“It’s our discount shop,” the English guy says, pulling a messenger bag onto his shoulder. “It has a little bit of everything.”
I’d like a little bit of him.
I search my exhausted brain for something borderline witty. “I might be in the market for a little bit of everything,” I say, grateful for toothpaste and men’s rooms and no dragon breath. “Where should I start at TK Maxx?”
The guy tilts his head to consider the storefront for a moment, then glances back at me. “Depends on what you’re looking for. They have surprisingly fashionable dog clothes, excellent popcorn, and also home furnishings.”
“Good to know in case I get a late-night craving.” I linger on that last word. If he bats for my team, it won’t hurt to flirt a bit. “For popcorn,” I finish. Then I shift to practical matters and tug at my shirt. “But first, I’m on the hunt for a new shirt.”
“Ah, clothes.” He steps a little closer, gesturing to what I’m wearing. “You might try Angie’s Vintage Duds around the corner, if that’s your thing. They have cool retro tees and stuff.”
Do they have you? Do you want to be my shopping assistant?
But I know better than to ask out a random guy on the street.
Especially since I doubt the gods of luck, or kissing fountains, or horny dudes, would deposit the world’s most handsome man in front of me in London and say, “Guess what, TJ? He also likes dick!”
That’s not how life works, regardless of the way he waved at my chest, regardless of the way he stepped closer.
I will not be making out with this guy in front of the winged statue. Not ever.
Because that’s how fantasy works, and this is real life.
“Thanks,” I say, steering for the reality lane. “I’ll keep this place in mind if I need a new vest for my dog and maybe hit up Angie’s for a shirt. You never know who you might meet on your first day in London.”
I add a small smile.
A friendly smile. Not a come-on smile.
He lifts a brow. Those blue eyes twinkle. “That’s true. You never know.” For a fraction of a second, his teeth scrape the corner of his full lip, a move that stirs all my parts. “By the way,” he says, “I’m Jude. I work at a bookshop on Cecil Court.”
And then . . .?
He turns on his heel and walks away.
Did that just happen? Did the magazine model truly invite me to find him where he works? Which just happens to be my favorite childhood bookstore?
This is like fate. This is something I would totally write:
Gorgeous Brit invites grubby American to a bookstore—
I hit the brakes on the mental madness. I must have imagined that lip bite. Surely, I’m making more of this moment than I ought to.
I’ll just enjoy the fading view and that will be that.
Bleary-eyed, I stare at the handsome figure blending into the sea of Londoners. Just as I turn toward Angie’s, Jude turns too, and looks my way.
And this time, I let myself believe this is real.
5
Secret Handshake
TJ
* * *
Eggplant Helen is the most helpful person I’ve met in my entire life.
She’s the shop manager of Angie’s Vintage Duds, who introduced herself as that when I walked in. I’m Aubergine Helen. Eggplant Helen for an American, she said as she flicked her purple hair.
Now, she’s already hand-selected three shirts for me and set them on the hook in the dressing room.
“Go in. Try them on.” She gently pushes me through the heavy red curtain. “I’ll tell you which looks best for your first night in town.”
Inside, I tug off my shirt. “How did you know I was going out tonight?”
“Young American lad like you, course you’re going out. Besides, Angie’s has the coolest clothes, and I don’t think you came here to shop so you could stay in all by your lonesome.” Then she claps twice, a move along sort of sound. “All right. Show me what you’ve got.”
I step out of the dressing room and model a shirt she picked. It has an illustration of a Tetris game on it. Retro, indeed.
“Perfect. It looks good. That is, if you like that kind of fit, nice and snug?” Her voice pitches up, waiting for my input.
If she’s my stylist for my first night out, she should know what I dig. “Well, I like it . . . if the guys I meet like it too.”
“Good to know.” Her arm darts into the dressing room and comes out with the other shirts. “These won’t do, then. Not snuggly enough.” She scurries around the shop like The Energizer Bunny, returning with a couple more options. “These will better fit your style.”
“I have a style?” My wardrobe is pretty uneventful. Jeans, blue button-downs for work, the occasional polo, and a few band tees.