Page 7 of Stuck on Jude

“Are you okay?”

Her stare flickers to mine. “Just like the million other times you’ve asked today, I’m fine.”

I raise my hands, though one still tingles. “Hey, it was a valid question. You’d just hit your injured head.”

“I’ll survive.”

“Well, good then.” I start to ask how she’s feeling but clamp my mouth shut. I’m not about to have her bite my head off over a simple question. I go with something that feels safer. “Are you hungry?”

She opens her mouth, I imagine to protest. But her stomach answers first with a loud rumble.

She clamps her lips shut and covers her belly. I swallow hard and try not to imagine what it would be like if my hand was roving over her curves instead.

“I guess I am a bit hungry,” she admits.

“You don’t say.”

She nudges me. “Don’t be rude.”

“Come on.” I hop out of the bed and grab her hand. “Let’s go rustle up something to eat.”

She frowns at the clock on the nightstand. “But the restaurant is closed.”

“Luckily, you’re hanging out with a guy who happens to be on staff. I can get us into the kitchen.”

Grinning, Lucy takes my hand. The hairs stick up on the back of my arm as electricity shoots through me.

Keeping her hand gripped in mine, we head down the stairs. My jaw hardens as we pass the place where I saw her for the first time earlier today. A few couples are lingering over glasses of wine and beer in the lounge.

With a nod to my brother-in-law Noah, I bypass everyone else and head straight into the kitchen.

Flipping on the lights, I face Lucy. “So, what would you like to eat?”

“You know what sounds really good?”

“What’s that?”

“A cup of hot cocoa with a huge pile of whipped cream on top of it.”

“That doesn’t sound like a very healthy dinner.”

“I’m on vacation.” She grins. “But I promise to eat all my veggies first.”

I guide her to a stool at the counter and throw open the fridge. Just as I expected, Hank—the lodge’s cook and pilot—has kept back leftovers from tonight’s dinner. While I heat up a couple of plates of meatloaf with mashed potatoes and gravy and a side of carrots, I search out the hot cocoa fixings.

“It doesn’t look like there’s any whipped cream leftover,” I call over my shoulder.

“Oh, man. That’s the best part.”

I glance back at her. “Do you still want the cocoa?”

“I suppose.”

I hate to see her disappointed. But, fortunately, I can do something about that. “Have dinner with me tomorrow night.”

“Sorry?”

“Have dinner with me tomorrow night, and I’ll get you the biggest cup of whipped cream with a dash of hot cocoa.”

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