Page 21 of You Had Me at Chocolate

But she was worried about her father, too.

Still, Clem had left half an hour ago feeling buoyed, daring to hope that they were through the danger period and relieved that her father was no longer looking ninety years old.

But, god… she was tired. So tired.

She hadn’t slept well either this past week. Not even last night when her mother had started showing signs of improvement during the day. The nurses had warned them not to get their hopes up, that it could be only temporary and that recovery from stroke was long and not always linear. Clem had lain awake half the night after a couple of hours of research into clinical trials available for stroke patients, imagining how awful it would be to return in the morning and find her mom had relapsed.

But she hadn’t. She’d kept improving, and now she was in a ward, and Clem would be lying if she admitted to not being glad for a night at home in her own bed. The hotel they’d checked into had been chosen for proximity alone but it was also budget. Which meant the beds were budget.

Nothing like her dream-topper mattress that cradled her like a cloud.

The warm hug of central heating and the aroma of roasting meat greeted her as she opened her front door, dragging her heavy bag inside with her. She’d texted Jude a couple of hours ago to let him know she’d be home for the night. He’d offered to get a room at the Graff but she’d insisted he stay. With her mouth now watering, she was damned pleased she had.

A sudden burn of tears heated the backs of Clem’s eyes and she blinked them back. Sitting by her mother’s bedside in ICU, surrounded by tubes, and watching a machine breathe for her had been utterly terrifying and, consequently, she was in a heightened emotional state. But holy crap, she was going to need to pull herself together or she’d do something mortifying.

Like cry all over Jude.

She’d managed to keep her shit together these past few days and she refused to lose it now—not when things were looking up.

“Oh, hey.” Jude came out from the kitchen, spying her still in the entranceway. He leaned his shoulder into the doorframe, folding his arms across his chest, meaty biceps stretching his Henley. “You’re home.”

Oh god. Clem blinked back a fresh wave of hot tears. Don’t cry. Do not cry in front of Jude. Pull yourself together, woman! It didn’t matter that her mom had had a stroke, that her dad had aged overnight, or that she was tired. The crick in her neck from the awful bed, didn’t matter, either. None of those were Jude’s problem and just because he was in her house all big and broad and warm looking like he belonged in her kitchen, didn’t give her permission to unload.

But, ugh, he was a sight for sore, red eyes with his jeans slung low on his hips, a tea towel hanging from a belt loop and his feet bare. He didn’t look like a TV chef or even her old friend. He looked like a… gift from the universe. A big, brawny, sexy gift sent to feed her during the worst week of her life. The meals he had left at the hotel had been a godsend, considering she’d been existing on chips and candy bars from the vending machine. And whatever in hell he was cooking right now, her stomach growled in appreciation.

“Yes.”

They didn’t say anything for long moments. Maybe he was waiting for her to add some more? But Clem was barely holding herself together right now.

“Are you okay?”

The soft inquiry had Clem biting her lip hard as she blinked back another wash of tears. God. She was so not okay but this was utterly ridiculous. For Pete’s sake—she’d seen Rhonda every day this week and hadn’t burst into tears upon seeing her once. Her nostrils flared as she desperately sucked in air through her nose to stop herself from cracking.

“Clementine?”

That was what did it. Clementine. So gentle it sliced right through the slender thread of her emotional fortitude.

“No,” she admitted her voice wobbling.

And then he was walking—striding—toward her, eating up the twenty feet between them, his figure getting more and more watery the closer he came until he was sweeping her in his arms and Clementine lost it.

She really lost it.

Chapter Four

There were no dainty tears. No discreet sobs or silent, internalized, shoulder-shrug weeping. She howled—loudly. Her face crumpling, her hand clutching at his shirt, her lungs grabbing for air between noisy, gasping keens.

She sounded utterly feral.

Not that he seemed to mind. Nor did he try and talk her through it or tell her everything was going to be okay. He just held her, tucking her in under his chin, his big arms like bands of steel cocooning her in an oasis of calm, the solid wall of his chest providing safe harbor as everything around her pitched and tossed.

“I’m sorry,” she said as she pulled away after who knew how long. “I’m okay.”

There was a large damp patch on his shirt and she hoped like god it was only tears. She wiped at her nose with the back of her hand—real classy.

But he didn’t seem to notice. He just smiled and said, “Don’t be a dork. Of course you’re not okay.”

Clem laughed then remembering how they’d called each other dork so much as kids it had become a term of affection between them. “No. But Mom is improving. She’s on the medical unit now and things are looking up. I’m just… tired and worried about Dad and…”

---