Page 37 of Flirting With Disaster

But he’d never wanted to drown himself in alcohol more than he had the past thirty days.

At least I’m not afraid to love.

He crushed the empty can of Mountain Dew his new agent had handed him on his way back to his trailer. Jude just didn’t get how the world worked.

I tried and things didn’t work out. That’s more than I can say for you.

He had tried, hadn’t he? Didn’t she know she deserved better?

Vulnerability can be a good thing where love is involved.

He flung open his trailer door and stomped in. His ever present JD bottle sat on the counter, taunting him.

You’ll either get over it or you’ll man up and decide your demons don’t feed off of love. The

y feed off your fear, and those fears can’t be conquered unless you face them.

He grabbed the bottle and smashed it against the wall. He didn’t ache for alcohol. He found no joy in work. He only ached for the sight of her face, her touch and the joy and peace he’d found in her arms.

She’d changed him. Changed his view of who and what he really was. Who he could become. A good man, loved by her.

She was his new addiction. A positive one.

Finally.

He only hoped it wasn’t too late.

* * * *

Intellectuals solved problems, geniuses were supposed to prevent them. Like hell. Einstein had been wrong. Geniuses created problems with their rapid fire ideas and god-awful judgment.

Jude rounded the bend in Central Park, mumbling to herself, then gasped.

A huge stage stood in the center of Sheep Meadow. In the middle of metal work and speakers, a man sat at a baby grand piano. A beast dressed in black.

Beckette.

She would’ve known him anywhere.

“Jude Duffy, this is for you.” She drank in his molten voice through the mic as his soulful gaze met hers.

He began to play and the audience went completely silent. She recognized the song. One of her Beatles favorites. A song of love and change.

Maybe I’m Amazed.

His voice pierced her soul, as she plopped to the grass in shock.

Once it was over, when her heart lay on the ground splayed open, he rose and exited the stage toward her.

“You were a bit flat in the third chorus.” Jude stood, her heart in her throat at the sight of him. “You’re no Paul McCartney, you know. Not Ringo, even.”

His features softened. “I haven’t been sleeping much.”

Jude shrugged. She needed to keep up her defenses. “Partying will do that to a person.”

She didn’t want him here. Didn’t want his guilt, his pity, his fishing line thrown out just so he could haul it back in before she bit. She couldn’t go through the pain of loving and missing him again.

She was healing. She’d made a new life for herself. Her career as a children’s book author was taking off. She was making it on her own. On her terms.

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