Fool For You (Made for Love Book 4) (17 page)

“Thank you,” she says before I can utter a single word. “I’m sorry if I’ve ruined your evening. I really appreciate you picking me up.”

I can tell that she’s attempting to hide the fact that her teeth are chattering. She fails miserably. I hardly stop to think before I’m shrugging out of my suit jacket and draping it over her shoulders. She looks up at me in surprise, her eyes widening, just like I remembered.

My mind wanders for a fraction of a second, and I try and imagine what her face would look like whilst in the middle of an orgasm. The thought makes my dick pulse, and I’m quick to reign in my mind.

“Come on,” I tell her. “It’s time I get you out of here.” She follows without complaint and I escort her to the passenger side seat of the Porsche. As soon as I’m in my own seat, I start the engine and blast the heat, shifting all the vents in her direction.

“Thank you,” she chatters.

“Where’s our first stop?”

She turns to look at me, tilting her head as she asks, “First stop?”

“Yes. Where is this friend’s place of residence? I’ll drive you there, wait for you to gather your extra set of keys, and then take you back to your car.”

“Oh. Um. Well—you don’t have to do that,” she insists, shaking her head at me. “I mean, my friend, he can take me.”

“That won’t be necessary. I can drive you, Teddy. I don’t mind. Now, where are we going?”

She hesitates, tugging my jacket tighter around her. “Don’t you have, like, plans? It’s Friday night. It’s still early and I don’t mean to keep you.”

“Theodora,” I murmur, reaching for her chin. “I said I don’t mind. Where is our first stop?”

She makes a whimpering sound and it goes straight to my dick.

“He lives off of Harmony and Lemay,” she informs me. “But he’s not home. I’ll have to wait for him. So, see, you only have to make one stop.”

I frown at her as I process everything she just said. “Let me get this straight. You want me to take you clear across town only to leave you until your friend gets home? Dressed like you are now—in soaking wet clothes?”

“Mmmhmm,” she hums, attempting to look away from me.

I grip her chin harder as I cough out a laugh. “I’m not doing that,” I state matter-of-factly.

“But I—”

“You’re shivering, Teddy. You need a hot shower and some dry clothes.” As the words fall out of my mouth, an idea comes to mind. I don’t even think twice about it before I let go of her face and shift into reverse.

“Wait—where, where are we going?”

“You’re coming home with me,” I tell her, backing out of the parking spot.

“
What?!
” she shrieks. “Judah—no. That—oh, god—that is
not
necessary.”

“When will this friend of yours be home, Teddy?” I ask, pretty certain I already know that the answer isn’t
soon
. When she doesn’t reply at all, I roll my eyes. “That’s what I thought.”

“But, Judah—I don’t even—I mean—I can’t come over to your
house!
”

“You can. You will. And you won’t argue. I’m not kidnapping you, Teddy. You called me, remember? I’m simply following through on this little rescue mission.”

“
Oh, dear Lord, I can’t believe this is happening,
” she whispers, her voice so low I know the words weren’t meant for me. Nevertheless, they fuel the sly smile that tugs at the corner of my mouth.

Seduction: a byproduct of simply being in my presence.

Tonight, fate is in my favor.

Tonight, I up the ante.

I scour my brain, anxiously trying to think of a list of reasons why Jude should take me to Geoff’s and abandon me; but all I can come up with are a list of reasons why going home with Jude is actually a really appealing idea. He’s right, I’m freezing. I’m soaked from head to toe, my thick, wet hair making it impossible for me to get warm. I pulled it up right after I called Jude from the coffee shop, afraid that I might look like a wet dog with my hair clinging to my face and my clothes. Now, it certainly won’t dry any time soon—but a hot shower? That would be heavenly.

Since I can’t deny what he’s offering, I don’t say anything at all. I pull his jacket around me tighter and try desperately not to get completely lost in his scent. It’s everywhere, and it’s frighteningly delicious. In an attempt to distract myself, I stare out the window, trying to pay attention to where he’s taking me. He drives past the gallery and then hangs a left, heading down Mountain Avenue.

Mountain Avenue is one of the most beautiful streets in all of Fort Collins. It’s lined with gorgeous old houses and
huge
trees that make the changing of the seasons something to look forward to. There’s even a trolley that runs down the wide median during the summer time. I’ve ridden it a couple times with Steven. He loves it.

When we near the end of the long stretch of road, Judah slows down and turns into the driveway of his brick-faced home. He pulls into the garage and parks next to a black Land Rover. Suddenly, I’m incredibly intimidated.

The man owns two cars and a house. What in the hell am I doing here?

“Come,” he says, pulling me from my thoughts.

I take a breath and then climb out of his car, following him to the door that leads into the house. It opens and I find myself in a little mud room. Though, by the looks of it, something tells me it never sees mud. His golf clubs are in the corner and he deposits the wet umbrella into his copper sink basin before leading me down a short hallway. It spills out underneath a metal staircase and I look up at it, fascinated that such a thing exists inside of his
home
. I glance to my left as he goes right and I spot his front door. I also notice, just beside the door, there’s a stairwell that leads to his basement next to what I assume is a coat closet. The floors in his entryway are a dark hardwood, and somehow I understand that it fits him to a T.

It might be rude, but my eyes are everywhere. As I follow after him down the wide hallway, I see that he has an office to my left. It’s closed behind a set of glass-paned French doors, but I can tell it’s very sleek, masculine, and spacious. It makes me wonder how many hours of work he clocks from home. An office like that is surly not just for show.

I’m so distracted by my curiosity, I almost miss it when he walks into the room across the hall. I follow him only until I reach the threshold, and then I stop abruptly—completely certain that he’s just brought me to his bedroom.

