like that in high school. Not a bully so much as just condescending with a comment and demeaning with a glance. We should be past the point in our lives where others need to be put down to bring ourselves up.

Jude scoffs and glances back toward the fire. “The problem is, I’ve always been that guy. I get what I want when I want it.”

I don’t feel threatened by his statement. I’m confident Jude Ashford does not want a bite of me. He’s playing an act. I’m his fake girlfriend. He was handsy, protective even, but it’s all pretend. For show only. At least, in front of the others.

In here . . . it’s getting a little too real.

“Well, you can always change that,” I state, flinching a little bit as I look down my nose at him. “’Tis the season for transformation. Haven’t you ever seen A Christmas Carol?”

Jude chuffs and points at his chest. “Scrooge here. I don’t watch that shit.”

“You cannot hate Christmas.” My mouth falls open. “It’s the most wonderful time of the year.” I practically sing but then I lower my voice. “Seriously, Jude, isn’t this your season? Spend, spend, spend,” I mock again.

Cha-ching, cha-ching. Although cash registers now make more of a beep-beep-beep.

“Yeah. Spend.” He finishes unbuttoning his shirt, tugging it loose from his pants before slipping his hands back into his pockets. He pauses another second, staring into the fireplace. His head dips forward, reflective almost, and his voice is low when he asks, “Ever think there’s more to Christmas than boxes and bows, ribbons and gift bags?”