14
The Society of Often and Well
TJ
Out on the street, Jude waggles his phone. “Here’s the plan. I’ve mapped out my five favorite thrift shops in the city, plugged them into Google Maps, and designed an itinerary.”
I mime my head exploding. “I never would have pegged you for such a planner.”
“I’ve also planned for food. I included the best cafés near each shop and my favorite place for crisps in the whole city. Have I blown your mind even more?”
“My mind wasn’t the thing I wanted you to blow,” I say—low-hanging fruit and all.
“I think it’s a good thing when both cocks and minds can be blown. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Damn, this man. I have to work to keep up with him. “I stand corrected. Both should be blown. Often and well,” I say.
“Let’s start a society with that noble goal in mind. We’ll call it . . .” He scratches his chin.
But I’ve got this. “The Oscar Wilde Society of Often and Well. We can say that in polite company.”
“Brilliant,” he says, and he leads me down a few more blocks until we reach a thrift shop.
A sign swings above the door, spelling in bright pink and blue letters: Out of the Closet.
“I bet this store would want to be in our society,” I say.
“As a matter of fact, there’s a funny story behind it,” Jude says.
I wiggle my fingers, a sign for him to serve up the goods.
“A married couple runs it,” Jude begins. “Benji and Clive met at a party. In the coat closet. They were fetching their jackets at the end of the party, but their jackets got mixed up because they were so into chatting with each other, but both were a little nervous about making the first move. Since it was a phone-free party, they each had each other’s mobiles in their jacket pockets when they left. And so, even though they went their separate ways, thinking they should have gotten each other’s number, fate was looking out for them. They called each other, switched the mobiles, switched the jackets, and went home together.”
“And they lived happily ever after out of the closet,” I add, grabbing the door and holding it open for him.
Jude gives me an approving nod. “Such a gentleman.”
As he walks in ahead of me, I take a moment to ponder how we’re doing. If I were grading myself so far, I’d go with an A. Sure, Jude and I are flirting, but this level of flirting is safe. Despite one close encounter, we’ve made it through a week, and we can make it through fifty-one more.
Yup, I’ve got this.
Jude says hello to Benji and Clive inside the shop, then guides me to a rack of shirts. As he flicks through each one, he says, “I love thrifting. It’s right up there with chocolate biscuits and a good book.”
“I can tell you like it. Why, though?”
Jude swings his gaze to me, his blue eyes sparkling. “Thrifting is like a treasure hunt—finding just the right outfit. Something that doesn’t look like it came from—” He stops, snaps his fingers. “What’s that store in the States everyone loves?”
“Target,” I answer.
“Exactly. When you thrift,” he says, stopping at a black shirt with tiny skulls on it, “you can not only find bargains. You can also find something unique.”
He yanks the black shirt from the rack then holds it against my chest. “Like this. I see you with a certain style. It starts with short sleeves. Something nice and tight in the chest. You ought to show off this body, but in a way that’s not showy. That’s simply . . . clever.”
I love literally everything he just said. When Jude turns his spotlight on me, I’m helpless.
“Do you want me to try it on?” I ask.
“Yes. Fuck yes.”
I get a breather in the dressing room, a minute or two to shake off the swoon as I try on the shirt.
I step out of the dressing room to a cheering squad.
Jude leads the brigade, but Clive and Benji are by his side, clapping too. “Hot stuff,” the guy in glasses says.
The one with the shaved head wolf-whistles. “You look fine.”
I dip my head, a little embarrassed.
“No, no, no, no, no,” Jude says as he strides over to me while the two husbands return to the counter.
“No, as in, you don’t like it?” I ask, unsure.
“No, as in don’t be embarrassed, TJ. This is your style. This is you,” he says.
Jude steps a few inches closer, adjusts my collar, then brushes his fingers along my shoulders, taking a lot longer than necessary to smooth out the fabric. “And I could see you wearing it while you’re strolling around London, stopping at a park bench, reading Agatha Christie,” he says.
Wait. What?
That’s oddly specific. I try to figure out what he means, but I can’t Inspector Poirot my way through this because I’m still sparking from his touch.
Instead, I say, “I’ll take it.”
After a quick tube ride and a detour for his favorite crisps that are “right up there with thrifting, biscuits, and a book,” we swing over to a shop in Kensington. Jude hunts through the racks until he finds a short-sleeved green button-down with tiny eggplants all over it. He cackles in delight as he holds it up for me to inspect.
“Really?”
Jude rolls his eyes. “You’re out of the closet. You can totally wear eggplants.”
“That is not the issue.”
“It’s not too gay if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Dude, that’s not what I’m asking.”
“Dude,” he mimics. “Then what are you asking?”
“I meant really, as in, you really like it?” I ask softly, genuinely.
Jude parts his lips like he’s about to speak, then he seems to think better of it, pausing for a few beats. “It’s perfect for a writer. It’s cheeky and a little sarcastic. Like you.”
