Page 29 of Never Again (Never Blue)

“Eight years?”

I hadn’t known. After seeing Jude at Ben’s parents’ house,I’dcut myself off from him. No more reading articles or watching his videos. Two years after that—probably the same year he quit drinking—I saw him twice from a distance at industry events, but I kept as far away as possible. Eventually, I heard through the grapevine he’d quit his band, and a while later, I’d heard he was sober, but until now, I hadn’t known the two happened at the same time.

“Eightlongyears, Stripes. Pretty sure I’ll be up for sainthood soon.”

I frowned at him. “I don’t think that’s how it works.”

He chuckled under his breath. “If only sobriety wiped out the previous twenty-something years of fucking up. That’d be nice.”

I was saved from answering by the open square in front of us. Cafes and galleries dotted the edges, while a farmer’s market took up the middle. Live music drifted through the air, but I couldn’t see the source.

“Food, then coffee,” I said, weaving through the already crowded square.

Jude stayed right behind me, his hand finding its way to the small of my back or gripping my elbow when we were in danger of being separated. I paused in front of a stand selling berries, and Jude bumped into me. His chest was pressed to my back as his hands braced my hips.

“Liberties,” I whispered.

His hands moved slowly, and then away before he backed up a step. “Apologies.”

I picked up a container of strawberries, inhaling the fresh, sweet scent. “Smell.”

Jude leaned down, taking a whiff. “Delicious.”

We’d moved onto the single-word portion of the morning apparently. Would we be grunting at each other next?

After paying for the berries, I led Jude through the market, hoping to find the stall I’d discovered when I was here two years ago.

He tugged on the back of my shirt, causing me to glance at him over my shoulder. He held out a strawberry. “Want one, Stripes?”

“Not yet.”

He shrugged, popping it into his mouth and humming with satisfaction. I recognized that sound, but I’d never associated it with food.

“Don’t eat all of them,” I warned.

“I’ll try, but I make no promises.”

“That’s probably for the best.”

He popped another strawberry in his mouth, chewing slowly. “I’m not taking the bait, Tals. Not without coffee at least. After that, you’re welcome to dismantle my integrity one broken promise at a time.”

I stopped, turned to face him, and jabbed a finger at his chest. “Are you actually getting pissy at me bringing up your past bullshit? Is that really what’s happening right now?”

He held out a strawberry, touching it to my lips. “Nope. Right now, I’m feeding you this strawberry at a farmer’s market in fucking Berlin.” When I didn’t open my mouth, he rubbed the berry against my lips until I did, snagging it between my teeth. “Later, I’ll get pissy,” he whispered, eyes on my mouth.

I devoured the strawberry and handed Jude the leaves, letting him deal with the trash.

The stall I’d been hunting for was in front of us, and it was everything I remembered. Tables laden with whole cakes, as well as individual pastries and candies. Since I turned thirty, my metabolism had slowed down, so I rarely indulged in food like this, but some exceptions were meant to be made, and holy hell did I plan on making a few.

I pointed to the cinnamon roll which would be my indulgence today and was told it was called aschnecken, which translated to snail—adorable.I also chose a berry and quark pastry.

“What will you have?” I asked Jude.

His eyes widened. “You’re not sharing?”

I gave him a look like he’d lost his mind. “No, I’m not. Although, if you choose something good, I might be convinced to swap.”

“Ah, I see how it is.” He leaned over the table, examining everything, and finally settled on anapfelandpuddingbrezel.

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