Page 51 of The Spirit of Love
“Oh, is that my entire aesthetic?” he asks, his eyebrows shooting up inside the turban, which cracks me up again.
“I can’t look at you in that,” I wheeze. “Take it off.”
He frisbees the turban at me, and we both catch our breath.
Finally, he says, his voice serious again. “You’re so far from inadequate, Fenny. You’re very talented.”
I nod. It doesn’t feel like he’s paying me lip service. I know he likes my writing. But he doesn’t know what he took from me, and I don’t want to tell him. “I just want…more, you know?”
He studies me in the mirror. “Keep wanting it.”
“Sorry about your dog,” I say. “Maybe he doesn’t get to see you enough. Forget the trainers and the toys. You probably need to make some time to bond. Do some stuff he likes to do?”
“Sniff ass and chew up my shoes? I guess I could try that.”
“Try it,” I say. “Hey, before we go, as payment for dragging me here, I’m going to need you to try this on.” From the nearest rack, I lift a gold-brocaded men’s Renaissance doublet with matching pleated shorts and a shimmery golden cape.
“Fine,” Jude says. “But you’ll need to wear this.” Without looking, he grabs an item off the rack nearest to him. It’s a gothic feathered black turtleneck shawl with sleeves long enough to drag the floor. He raises an eyebrow at the sight of what he’s selected and then grabs a snakeskin midi skirt to pair it with.
“Deal,” I tell him, and we swap clothes.
In the absence of dressing rooms, we retreat to different aisles. I can hear Jude on the other side of a rack of clothes. I listen closely to the soft swish of his shirt dropping to the floor.I hear the metallic rush as the zipper of his pants goes down. I hold my breath as I picture him stepping out of them, wearing nothing but simple black briefs. My chest flushes with heat as I whip off my own shirt and unzip my jeans. Oh, God, did Jude hear that? Is he picturing me in my paisley thong? How did this silly, tender outing suddenly start to feel hot?
The sooner I get un-naked, the better. The shawl is impossibly itchy, feather tips poking out everywhere, and very hard to get over my head. But the skirt I love. It’s slinky and cool, slightly rough to the touch. It hugs my curves and has a long slit up the left leg. I turn to the mirror and catch my breath. If I were the kind of person who could leave the house like this, I’d probably get a ton of compliments.
“I don’t know if we should do this,” Jude calls from the next aisle, which tells me he must look like a total fool.
“Oh, we’re definitely doing this,” I call back. “Ready or not.”
We meet at the end of the aisle, and I start laughing so hard I almost don’t notice Jude’s not. I finally catch how he’s staring at me, like he’s hungry. His eyes run all over my body, sending electric sparks across my skin.
“Wow,” he whispers.
“Ditto,” I say, relishing his absurd gold barrel-shaped shorts and the doubloon that gives him Henry-VIII-at-the-disco vibes. And also relishing the way he seems to be thirsting for me—for this outfit anyway.
“So do you want to take pictures for future blackmail purposes?” Jude asks, holding out his arms.
“I want to take you to Medieval Times.”
“I wantyouto rent both of those pieces and wear them to theZombie Hospitaldinner at Amy Reisenbach’s house on Friday,” Jude says. “I meant them as a joke, but they’re not.”
I smooth my skirt and laugh. “There’s no way I’m wearing this to theZombie Hospitaldinner.” But it crosses my mind: If I was directing this season, maybe I’d have the confidence to show up in something this bold. As it is, I have just enough confidence to blend in with Amy Reisenbach’s drapes.
He’s looking at me closely, like he’s trying to read my expression. “I know,” he says, “I always hate those dinners. You’re working, but you’re supposed to act like you’re on vacation.”
“You’llbe fine,” I say. “You’re everybody’s darling. You just stand there and soak up the compliments.”
“God, that sounds horrible.” Jude shudders. At first, I assume he’s joking, but the longer I look at him, the more convinced I am that he’s being sincere. It makes me wonder why receiving praise for his work wouldn’t sit right with him. Imposter syndrome? Is he a fraud? There’s more to Jude than I can fathom yet, and I’m surprised to want to know more.
“Have you ever brought your mom here?” I ask. “She’d probably love it.”
Jude shakes his head. “She lives in Dallas now. We haven’t talked in a while.”
“Why not?”
“We don’t really see eye to eye anymore,” he says. “She’s religious. Heaven’s a big part of her worldview.”
“I take it it’s not a big part of yours?” I ask.
