Page 46 of Jude

There were no family photographs, no scattered books, no signs of real life.

Dominating the living room was a huge gray velvet sofa and impressive high-end designer furniture. In contrast, the dining room was a gallery of prints on the wall surrounding a spacious table and stunning gilt chairs.

‘You’re this way,’ Jude rasped, his deep, gravelly voice echoing off the travertine tiles as he carried my bag upstairs into a sumptuous guest suite. ‘It should be clean. I’ve a team that comes in once a week.’

The room was pristine and featured a sizable king-size bed made of distressed oak, topped with a crisp, white linen duvet that appeared untouched.

A pair of floor-to-ceiling glass doors opened onto a private view of the valley, letting the late-afternoon sun spill across the hardwood floorboards.

The space contained no clutter or personal trinkets, just a few pieces of expensive furniture and an oversized armchair upholstered in charcoal wool sitting in the corner.

Through an open doorway lay the ensuite bathroom, which was more like a modern spa than a guest bath.

It featured a deep, freestanding soaking tub carved from light grey stone and an expansive double vanity with matte black fixtures.

The glass-walled walk-in shower was exquisite, lined with seamless slate tiles and featuring a rainfall head overhead.

Fresh, plush white towels hung straight from the heated racks, completing the immaculate, orderly sanctuary.

‘Thank you, Jude,’ I said. ‘For all of this. Really.’

He paused midstep, turning toward the door, his looming physique pausing before he let out a slight growl of exasperation, followed by a curse.

‘Fuck, didn’t I say to stop thanking me, Sofia?’

The edge in his tone jolted me.

A hot wave of mortification rushed up my neck.

He stared at me with irritation.

I kept my face blank, a survival trick I perfected over the years, refusing to let him see how much his annoyance shook me.

Jude closed his eyes for a brief second, pinching the bridge of his nose before exhaling.

When he glanced back at me, the vexation was gone, drained from his expression, replaced by weary exhaustion.

‘Look, I’m sorry,’ he muttered, dropping into a quieter, more careful register. ‘I didn’t mean to be gruff with you. It’s not you. I’ve just been out of my element for too long, and I’m tired. We spent a weekend surrounded by people after a few weeks of touring, and I’m an introvert at best. I require space to decompress, and I’ll be back to me again.’

‘I understand, I get the same way too.’

We exchanged glances as I gave him a wry smile.

‘Want to see the rest?’

‘Yes please.’

He walked me through the home, pointing out the smart light and temperature panels and living spaces.

The kitchen was straight out of a culinary catalog, featuring a sizable marble island, dual commercial ovens, and rows of pristine copper cookware hanging from a stainless-steel rack.

He gestured at the fridge and pantry.

‘Our band assistant and booking manager, Nari, comes by every week we’re home. She brings a huge grocery shop.’

I arched a brow at his announcement.

He caught my bewilderment and explained with a quirked mouth.