Page 4 of Elf-ish

“What now?” he grumbles, tossing his head back on the pillow against the elevated back of the hospital bed. He’s glaring at the ceiling like it offends him. Even with severe bed-head and pale skin, Jude is stunning.

“Hi.” I swallow around the croak in my throat, although I don’t know why my throat is thick. I’m no longer that average girl, hanging out with the STEM kids and winning Science Olympiad tournaments, while guys like Jude rule football fields and celebrate weekend conquests. I’m a successful, confident woman, and I hold my head a little higher as I approach the side of his bed.

“I just wanted to see how you were feeling.”

His head swivels in my direction, mouth popping open like he’s ready to bite my head off. But his lips instantly clamp shut as he uses his fists to push himself more upright on the raised bed.

“Hey.” His voice is tight, straining to hold back that original gruffness I suspect lies against his tongue right now. He swipes a hand over his hair, eyes wide as he looks at me.

Then those icy orbs narrow, and his expression turns sour. “What do you want?”

I could be offended by the abrupt change in his tone, the sharp edge to his words, but being that this is the most wonderful time of the year, I paste on a cheerful smile and lift my hand.

“I brought you something.” Stepping even closer to the bed, I hold out the white bakery bag.

Jude cautiously takes the bag from me and peers inside before glancing up at me again. “You brought me candy?”

“Not candy,” I mock, leaning my hip against the railing raised to prevent patients from falling out of bed. “Angelica’s chocolate mints.”

“Who?” He arches a perfectly-shaped brow. Men shouldn’t have eyebrows that immaculate.

“Me.” I point to my chest. “Angelica.” Then I hold out my hand. “Angelica Winter.”

I look a bit different than I did in high school, so Jude not recognizing me isn’t a surprise.

He scoffs, ignores my hand, and glances back in the bag. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you, you can’t give sweets to a heart attack victim?”

“You didn’t have a heart attack,” I remind him. “And a single chocolate truffle isn’t going to hurt you.” The perfect combination of dark chocolate and mint flavor might even refresh his stinky attitude.

He harumphs again and crumples the top of the delicate bag to close it before lowering the sack beside him.

“Should I know you?” he questions, staring at me a long minute, taking in the wild, curly red hair my family likes to compare to a lion’s mane, although it’s currently in a thick braid. He can’t miss the smattering of freckles over my nose and cheeks, giving away my Irish heritage. But he fixates on my eyes, the ones that are blue like my grandmother’s.

I shrug. “Well, I did save your life yesterday.”

At that, his eyes open wider, darkening a bit from icicles to something warmer. His hand fists beside his hip.

“That was . . .” He licks his lips, pausing for a breath while he continues to stare at me. “Thank you.”

Not a drop of sincerity mingles in his spoken gratitude. He’d mentioned yesterday I shouldn’t have done something, and a teeny-tiny niggle inside me worries he wishes I hadn’t saved him. The holidays can be the most depressing time of the year for some. Suicide rates run high, but they are actually higher in late spring and early summer compared to the cold, bleak winter months, which are facts I’d rather not think about during any season.

Keeping a smile plastered on my face, I offer Jude all the compassion I can muster.

“Just doing my job,” I remark, like I’m unworthy of his thanks while knowing I’m a daily superhero.

Jude snorts, proving he’s mastered a variety of dismissive sounds. “Thank you for doing your job.” Again, a derisive twist in his tone. “I’m happy to give you any item you’d wish from my department store to express my gratitude for your service.”

He still doesn’t sound very appreciative nor overly willing to depart with something from his store—Ashford’s, the dreamy, shopping experience.

Plus, there isn’t anything material I’d want from this man, anyway, especially with his attitude.

Still, I can’t seem to help myself and counter his unwitting offer with my own snark. “You don’t happen to sell dates, do ya?”

“We aren’t that kind of establishment.” He smirks, narrowing those icicle eyes once more, but the corner of his mouth ticks. Twitches more like. Like he might have found something humorous in my retort.

The other thing about that smirk—a tiny dimple pops on his barely-stubbled face, like a punctuation symbol. A single quotation mark near his lip, or an apostrophe on his attempt to smile.

I chuff, the sound light and bright, knowing, of course, he didn’t sell dates at his fancy store.