Perhaps he’s right. When I look in the store’s mirror, I look like who I want to be. Not just a financial journalist in staid blues and whites and grays, but a man who can create. A guy who can spin a yarn. The author penning his first novel.
Wheeling around, I meet his gaze. “You’re right. This is my style. Thank you,” I say.
He beams. The wattage on the spotlight goes up again, and so does the needle on the swoon-o-meter.
At the final shop of the day, I’m fading, but Jude possesses not only a second wind but a third and fourth, as well. He motors from rack to rack, grabbing a black shirt with cartoon cacti, a yellow shirt with a print of tiny green avocados, and one more with baseball bats.
“Yes! This one is perfect for my American friend,” he says, thrusting the baseball print my way.
I smile. “It is. Especially since my brother plays Major League Baseball.”
He blinks in confusion. “What?”
“I didn’t tell you this?”
Jude scoffs. “You hardly tell me anything about yourself.”
He’s . . . not wrong.
But this is about my kickass brother, not a window into my heart’s desires. “Chance is a relief pitcher for the Cougars—”
“The Major League Baseball team in San Francisco. That’s amazing.”
“He’s got a killer cut fastball, and he’s ice on the mound. I bet he’s going to be their closer any day now. He’s also my identical twin,” I say.
Jude’s jaw comes unhinged. “Your identical twin? You’re taking the piss out of me, aren’t you?”
“It’s one hundred percent true.”
He points at me. “There’s actually another man out there this fine-looking?”
A smile takes over my face. “He’s straight.”
“I don’t fucking care. That’s not the point. The point is there are two fucking men on this planet who are, what? Six-ten, and built like hot redwood trees?”
“We’re six-three,” I say, but I can’t shake my smile.
And since I don’t want to turn off his spotlight, I decide to blow his mind some more. Grabbing my phone, I click on my photos and show him a pic I took of Chance and me at the airport a week ago. “We shot this selfie before I left New York for London.”
Slack-jawed, Jude stares at the screen, shaking his head. “Dear God. You two must have been a pair of lady-killers and gent-killers growing up,” he says.
“I was not. I assure you. I barely got any action in college.”
“I refuse to believe that.”
“It’s the truth,” I say, putting my phone away.
“Are you bad in bed?”
I snort-laugh. “No.”
“Are you sure? Every man thinks he’s good in bed.”
There’s a playfully dirty challenge in his tone. We are not in the safe flirting zone anymore. This is the red zone, warning lights flashing everywhere.
I race toward danger, ignoring the hell out of them. “I could prove it to you sometime,” I say, feeling reckless thanks to that spotlight.
Then Jude does that thing. He scrapes his teeth over the corner of his mouth, and I go hot everywhere. “I wish you would,” he says, all low and rumbly, driving me crazier than he did the night I met him.
Make that ten times crazier.
“Yeah, me too,” I whisper, our eyes locked.
We don’t move. We’ve reached a crossroads. Will I kick the flirting up another few degrees, yank him into the dressing room with me?
Or will he?
I do nothing, the standoff extending, the heat between us flaring until a customer wanders into the store, breaking the spell.
I grab the shirts from Jude, shut the door to the dressing room, and shove my back against the wood like I’m fighting off enemies outside of it.
The enemy is my own willpower, weak right now.
I breathe out, hard.
Holy shit. I was this close to dragging him in here, slamming him against the wall, and punishing him with a kiss to prove I could make his bones melt.
Because I could. I know I could. Because I want Jude Graham more than I’ve ever wanted any man. And I would kiss him and touch him and fuck him in a way that made him feel like the most wanted man ever.
And it would electrify him.
Like he electrifies me.
But the thing is—Jude does so much more than simply turn me on.
Thanks to his energy, excitement, and enthusiasm, this has been the best day I’ve had in ages.
That’s why I won’t tell him I’m writing a novel. I’d be exposing a piece of my vulnerable heart to him. Jude’s already hellbent on figuring me out. He delights in it. He’s been trying to get me to share writerly things with him today. Maybe even to admit what I did this morning at the coffee shop, why I read Agatha Christie, how I want to steal “The Duck’s Nipple” to use it in my book.
But telling Jude my dreams is dangerous. It could lead to closeness.
He already knows my habits, what I eat, when I exercise, and yeah, what I sound like when I come in the shower.
He knows my taste in books, music, and home decor. He knows I had no style and that I like the kind he just found for me.
I’m sure he knows, too, that this is both lust and so much more than that for me.
If I let him into my head, I would become completely infatuated.
I prefer slightly infatuated, like I am now.
But Jude deserves something.
After I buy the shirts and we leave, I silently practice what I want to say. Something I once thought he’d have to get out of me with his tongue.
“Jude,” I say, my tone serious once we’re walking down the street.
He stops in his tracks. “Yes?”
I exhale and choose sincerity over style. “It’s Terry Jerry.”