Page 11 of Wicked Temptations
His fork clattered against the plate. “I’m mad because I don’t know what you’re going to do next. Every performance is a gamble. I can’t anticipate you, can’t prepare for you, and it’s driving me fucking insane.”
There it was. The real issue stripped bare. Jude needed control, needed patterns he could predict and follow. And I was chaos embodied. Improvisation and instinct over planning.
We were fundamentally incompatible.
Except for the part where we weren’t, where our fights looked less like choreography and more like a conversation neither of us could have with words. Or the fact that I improvised because we were so good together. Because he made me want to be stunning out there, not just for the guests, but forhim.
“You know what I think?” I leaned forward again, close enough to watch his pupils dilate. “I think you like that you can’t predict me. I think it scares you how much you like it.”
His throat worked on a swallow. “You’re wrong.”
“Am I? Because you just admitted you spend every shift tracking me. That’s not anger, Jude. That’s something else.”
“Don’t.” His voice dropped into a warning. “Don’t make this into something it’s not.”
“And what is it?”
He held my gaze, and I saw the war happening behind his eyes. Whatever he wanted to say, whatever truth was trying to claw itsway out, he shoved it back down. When he spoke again, his voice was carefully neutral.
“It’s two coworkers who need to figure out how to work together without making it weird.”
The dismissal stung worse than I expected. I’d pushed too hard, asked for too much, and now he was retreating into professionalism like it could protect him.
Fine. Two can play that game.
“Right, coworkers.” I grabbed my coffee and drained it, the lukewarm liquid bitter on my tongue. “Then here’s what we do. Next shift, I’ll stick to the script. No improvising, no surprises. You’ll know exactly what I’m going to do before I do it. Happy?”
“Ash—”
“That’s what you want, right? Predictability. Consider it done.” I flagged down the waitress for the check, more than ready to get out of this conversation. “Enjoy your breakfast. You earned it, Jude.”
I could feel his eyes on me as I paid. I stood to leave, and despite my irritation, it was harder to step away than it should have been. Part of me wanted him to stop me, to say something that would make this hurt less. But he just sat there, jaw tight and hands clenched around his fork.
“See you tomorrow,” I said, and walked out into the pre-dawn darkness.
***
My phone buzzed while I was driving home, but I ignored it. Probably Parker with some schedule change or maintenance notice. I was too frustrated to deal with work right now.
The apartment was empty and cold when I got there. I stripped out of my clothes and collapsed into bed, pausing only to draw the blackout curtains that were vital for nightworkers. But sleep wouldn’t come. My mind kept replaying the conversation, the way Jude had saidyoulike it was a confession and a curse all at once.
I grabbed my phone to set an alarm and saw the notification.
It wasn’t from Parker.
It was Jude.
I don’t want you to be predictable.
I stared at the message, thumb hovering over it. My heart was racing with the same electricity that had crackled through my veins at the diner.
As I saw it, I had three options. I could read it and respond, read it and ignore it, or leave it unread until I could think straight.
I locked my phone and put it face down on the nightstand.
Whatever Jude wanted to say, whatever game we were playing now, it could wait until I wasn’t still feeling the ghost of his body against mine.
***
