Page 9 of You Had Me at Chocolate

And then, as if to emphasize the point that he wasn’t going anywhere, he stuffed his hands in the front pockets of his jeans pulling the low riders down a little, exposing flat, lower abs lovingly hugged in khaki.

Annoyed that she’d noticed, Clem dragged her gaze back to his face and her head back into the conversation. “You’re serious?”

He shrugged. “It’s scenic, there’s mountains nearby. Seems like it might be the perfect spot for a country inn.”

“It sounds like you’re half-assing this.”

“It’ll sound better after I’ve slept for the next thirty-six hours.”

Clem bit back on the urge to ask him where he was staying. Hospitality had been ingrained in her and ordinarily she’d have offered him her spare room but given his very public marriage proposal she didn’t need that kind of speculation.

Or her mother picking out china patterns.

“You know nothing about Marietta.”

“You’re wrong. You always spoke so glowingly of it, I feel like I already know it. And besides…” he said, his voice teasing, “an old friend lives here. I’d like to stay and get reacquainted with her.”

Clem’s belly performed a slow loop-the-loop and she absently flattened her hand against her stomach. Was it her imagination or had that tease in his voice made reacquainted sound a little dirty?

As if he knew it, he clarified. “As friends.” He pulled a hand out of his pocket and drew a cross over the center of his chest. “Come on, Clementine, please.”

“You don’t need my permission to stay,” she muttered waspishly. She sincerely doubted he was still going to be here in two months, anyway.

“No, but I’d like to have your blessing.”

“Fine.” She huffed out a breath. She could hardly stop the man from staying in her hometown. “Friends.”

He grinned. “Good.”

“I mean it, Jude, friends,” she reiterated because his grinning was doing even worse things to her belly than his voice. “I’m going to the Mediterranean in two days and I’m going to flirt with a lot of men.”

“Okay.”

Clem didn’t know why, but Jude’s apparent unconcern about the flirting needled almost as much as his completely practical, utterly passionless proposal. “I’m probably going to kiss them, too,” she goaded. “Italian men. Greek men. Spanish men.”

“They’ll be lining up, I’m sure.”

His lack of interest in her kissing every guy in the entire Mediterranean bothered her—a lot. “I’m not twelve anymore.”

“Yes.” He smiled, big and slow, his eyes giving her body a much more thorough once-over, lingering on her mouth and her breasts and her thighs, blasting heat through her system. “I can see that.”

The muffled sound of a glass smashing against what sounded like her kitchen tiles—the third tonight—jerked Clem away from the sticky pull of his gaze.

She straightened. “You need to leave now.” She didn’t care how rude it sounded but the last thing she wanted was Jude freaking Barlow hanging around the party causing all kinds of speculation.

He nodded apparently unconcerned at her directive. “My bed at the Graff awaits.”

Of course, he was staying at the fanciest hotel in town. “If you’re still here when I get back—”

“I will be,” he interrupted swiftly and definitively.

“Well… in that case I’ll see you then.”

“I’m already counting down the days,” he said as he slowly backed away. “Don’t forget to make a wish when you cut your cake.” Then he turned, all broad back, narrow hips and long, loose stride as he crossed the room and let himself out.

Clem shut her eyes against the tempting pull of two very fine glutes and wished she’d never ever pinkie sworn on anything with Jude Barlow.

*

---