Here Comes My Man (Hopelessly Bromantic Duet 2)

RECURRING DIRTY DAYDREAM

TJ

The irony is that when Slade interrupted me this morning, I’d written the first good sentence in months—I’ve been having a recurring dirty daydream. Granted, it’s only seven words, but they’re a lot better than the ten chapters my agent kiboshed the other day. This opening is interesting. It’s sexy. And it sets the scene for romance with a capital R.

But I didn’t tell Slade I was busy making words. Don’t want to rile him up. Best to focus on things that make our handler happy.

“What do you think of the Leopards’ chances next season?” I ask as the car cruises down Eighth Avenue.

Slade grabs a cup of coffee from the console cupholder. “I want to see Luke Remington get some playing time in the pocket. How long does he have to warm the bench?” Slade asks as an annoyed football fan, which is pretty much the main kind of fan there is.

“Too long. Would be nice to see him leading the team,” I say, petting the angry kitty with sports talk.

“But is Luke on a path to become the QB? Nope. Translation: I am not getting what I want this morning on any front,” he says, and okay, that attempt at light conversation backfired.

I’ll just drink a cup of shut-the-fuck-up while Slade downs some coffee.

He sets his cup next to another one. He must really be ticked—it’s a double caffeine day, and it’s only nine. Slade starts in on the offensive line problems, and I peer out the window as the car swings onto Jane Street.

Holy shit. The guy I fell in love with twice lives twenty stinking blocks south of me. Did I barely miss him someday on the subway in the last month? We cruise past Champagne Taste, a consignment shop Hazel and I went to a week ago. Has Jude ever shopped there? What if I’d bumped into him outside the shop? Or in the dressing rooms?

That would have been wild.

My pulse spikes annoyingly at either prospect as I record every detail of the utter Judeness of this block.

The cobbled street. The canopy of trees. The brick buildings. Jane Street is the most gorgeous one in all of Manhattan, so of course, Jude lives here.

When the car pulls to the curb, I whip my gaze to Slade. “Do you want me to get him?”

He shoots me a you can’t be this dumb look. “That’s what I was just saying. Yes, I want you to get your boyfriend. Bound up the steps and give him the kiss on the cheek you failed to give him last night. He knows you’re coming.”

“You gave Jude a heads-up that you were on your way but not me?”

“He’s an actor. They take longer to get ready. Anyone who has ever been on a book tour with you knows you go from being sleepy to sexy in fifteen minutes flat. It’s your superhero skill.”

Fine. That’s not a bad skill to have.

Slade grabs the extra cup next to his coffee. “Here’s the Earl Grey you got Jude this morning.”

“Wow, I’m a thoughtful boyfriend,” I say drily.

“I wish you were, TJ. But feel free to start right now,” Slade says. He is such a delighted jackass.

After swinging the car door open, I get out and head toward the picturesque wrought-iron gate that opens onto a bright green stoop. I glance down the block. No one is looking. Photographers aren’t here snapping shots.

What is the point of this boyfriend theater?

But then, I find the answer in my own overactive writer brain. Because if I were writing this fake boyfriend story, Slade’s role in it would be to make us stay in character for as long as possible. He thinks we’re failing at playing our parts. Trouble is, I’ve no idea why. But I want to solve this scavenger hunt since problem-solving is my job.

I ring the buzzer then check my reflection in the foyer window. When meeting your fake boyfriend, it’s important to look good.

Hey! Maybe that’s a new rule for Fake Dating My Ex.

And whoa, hello title.

Grabbing my phone from my pocket, I dictate another note. The number-one rule for fake dating your ex? Thou shalt look fuck-hot at all times.

And I do, wearing my black button-down with tiny sushi illustrations on the front pocket. The sleeves are nice and tight, and the shirt fits like a glove.

Let Jude enjoy the view. All this could have been his if he’d trusted me ten months ago. I could give him this tea today for real. Hell, I could kiss him like he’s been mine for the last year. I could romance him all over the city and make him feel like a prince.

If he’d trusted me, we could have stayed together. And then maybe I’d have finished my eleventh book. I could have penned a sentence beyond I’ve been having a recurring dirty daydream.

Jude’s the reason I haven’t written a decent word about love or longing in ages. He took that part of me, and I want it back.

I stab the buzzer again, letting it bray for ten long seconds. When Jude bounds down the steps of the walkup, looking like a magazine shoot in a forest-green Henley, it pisses me off that I’m still so attracted to him.

I bang my fist against the wooden door.

He makes a shushing move with his finger, then waves at the stairwell.

When he jerks the door open, he sears me with a stare. “Hello, honey. So good to see you.”

I thrust the cup at him. “I got you a tea,” I mutter as he exits the building and the door slams behind him.

“Thanks,” he says, then takes a drink—

And flinches, spitting tea all over the steps and crushing the cup in his hand, splashing Earl Grey down my chest.

It’s hot as hell, and I jump back right as he shouts, “It’s fucking five hundred degrees!”

No kidding. Wincing, I tug at my scalding, wet shirt. “Try six hundred.”

“I burned my tongue off.” He stares at the splash across my chest. His eyes widen with guilt. “Oh, fuck me, TJ. Did that hurt you? I’m terribly sorry.”

He sounds so contrite. It’s borderline adorable, especially since it’s so very British. It takes away the remains of the burn. “It’s possible I’m skinless now,” I say, even though I’m not hurt. The tea was just surprisingly hot, not deadly or damaging.

As he gawks at my shirt, I give in to the humor of the situation.

“What’s so funny?” he asks.

