Page 41 of Dirty Like Jude
But I knew who it wasfrom.
I saved the number to my contacts and programmed in his name:Jude Grayson. All the while, I tried to ignore the little thrill of knowing I now had his number in myphone.
Of course, I used to have it. But that was yearsago.
Mid-afternoon, I finallyreplied.
Me:How did you get thisnumber?
Did he seriously still have my number in his phone? After all theseyears?
He didn’t respond. Allday.
I knew, with his silence, that accepting his invitation—which was more of a command than anything else—would only start the ball rolling on a very dangerous game. One I’d seriously love to play—if there was any possibility I couldwin.
Either way, I went to meethim.
I wasn’t about to do anything that might jeopardize the New Year’s Eve event, now that Brody had entrusted me with it—more or less. Even if that meant sitting through a dinner withJude.
All day I’d been mentally pinching myself about the whole thing. I’d convinced Brody to take a chance on me. There was now a shit-ton of work to do, of course, but I’d gotten things this far. I’d gotten the venue. I’d gotten DJ Summer. I’d gottenDirty.
And now I had a dinner meeting withJude.
I knew it wasn’t a date. Yes, he’d asked me to meet him at a restaurant, in the evening, but this was normal in my line of work. I often met with people professionally, at all hours of the night, in restaurants or bars, to talkshop.
And yet… this did not feel like that,either.
Cardero’s was on the waterfront in Coal Harbor, and I made sure to give myself enough time to find parking and not be late. I walked up the walkway and through the door fashionably early, because I was a professional, and I wasn’t about to let Jude glimpse a single chink in my armor. There was a reservation in his name, but when I was shown to the table, he wasn’t thereyet.
Minus one point forJude.
Or maybe it was minus one point for me? As I settled in, I wondered if maybe I should’ve arrived alittlelate, made himwait.
Not half a minute after I’d sat down, though, someone approached the table. The first thing I saw was his arm as he reached past me to set a glass of white wine on the table in front of me—and there was no mistaking who that arm belongedto.
The full black sleeve tattoo of a big, twisted tree and the long, gnarly roots that wound down over hishand.
The silver skull ring on his middlefinger.
The warm, burnt-toffee tones of his skin and the thick curves of hismuscles.
I looked up at him. His built body towered above me as he gazed down, looking me over. He wore a charcoal-gray, long-sleeved T-shirt with the sleeves pushed up and fitted black jeans. The shirt clung to his thick pecs, the jeans to his thighs, and my tongue pressed to the top of my mouth as I fought back some primal response that would have me drooling if I wasn’tcareful.
His almost-black hair was thick and short-ish and, as usual, casually, haphazardly styled. His dark eyes were a deep, bottomless molten brown. His lips were full and oh-so-fucking-kissable.
And thosedimples.
Good fucking lord, the dimples. He smiled at me now, halfway, and it really wasn’t fair. Those things were weapons of massdestruction.
How did I convince myself I could handle this,exactly?
He moved to sink into the seat across from me and I caught his scent. One part faint, woodsy cologne mingled with his sexy man-musk, one part fresh air and the leather of the jacket he had slung over one arm and now tossed on the back of the seat. One-hundred-percent pure alphamale.
He set his drink in front of him on the table. If my memory served, it would bewhiskey.
He’d remembered what I liked to drink, too. When I took a sip, it was a Pinot Grigio or something similar, light and just a touchsweet.
“You’re late,” was the first thing out of my mouth. I glanced at my phone. “It’s eight-oh-four.”
