Here Comes My Man (Hopelessly Bromantic Duet 2)

THINGS THAT SUCK

TJ

A lot of things suck, like bad coffee, seventies music, and regret.

But live and learn. Move the fuck on.

Blasting my newest anti-romance playlist, I run through Central Park on a Wednesday afternoon. It’s one of the rare spots in New York free of any posters, billboards, or commercials featuring Jude Fox’s face promoting his new movie.

Away from his chiseled features, smoldering eyes, and see-inside-my-soul stare, maybe I can find a great meet-cute concept for my next book.

Like over there on the Great Lawn, where dudes toss frisbees to each other. Maybe one guy accidentally whacks another with a flying disc. Perhaps in the jaw.

Bam—instant meet-cute.

But instant ER-visit? Not cute.

What about the carousel—horses are cool, and so are amusement park rides.

But sexual tension on a kiddie merry-go-round is not cool. It’s pretty fucking creepy.

Why are ideas so hard?

Ah, I’ve got it. I know where to go.

I cut across the park, making a beeline for Bethesda Terrace. That picturesque spot has romance written all over it. I bet there are a thousand proposals there each year. I’ll watch a few till I crack the case of the missing inspiration I need for the book that’s massively overdue to my publisher.

I’m almost at the terrace when a food truck comes into view, and I do a double-take.

Wait. A Wing and a Prayer is peddling its rotisserie birds in Central Park? I slow my pace as I study the fire-engine red vehicle. I didn’t know that Flynn—the guy I dated before Jude reached into my chest, grabbed my pathetic heart, and yanked it out to feed vultures—had opened a food truck for his chicken café.

But one hundred feet away, parked along the road in Central Park, is the architect of the public’s perception of my poor romantic sitch. I haven’t seen him since he broke up with me on TV a year ago—the guy who just wanted someone to love him for his chicken.

Flynn turns away from the ordering window to peck the cheek of the other cook.

Wow.

I stop in my tracks. And yes! Holy fuck, yes!

Inspiration just sauntered in like a badass pimp in a faux fur leopard-spotted jacket. I give a perfunctory wave to Flynn. In his chef’s apron, streaked with chicken barbecue sauce, he blinks, then waves back a few seconds later. The guy next to him does the same. They look sheepish. Like they think I’m bothered by seeing them together, being all flirty and lovey.

Please. They’re not Jude. They’re merely story fodder.

I fly home on fleet feet to Chelsea, bound up four flights of stairs, flip open my laptop, and crack my knuckles.

It is on.

After the ten long, painful, idea-free months since I left California, words now flow out of my head and onto the page. I don’t even need a coffee shop to write. Nope. I’ve been transformed. I can write at home.

Goodbye, trash can full of proverbial crumpled-up pieces of paper.

Hello, brilliant idea for my next novel.

And the best part? This new story has nothing to do with Jude.

A few days and countless cups of home-brewed coffee later, I’ve got almost ten chapters. After a quick re-read on ye olde laptop, I send this puppy to my agent.

Five minutes later, Mason replies with a hallelujah and tells me to swing by in an hour since he’ll have read it by then.

I pump a fist then push away from the couch to take a shower. Even when inspiration strikes, I’d never leave the house smelling, well, the way people think writers smell.

My goal in life is to smell like a magazine ad looks, and I accomplish that in twenty minutes, though I could use a haircut soon. I text my barber buddy to schedule one as I get dressed quickly, tugging on jeans and grabbing a short-sleeve button-down I snagged at a thrift shop.

But I stop before I put on the shirt, taking a good, long look at it. Why do I still have this? I thought I got rid of this one with the fox illustrations. Yet another thing that makes me remember Jude.

Don’t need any assistance on that front, brain.

Like it’s constructed from biohazard waste, I stuff it into a canvas bag to donate stat.

Bye-bye, anything with foxes.

I return to my closet to hunt for a shirt that doesn’t make me think of the guy whose face is everywhere these days.

Including in my head.

Far. Too. Often.

Ah, perfect. This purple shirt has tiny illustrations of vinyl records on it. I check my reflection. Much better. I head uptown on another unseasonably warm March morning in Manhattan—no jacket required. I push through the revolving glass door of CTM, eager for Mason’s feedback.

A minute later, I exit the elevator on the eleventh floor. From behind the reception desk, Rachel waves excitedly at me, her chunky bracelets jingling and jangling against themselves, revealing bits and pieces of the tattoos of vines that line her arms. “It’s been forever, TJ! Good to see you again. Mason said to just wave you in.”

“Thank you, Rachel. It’s great to see you too,” I say. It is, indeed, good to be back in the land of, well, writers who write.

When I reach Mason’s corner suite, he’s seated at his desk, scratching his head.

Huh.

I was kind of hoping he’d be standing in the doorway, blowing a trumpet as he hailed my return.

A mild foreboding tickles my brain. Maybe that’s just nerves, though. Normal ones and all.

Parking my hands on my hips, I clear my throat. “Hello? Where is the parade? The ticker tape? The marching band? I’ll wait for them but, man, I expected you to be a little faster.”

