Page 55 of Elf-ish

Thankfully, the kit appears on the counter beside the sink, and I glance up, giving Holliday a grateful look. “Thank you.”

She nods and steps back, and I inspect the kit for antiseptic ointment and a large bandage.

“I’m useless,” Jude whispers.

My head snaps upright at the downtrodden tone. “Don’t say that.”

“But I ruined it.”

“You ruined nothing, Jude. They’re eggs. We have more.”

“I’ll pay for them.”

“No need.” I try to reassure him, wondering where this sudden vulnerability is coming from. This man exudes confidence, so there is no reason to be upset about a dozen eggs.

“Angelica,” he states, eyes locking on mine.

“Jude.” I exhale. “What’s really going on here?”

I reach for his palm and remove the wad of paper towels. Instantly, his hand bleeds again, but I don’t think he needs stitches. I dab at the wound with fresh paper towels and apply a healthy layer of antiseptic ointment.

“When I was a kid, my mother would go ballistic if I spilled something. Milk at the table. Dropped a cookie on the floor. Anything that soiled the counter or carpet.” Jude shakes his head, watching me work on his palm. “And I’ve spent years in therapy discussing the aftereffects. How accidents happen, especially child ones, but I can still remember how mad she’d get. Angry. Disappointed. Because I wasn’t perfect. I was useless.”

Useless in his mother’s social media portrayal of a perfect family.

“That’s awful, Jude.” Not that I want to speak ill of the dead but it’s a terrible thing to make a child feel incompetent over spilled milk. Not to mention, Jude still carries these triggers as an adult.

“And this . . .” I point at his palm. “Was an accident. Which happened because you were trying to be useful.”

I reach for a large bandage and place it over the cut.

“But now I’m of no use in this kitchen.”

“I’ll find you another job.” I smooth over the bandage, then place my hand on top of his. “And I’m thankful that you’re here.”

Jude scoffs.

With his hand still beneath mine, I squeeze. “I don’t want any of that.”

“What?”

With his gaze lowered to where my hand covers his, I reach for his chin, lifting his face back toward me. We all have vulnerabilities but somehow seeing them on such a confident man softens my heart toward him. I imagine the courage it must have taken to come here. To step out of his pristine palace and his comfort zone, and give up whatever he had planned for a Sunday morning in December.

“Why are you really here, Jude?” If helping out a small church community breakfast is his answer, so be it, but Holliday’s words ring through my ears like the toll of church bells.

He wants to eat you alive.

Could that be true? Is Jude here for me?

“I wanted to help.” His icy eyes hold firmly on mine, but I drop my gaze, realizing we are still holding hands.

Gently tugging my hand free, I say, “Right. Okay. Let’s get you something to do outside the kitchen, then.”

I’m still happy he’s present, but my chest aches for the sad child inside him who was made to feel like accidents were casualties.

And a part of me wishes Jude was here for me.

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