Page 1 of You Had Me at Chocolate

Chapter One

It hadn’t seemed like a particularly big deal to Jude Barlow, at the age of twelve, to pinkie promise to a marriage with fellow twelve-year-old Clem—Clementine—Jones if neither of them had found the one by the age of thirty. Marriage was a reasonably unsavory prospect given the terrible state of his parents’ union but, as thirty had seemed ancient and Clem had such pretty eyes and smiled a lot, it had been too far away to worry about.

And, even at twelve, Clem had possessed that quality that made a person believe everything would be okay, which had been sorely lacking in his life.

Sure, they only ever saw each other once a year at summer camp but her parents never seemed like they were only one argument away from a divorce so, she clearly knew what she was talking about. Except now he was approaching her house in Marietta, Montana—unannounced—with an origami crane in one hand and an engagement ring in the other, it was a big deal.

A big, fucking, hairy, bodacious deal.

Idiotic, some might say, but then he was severely jet-lagged after his four-day trek from the barren beauty of central Africa to the jagged peaks and big sky of Montana.

And, a promise was a promise. Despite the non-legally binding nature of the pinkie swear.

Plus… he needed her. Her sensible, rational calm. Her fondness for lists and planning. Her down-to-earth, girl next door-ness. Because he was done with a procession of parties and the revolving door of women who liked to go to parties. Who liked designer dresses, and flashy jewels, and getting their pictures taken. He was done with vanity. Theirs and his.

What he needed was Clem. Good, solid, dependable, book-nerd, Clem.

A real nip pervaded the night air on this last day in September as he took in her neat, low-set clapboard house on Third Street through gritty eyes. The low buzz of chatter, muffled laughter, and the background hum of music drifted out as he stood at the gate. There was obviously a party going on. Her birthday party he presumed given today was her big three-zero.

That had always been a possibility, of course, and he hesitated for a second. Maybe he should go back to the Graff and get some much-needed sleep? Maybe she wouldn’t want him to gate-crash her big night? But maybe, she was secretly waiting for him to come through the door and fulfil that promise from all those years ago?

Women liked grand gestures, right?

Mind—such as it currently was—made up, he opened the gate, ignoring the way his heart rate sped up as he strode down the path. This whole thing might be a little under-thought, but he wanted it suddenly with a desperate kind of intensity.

The laughter was louder as he took the two stairs to the porch and, before he could talk himself out of it, knocked on the door twice—loudly. He was about to knock a third time when it opened to reveal a woman with an ice-blonde bob, blunt bangs sitting just above eyebrow height, and a champagne glass in her hand. The house behind was crowded with people, the volume of their chatter and the music increasing considerably now the door was open.

“Lordy,” she said with a slight slur, looking him up and down and, evidently, finding much to be happy about, “please tell me someone ordered a strip-o-gram and you’re it.”

Jude blinked. Strippers did birthday parties in buttfuck Montana? “I’m afraid not.”

She sighed. “I didn’t think I could get that lucky.” Taking a sip of her champagne, her eyes narrowed. “Wait.” Jude steeled himself for the inevitable. “Oh my god.” She poked him in the chest. “You’re that Yes, Chef guy. Jude someone…”

He gave a small smile. Not even a year tucked away in sub-Sahara Africa and looking like hell after his tournament of travel, had dimmed his celebrity. “Barlow,” he supplied.

“Well.” She leaned her shoulder into the doorframe. “I take that back. This is my lucky night. Who needs a stripper when Jude Barlow is at the door?”

Jude laughed warily as he glanced over her shoulder at the partygoers, his palm sweating around the small, robin’s-egg blue box. “I’m assuming the birthday girl’s around somewhere?”

The woman narrowed her eyes again. “How do you know Clem?”

“We’re old friends.” When the woman crossed her arms like she had all the time in the world to stay right where she was, he elaborated. “We met in summer camp in third grade.”

She cocked an eyebrow, the tidbit sparking obvious interest. “Really? She never mentioned that to me.”

“It was a long time ago,” he dismissed. Because it had been. Although, had he been less exhausted, he might have been slightly miffed that she hadn’t bragged about him—even just a little.

“Did you bring a gift?” she asked, her slur making her sound a little belligerent.

He did if he was allowed to count the two-carat, princess-cut diamond ring he’d purchased on whim at the Tiffany store in Charles De Gaulle airport. Although, knowing Clementine, she’d probably go more gaga over the origami crane. “Yes.”

“Good.” The woman nodded. “She’s out back, follow me.”

She turned then with a swish of her long purple skirt and Jude followed. Barely any one looked at him as he passed, engrossed as they were in their conversations and that suited him just fine. He wasn’t tired anymore—he was nervous. Old Jude would have scoffed at the feeling, considered it a weakness instead of a normal reaction to uncertain events. The fact he hadn’t been nervous in a lot of years gave him hope that his attempts to reset the clock, to get his life back in balance, hadn’t been in vain.

The thud of his heart echoed in his ears obliterating the country music playing in the background as they approached the open back door and it was a relief to step out into the night after purple skirt. Jude inhaled the cooler air, his body too warm, his clothes too tight. His palm, closed around the box, was too damn sweaty.

He was really going to do this.

---