Page 96 of Axe-ing for Trouble
“No.” Jude froze, this time glaring at me. “It’s date night. No work talk, no investigation talk. All that responsibility will be waiting for us tomorrow. Tonight we’re two people who like each other, and we’re on a date.”
I opened my mouth, ready to tell him that this wasn’t the kind of thing we could pretend. I wasn’t the type who could just turn my brain off on command.
But then he wiped his hands on a towel and snuck a few sips of my wine, and suddenly, a normal evening sounded incredible.
He’d put a record on, something instrumental and jazzy, and the fire was roaring.
While he prepped pizza, I told him about journalism school and some of my travels, and he shared stories about growing up in the woods.
I pushed up, using my feet on the rung of the barstool, and snagged a slice of pepperoni with my good arm.
He frowned at me.
“This is good pepperoni,” I said as I stole a second piece.
“It’s salami,” he corrected. “Genoa. And antibiotic free. Pepperoni is nothing but red dye and chemicals.”
“Always so joyful.” I winked.
With a grunt, he went back to carefully slicing mushrooms.
I took another slice, ripped it in half, and gave one piece to Ripley, whose tail thumped on the ground where she was seated next to me.
The warm domesticity of the moment was not lost on me. It felt dangerously normal. The kind of normal that I’d never experienced before. The kind full of affection, attraction, and the company of a man I loved talking to.
“You’ve never told me.” I sipped my wine, relishing the way the flavor contrasted with the salty salami. “Why isn’t there a Mrs. Lumbersnack?”
He looked up from his chopping and tilted his head, nonplussed.
“It’s very normal to discuss romantic histories on dates.” I straightened and held out one arm. “You cook. You own a cute house with art on the walls—”
“Those are framed vinyl covers,” he corrected, pushing his glasses up his nose.
“It counts. You’re domesticated and care for your dog. You’re screaming for a wifey.”
He stopped chopping completely now and hit me with a look, a lock of hair falling into his eyes and his glasses askew. “The last thing I want is a wifey.”
“But your brothers—”
“If you knew their wives and girlfriends, you’d understand that Heberts tend to favor strong women.”
Head tilted, I considered that statement for a moment. “You must have a badass mom, then.”
He chuckled. “You could say that.”
He moved, arranging the bowls of toppings in a neat row. Then he used a weird metal thing to divide the dough into small sections, which he vigorously kneaded again.
“My dad’s a piece of shit,” he finally said. “You know about the criminal stuff. But he was a terrible husband and father. Left my mom after he knocked up his twenty-year-old secretary. That’s Cole’s mom.”
“Shit.”
A huff escaped him, making that tendril of hair hanging over his forehead flutter. “So my mom raised us mostly on her own—Cole included. She got a nursing degree, worked, bought a house, and kept us out of trouble. As an adult, I sometimes wonder how the hell she did it. Taking care of myself and Ripley is hard enough, but she had six of us, and she managed to juggle it all.”
“She sounds awesome.”
He smirked down at the dough. “She is. And she’ll love you.” He shook his head. “She’ll want to hear all about your career and achievements, ply you with baked goods, and then break out my baby photos.”
The moment the words were out, he froze. I was locked in place too. Surely he hadn’t meant to say that.
