35
Déjà Vu All Over Again
TJ
I’m not jealous of the way Jude stares at the abs on the cover. What I am is eager to get the hell out of this section of Read Between the Lines.
“I have one question for you,” he says, holding up a copy of The Size Principle.
“Yes?”
“Did you pick the model for this cover?”
I roll my eyes. “No. The publisher did. And they’re redoing it.”
“Why? Do they hate abs? Men like abs. Women like abs. I’m giving up carbs for abs. How can anyone hate them?”
I shrug. “Illustrated is the thing now.”
“I’m going to be blunt here. Illustrated abs aren’t as sexy as real ones,” he says, then sets down the book.
I seize my chance. “Can we please go to the memoirs?”
“Are you afraid someone is going to see you and ask you to sign a copy?”
That’s not the issue whatsoever. I brought him here for him, not to ogle my covers nor to talk about me. “Yes, Jude. I’m afraid of random bookstore sightings,” I deadpan, then I loop an arm around his waist and tug him away from the romance section toward the back of the store.
“Why don’t you want to see your books? Don’t tell me you’re so over it.”
I turn the question around on him. “Why do you want to see my books?”
He counters in a flash. “Are you excited to come to my play tonight?”
“Yes. An insane amount,” I say as we reach the tell-alls.
“That’s why I like looking at your books,” he says, and I might float.
That’s the problem. When he says those things, my heart goes crazy. I need to get it under control.
I move behind him, drop my chin on his shoulder, and nod toward the hardbacks. “I got a list of the most salacious celebrity memoirs from my friend Hazel. She said the juiciest is the Keith Richards. Have you listened to it yet?”
“Why did you get a list?”
“Answer the question, Jude.”
“No, I haven’t heard it.”
“Good,” I say, then dart out a hand and grab a copy. “I’m getting one for me.”
“Selfish fucker,” he says.
I laugh. “Just come with me.”
“Isn’t that what I did this morning?”
“And it’s what you’ll do tonight after the show.”
“I better.”
“I better too. You better. We better,” I add.
“Wow. You sure can conjugate.”
I crack up. Nothing, nothing at all, has ever felt like this—talking with Jude, teasing with Jude, being with Jude.
I bring him close, bite his earlobe. “You know I can, baby. We already conjugated this morning.”
He leans back against me. “Speaking of dirty words, I’ve got something I’ve been meaning to show you for, oh, say, about five years.”
I arch a brow in curiosity.
Jude just flicks his hand toward the register. “Buy your book, selfish fucker, then it’s show and tell time.”
I buy the Richards memoir for me, then when we leave the store, I grab my phone, click on an app, and send Jude a gift.
A minute later, his phone beeps.
Jude looks at the screen, then at me. “You just bought me an audiobook?”
“Well, I know you like to listen to celebrity memoirs rather than read them,” I say, and my cheeks heat, like I’m revealing something personal.
Even though it’s about him.
But this is personal, and he knows it. He knows, now. I asked Hazel for gift ideas for him. He knows, too, I’ve never bought him a gift before. This is a first.
Jude steps closer, brushes his lips to mine, and says softly, “You didn’t have to get me something.”
I feel woozy. “I know. I wanted to.”
“Thank you,” he says, then he takes my hand, and we walk along the promenade till we reach a coffee shop I can’t stop staring at. Or sniffing. I lift my nose and inhale.
Jude takes the Richards book from me, then gestures to the shop. “Go. Get a coffee. And give the barista the third degree like you did with William when you met him.”
I arch a brow. “Did he tell you that?”
“Friends. We’re friends. Like you two.”
Still, a tiny snake of jealousy slithers through me as I head into the shop. Not sure why. Maybe it’s because William had access to Jude when I didn’t. Does William even know how lucky he is? But that’s a dumb thing to be jealous about. Still, as I order the drinks, I noodle on these strange feelings of envy. Except, is it envy? Maybe it’s worry—the worry that the people I tell my secrets to aren’t so safe after all. Maybe they’ll eventually spill them to the people I keep them from.
Or maybe I’m a paranoid writer, always seeing ten thousand ways something can go wrong. Since that’s what I do for my characters. Throw rocks at them, especially when things start to seem easy.
I shove the worries away.
With the cups in hand, I tip the guy at the counter, head outside, and sit with Jude, sliding the Earl Grey to him.
Jude thanks me, then grabs his phone. “And now, as I said, I have a little something for you.”
My dumb heart flips before he even gives whatever it is to me. “Yeah?” I ask, probably sounding all dopey to him.
Jude moves closer. His shoulder touches mine as he shows me the screen. I freeze.
Are you kidding me?
I turn my gaze to him in slow motion, awe coasting down my spine. “You took a picture of Yes Man at An Open Book?”
The evidence is there on his phone, yet I can’t quite believe it.
“I did,” he says, sounding nervous, but happy too. “I figured you’d want to see it someday. I took it and held on to it.”
I can barely catch my breath from what he’s saying, and more so, what it’s doing to the organ in my chest. “When did you take it?”
“When it released.”
“You went in there. Took a picture of it on the shelves. And you’ve held on to this for five years?”
“I did. I held on to it for you,” he says, his warm, rich voice reaching deep into my chest, touching me in a place only he ever has.
This can’t be happening so fast. I can’t let it. I don’t even know what to do with this. My heart is out of fucking control. My emotions are spiraling. All I want is him.
I won’t say that yet, so instead I tell him a story so he’ll know what this gift means to me. “My brother bought a gift for me long ago. A travel journal. It meant a lot to me because he got it at that store on Cecil Court when we were thirteen. The one where—”
“Where we met again,” he supplies, his eyes locked with mine.
“Yes. That one. Chance held on to it for ten years. He gave it to me when I went to London a second time,” I say, and every word I share is like stripping off a layer of self-protection, letting Jude into my mind, into my most private thoughts. “It meant a lot to me because it said he knew me. I hadn’t even told him I wanted to write a novel, but he knew I’d need to write down my thoughts.” I take a breath, prepping to say the next thing. “I wrote in it when I was in London. About the city. About places,” I say, swallowing around a knot of emotions as I start my true confession.
“You did?” Jude sounds like he’s hanging on to the edge of the world.
“About people too,” I add softly. “I even mentioned this guy I met.”
“Did you?” he asks, like he’s amazed that he inspired me.
Heat rushes over my skin. I’m caught in the haze of Jude once again. “I did.”
“I hope you said nice things about him,” he says, then runs his hand over my shoulder, along my neck, lighting me all the way up.
“Very nice things,” I whisper.
If I say more I will tell him what I only ever admitted on paper. Deeply personal, deeply private words that I’d never want to share with anyone. “That journal meant a lot to me because Chance held on to it over the years. He waited for the right moment. He wanted it to matter. That’s why I loved the gift. And now, this picture you took?”
“Yes?” That one-word question is full of the same hope I feel.
“It matters to me because you took it. You held on to it. That’s why I love it. This is my new favorite thing.”
And so are you, Jude Fox.
I’m so close to breathing those risky words out loud.
I do the only thing I can.
I cup his cheek, slide my hand into his soft hair, and cover up my feelings with a kiss on the sidewalk of Santa Monica.
Every kiss with Jude has been incredible. But this one might be the best yet. It’s slow and lingering. It’s hot and intimate. It makes me feel like the hero in my own love story.
It’s also a kiss I’m sure I’ll never recover from.
Because I know. I just know.
Less than twenty-four hours later, and I’m already falling in love with him all over again.