It’s dark. The walls and the ceiling are painted in a rusty grey—but it’s not just flat paint, it’s textured somehow, making it look rugged. His bed is in the middle of the room, covered in a hunter-green duvet and a small assortment of pillows—muted grey, orange, and cream colored. His headboard looks like a partition, meant to divide the room. It’s made of wood, stretching out on either side of his mattress; his nightstands—or, rather, night-
tables
are attached, hovering with no feet beneath them.

I peek further inside and I see that on the other side of the door, stretching along the wall, there’s a television mounted next to a huge bookshelf filled with books. And on the opposite side of the room, the wall is really just a huge window that looks out into his backyard. Even with the darkness of the storm, I can make out his fence-line of
trees,
which somehow adds to the décor of his room.

I take a step forward, wondering where he went. When I don’t see him, I take another hesitant step. I’m startled when he comes from around the corner—startled and
curious
as to where, exactly, he came from.

“I’m not a small man, in any way, shape, or form, but these are dry,” he says, handing me a couple pieces of folded clothing. “The bathroom is there.” He points to the door-less entry on the far side of the room, near the glass wall.

My mouth opens and closes as I try to find my words. “Uh—you-you want me to use
your
shower? I mean—you don’t have a guest room or something?”

“No,” he says with a half smile that makes my knees weak. “I have a shower in the basement, but no guest room. The one in here is bigger, so I insist,” he tells me, nodding in its direction.

I frown at him, still confused. Given what I’ve seen of his house so far, his answer doesn’t make sense to me. “How do you not have a guest room?”

“Simple. When I redesigned this house, I didn’t include one in the floorplan. It’s not a need that I have.”

I arch an eyebrow at him. “You never have overnight guests?”

He chuckles, making my stomach tingle. “When I do, they have no objections to sharing my bed.”

When my cheeks burn hot in an instant, I immediately regret the question. I hug his clothes to my chest and grimace, wishing I had just listened to him in the first place and headed straight for his shower.

“Are you hungry?”

“Yes,” I say with a sigh, not even bothering to dance around the answer. I’m relieved for the change in conversation.

He nods before he begins to walk around me. “When you’re finished, I’ll be upstairs. Take your time.”

I pause for a moment and then turn to thank him, but he’s already gone. My cold, wet dress reminds me how desperately I want a shower, so I set down my purse and lay his jacket across the bed before I make my way to his bathroom. I gasp when I turn on the light.

The floors are tiled, the stone an assortment of various shaped squares and colors—dark browns and shades of grey. The cabinets are made of weathered wood, and wood paneling covers the walls, about three-quarters of the length up—the top portion painted a dark beige. At first, I don’t even see the toilet, but when I see a cracked door on the far left side of the room, I figure that must be it. I also notice a built in shelf, which houses a bunch of linens and towels. Hesitantly, I make my way over and grab one. It’s cream colored, extremely fluffy and heavy, and I can’t help but bring it to my face. It feels amazing and smells even better.

I set all of my things on the generous amount of counter space he has at his sink, and then begin to peel away my clothes. He has two hooks on the wall with a towel on each, and I move one towel over the other and hang up my clothing. My bra and underwear are just as wet as everything else, and I decide I won’t put them on underneath Judah’s clothing. My guess is, my boobs are small enough that he’ll never notice underneath the t-shirt he offered me. If all else fails, I have my hair.

He wasn’t lying about his shower. It’s
gigantic
. It’s also gorgeous. The floors are made of stone, and the walls of brick—the colors matching his tiled floor. There are two shower heads.
Two.
One on either side of the shower. For a moment, I wonder if he uses the same side every day, or if he switches it up. Then I wonder if he frequents this shower with his
overnight guests.
I shove that last thought aside as I step inside.
There’s no door or curtain, which makes me a little weary, but I think I can trust that he won’t walk in here.
I think
.

I do as he says and take my time, letting the hot water warm me up. I hesitate to use any of his products, but then I decide that if I don’t wash and condition my hair, it’ll hate me when it dries. By the time I get out, I’ve filled the entire bathroom with steam, and the mirror over the sink is all fogged up. I dry off and then wrap my hair in his towel before slipping into his t-shirt and the pair of gym shorts he let me borrow. I have to pull the drawstring as tight as it will go
and
roll the top over itself a couple times. The fabric still falls to my knees.

I dry my hair as best as I can with the towel before I scrunch my waves. There isn’t much hope for it at this point, but I have to at least
try
to look somewhat presentable. When I’m finished, I drop the towel into his hamper and then re-enter his bedroom. I know that I should head upstairs, like he told me to, but now that I’ve been inside of his huge bathroom, I’m curious to know what awaits down the little hallway he appeared from before. Feeling brazen, I sneak my way through the second opening in the wall and walk right into his closet.

Oh. My. God.

The space lights up automatically as soon as I walk in. Each wall is built to house various forms of clothing. Two walls store his suits. They’re organized by color. Some of them hang in clear bags, and I’m guessing—based on their colors—that they are suits he doesn’t wear during the summer. I take a step further into the room and see one wall is dedicated to his more casual items. He has a ton of khakis in a few different colors hung below an array of polo shirts and button-downs. Then, on the last wall, is his collection of shoes. I gape at them, at a loss for words at the fact that he owns more shoes than Geoffrey—and Geoffrey owns an impressive amount of shoes. More than Harper and me combined.

There’s an island of drawers in the middle of the room, and I wonder what’s inside. Looking down at the clothes that I’m wearing, I assume the drawers hold the items he stores folded. I spin around twice, taking it all in. Then it clicks, and I understand why the man doesn’t have a guest room. This
is
his guest room. I could live in here. And I don’t just mean that in the sense that it’s, literally, the size of my bedroom.