Mason lifts his gaze from his screen. He’s inscrutable, his eyes behind his black glasses a total closed book as he stares at me.

I kind of wish Mason would say something. Like he loves the premise of my new book.

That tickling sensation grows annoyingly stronger. I try to fight it off, wagging a finger at him. “Wait. I know what you did. You got me a singing telegram, didn’t you? One of those Magic Mike strippers will jump out in just a second and tell me how awesome you thought the pages were.”

With a beleaguered sigh, Mason removes his glasses, sets them down on his desk, and scrubs a hand along the back of his neck. “For the record, if I ever order you a stripper, it’ll be a cop.”

“Sweet. I ordered one the other night after a burger and a beer. It was basically a perfect night,” I deadpan, hoping to at least make him crack a smile.

A small smile lifts the corners of his mouth. “That.” Mason stabs his finger against the computer screen. “Why isn’t that in this?”

That’s not the reaction I wanted from my agent. Worry digs into my gut as I step into his office, head to the cushy blue chair across from his desk, and park myself in it. “Why isn’t what in what?”

“That kind of humor. That kind of wit. Stripper jokes. Humor. Badinage. Wit. Banter.”

“That’s all in there. That’s really funny. And full of heart.”

Why can’t he see that? Isn’t it clear?

“Is it?” Mason clears his throat and reads from the screen. “Ten Rules for Dating My Ex. Chapter One. The first rule of dating? Don’t go out with a dude with a one-syllable name. I learned that the hard way the other day.”

“See? Flynn.” I drag out his name like a warning. “He’s an ex. Ergo, that’s a good rule.”

There are other exes with one-syllable names too. Cough, cough. Jude.

“Allow me to read more,” Mason says, then dives into the story as the hero sets up his dilemma—Lessons learned from the frontline of dating—because it’s a battlefield out there.

When Mason trails off at the end of the second page, I scoot forward in the chair.

Doesn’t he like it?

Oh, shit. Does he . . . hate it? Are my words complete and utter garbage?

“TJ,” he says heavily, and, uh-oh, that sounds less like a seal of approval and more like a veto.

Worry wiggles down my spine. “Yes?”

“There’s no romance in here. This is a breakup book.”

I bristle as I’ve never bristled before. “Did you read all ten chapters? It’s a set-up for a romance. He’s just . . . well, the hero is just . . .” I cast about for words to describe my hero’s situation. “He’s recapping the lessons learned from a handful of past breakups.”

A handful that doesn’t include the big, epic, painful, slice-his-soul-into-a-thousand-jagged-pieces breakup. My hero’s not talking about that one. Nope. My character won’t touch that in this story.

Mason stares at me like his eyes are a bullshit detector. “Yes, I get that. But he’s recounting unexceptional breakups with a couple of guys he only dated for a little while. It’s not like he let the love of his life slip away in some epic knock-’em-down-drag-’em-out fight.”

I flinch, too clear memories snapping before my eyes. A cottage in Venice Beach. Words that stung. Accusations that flew like sharp knives.

“You need to make the wound big and gaping and raw.”

Ouch. My agent is mean.

“And once you’ve done that, then let’s get him moving the fuck on.” Mason claps his hands. “Chop, chop, hero! Time to put on your big boy pants. Find a new man.”

As if that’ll happen. “Easier said than done. It takes time for certain heroes.”

But I don’t have much more time to figure out this book. I’ve been trying to start the engine of the story for nearly a year, and I’ve stalled out every time. Now and then, I think I know why this car won’t turn over.

But it hurts too much to admit it out loud.

So I haven’t.

Mason shoots me a dead-eyed stare. “It takes time in real life. This is fiction. You write fiction. In make-believe la-la land, I want you to make all the readers happy as love saves the day. Make them so damn happy they buy copy after copy of your book. But this book?” He grabs the laptop and waggles the silver machine like he’s trying to shake pennies from a stingy piggy bank. “There’s zero romance. Zero dates. Zero setup,” he says. I hate that he’s right. I hate it so much because I can’t get there anymore. I can’t muster the enthusiasm. “I don’t even know what the trope or the plot is. Is it enemies to lovers? Second chance?”

I cringe at the last one, rejecting the idea. No way would I write a second chance, not after what went down with my second chance with Jude. I won’t get into that in a story. Might as well slice a vein open and watch myself bleed.

Pass.

“I don’t write second chance.” I cross my arms, holding my ground on this front. Forever. “Or third chance for that matter.”

He rolls his eyes. “Fine, fine. But then what is the story? Is it opposites attract? Forbidden romance? Fake romance? Friends to lovers?”

As I answer no to every question, my stomach churns.

My head hurts.

And the truth of the last year rears its ugly head.

I slump in the chair and drop my forehead into my hand. There isn’t a shred of romance in TenRules for Dating My Ex because there isn’t a shred of it in me.

I thought I was writing an epic follow-up, and instead, I’m an ice fisherman, and I chopped off a block of my frozen heart.

I’m empty. I’m broken. And I don’t know how to fix . . . well, me.