Page 3 of You Had Me at Chocolate

When Clementine finally moved it was only a blink but that blink said a lot. That blink said everything.

It was a very loud blink.

“Let’s talk inside, shall we?” she said, through stiff lips. Then, turning on her heel, she marched through the stunned onlookers in the direction of the door.

Purple skirt winced at him as Jude rose to his feet feeling every one of those transit hours. He ignored her—he ignored all of them—as he, too, turned, and followed Clementine into the house.

*

By the time Clem had pushed through all her friends, who wanted a quick hug or chat with the birthday girl to the relative quiet of her bedroom, she was reeling. She left the door open knowing Jude was somewhere behind but pleased to have a moment alone. Time to think. To try and understand why a guy she hadn’t seen since she was twelve had just asked her to marry him in front of one hundred and twenty Marietta locals.

Thank god her parents had gone home twenty minutes ago. Her mother had been despairing about her lack of grandchildren for several years now—something like this could give her very bad ideas. And Clem didn’t think for a minute the fact Jude was a relative stranger would matter to her mother.

Trina Jones wanted to be a me-maw bad.

It had been cold outside and Clem had been grateful for the fire but now her cheeks were flaming and her body was melting. Great, her first hot flash. At thirty.

God, maybe it really was all downhill from here?

“Hey.”

She glanced up from the origami crane she’d been absently staring at to find him in the doorway and, for a second, she forgot he’d just proposed to her with a giant freaking diamond ring, and was swept up in just how nicely he’d matured. As a twelve-year-old he’d been a gangly redhead with freckles, ears that stuck out, and a goofy kind of smile.

He wasn’t gangly now.

Nope, Jude had filled out well. She’d seen him on the TV, of course, keeping track of his meteoric rise to fame from afar. But there’d been makeup and camera angles and he’d been younger then. Clean-cut. Frozen in that stage between boy and man. Arrogant though—so sure of himself, the latest culinary sensation thanks to the incredible reach of the worldwide phenomenon that was Yes, Chef!

This guy was older—a little rougher around the edges. A lot more unsure of himself.

His red hair was darker too—more chestnut than rust—and his freckles had faded or were hidden behind the whiskery growth on his jawline. There were crow’s feet around his eyes, which she didn’t think was from excessive smiling.

No, combined with that cragginess to his complexion, Clem figured it was more to do with time spent outdoors. Which, given he’d disappeared a year ago, to do humanitarian work in Africa according to his mother’s Christmas card, would fit. Clem hadn’t thought much about it at the time other than to hope he was finding whatever he was looking for after his abrupt decision to sell his very successful New York restaurant and drop out of sight.

Except he wasn’t in Africa now. He was in her house. Asking her to marry him. For the love of all that was holy…

“Come in. Shut the door.” She didn’t want an audience.

He did as he was told, entering the room to about halfway, in an easy long-legged stride. Dark blue jeans sat snug on his hips, hanging in a way that emphasised without clinging—very designer. His ribbed khaki Henley stretched nicely over broad shoulders and flat abs.

He hadn’t had them at twelve.

“You look great, Clementine.”

His face warmed into a slow smile, his voice oozing over her like warm honey. Clem blinked. He hadn’t had that voice at twelve, either.

“Are you drunk?” she demanded, launching straight into her attack, even more annoyed at him now her body was taking total leave of its senses.

“What?” He frowned. “No.”

“High?”

He stiffened. “Contrary to tabloid opinion, I do not do drugs.”

“Were you recently dropped on your head?”

Sighing, he took a step forward, stopping abruptly when she shook her head violently at him. “Clementine.”

He never used to call her Clementine, either. Always Clem. Just like everyone else—except for her mother who used it whenever her daughter displeased her. Which seemed to be all the time, lately. And if she hadn’t been pissed at him and his ridiculous… stunt, right now, she might even have admitted to liking it. Liking how grown-up it felt. How it made her feel like a woman, not the girl she’d been back when they’d known each other better.

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