“Your reaction,” I snicker. “It’s a little over-the-top.”

“Well, you’re more than a little wet,” he says, indignant.

A glance down at my shirt tells me I’m a lot wet. “This’ll irritate Slade too. He’ll probably be like no fake boyfriends in my care have ever spilled tea on a shirt before.”

Jude screws up the corner of his lips, his mind whirring. “You should change.”

“Nah, I’ll be fine. Slade will be more pissed if I have to go home to get a new shirt. I’m from Seattle. We’re used to being wet.”

Jude scoffs. “Don’t be silly. Come inside. I have something for you.”

“A shirt?”

“Sort of,” he says, grabbing his phone. “I’ll text Daddy.”

I laugh harder. “Better you than me. Do you have any idea how displeased Pops is with us today? And I’m trying to figure out why.”

“Me too. Something clearly went tits up—I just don’t have a clue what that is,” Jude says as he taps out a message, then unlocks the door to his building.

As we head up the stairs, I point out the obvious. “You know we’re not the same size. I can’t wear your clothes.”

“I’m well aware.” It comes out a little flirty as if Jude still enjoys the few inches I have on him in breadth and height.

I wish I didn’t like the flirt in his voice.

I should focus on practical matters, like what we did wrong last night, but I table them as I follow him up the stairs because all I can think is I’m about to see Jude’s home.

Anticipation thrums through me.

Have his tastes changed since I lived with him?

When he unlocks the white door on the second floor and pushes it open, I feel a little like I’ve gained entrance to a secret land. His apartment is bursting with color. An emerald-green couch commands the center of the small living room. Soft yellow pillows line the cushions.

The Jude I knew way back when would have wanted this place for Jude today, and everything feels right in the universe. A bay window invites sunshine. Plants by the window drink up the morning rays. A silvery, mirrored armoire hugs the living room wall. A few dozen books line the top of it in a makeshift bookshelf.

I walk over to them, transfixed. His copy of Murder on the Orient Express has earned a spot here, along with more Agatha Christies and some Raymond Chandlers. Did I influence his taste? I’m tempted to comment on his penchant for mysteries, but I don’t want him to bring me back to reality by saying I had nothing to do with it. I’ll just take private credit for this reading addiction. The mysteries sit next to a few books in the Hidden Gems travel series—one for New York, Paris, and Amsterdam.

I slip back in time to the deck of his Airbnb—when Jude heard me talking to Mason about a book expo in Amsterdam, then asked if I was going. I’d wanted to invite him to join me. Hell, I’d planned on it.

Does he have this book because he visited the Dutch city in the last year? Did he stop there with William on the rocker’s recent European tour? The book looks newish, but it isn’t well-worn, giving me no indication if he went to Amsterdam with him.

Both the curious parts of me and the jealous ones are dying to ask if they went to Amsterdam together, but I’m not sure I can handle any possible answer, so I tap the New York book. “Have you checked out the hidden gems in New York yet?”

Jude shakes his head, his expression a little sheepish. “It’s been crazy since I moved here. I’ve been so busy. A little bit of work travel, since I was in London doing a play, then movie stuff, and now the TV show . . .” He stops and chuckles at himself. “Whoa. I kind of sound like I think I’m the shit.”

I smile. “Nah. You deserve it, Jude. All the success. Also, I did kind of predict it,” I say, proud of his accomplishments. He’s been striving for so long, wanting and then wanting more. Trying hard and then harder. He deserves all the good things.

“You did predict it, and I’m grateful,” he says, with a touch of wistfulness in his tone that almost makes me think we’re both missing what we were to each other—we were supportive. We were encouraging. “Speaking of, why the hell do people say the shit when something is good?”

“I’m pretty sure that comes from drugs, like this is the good shit.”

“Again, why do people say that?”

I laugh. “That’s the English language for you. We turn bad words into good words. This song is sick; this movie is dope; he plays a mean pinball.”

“I do. I am the sickest at pinball.” He grimaces. “Nope. Can’t do it. Can’t say it. Anyway, New York is great. I’d love to see more of it someday. That’s why I got that book.”

“I could . . .” I don’t finish. I don’t want to offer to show him around since I can’t handle his no, so I return my gaze to his collection. But it ends on the travel books. I’m disappointed and realize I’d been hoping he’d have his copy of The Importance of Being Earnest on display.

The one with the two men in top hats.

But I should stop wanting things with Jude, like Amsterdam, wordplay, and inside jokes and doing stuff with him, like seeing his place and showing him around New York and encouraging his hopes and dreams.

Really, I should stop craving the possibilities. I turn around. “Nice place. Very you.”

Jude’s smile is soft. “Thanks. I’ll be shooting here for a few months, so I tried to give it a personal touch. But it’s just a rental,” he says, like he has to explain his pad, even though his place is great. “Yours probably feels more like home.”

There’s a note of curiosity in his voice, almost like he’s wondering what my apartment looks like. Wishful thinking on my part, but I can’t shake the feeling. Or the hope.

“I bought my apartment last year when Top-Notch Boyfriend came out. That was probably foolish, considering . . .” I don’t want to linger on that book with him for so many reasons. I pluck at my sushi shirt. “Slade might get pissed if we take too long.”

“Right, right,” Jude says, snapping his attention back to the moment. Maybe he was lost in unfulfilled wishes too. He wiggles his fingers at my black shirt. The tea stain’s not visible, but it is wet.

“You want me to take it off?” I ask, hoping he has ulterior motives, but that’s wishful thinking.

Foolish thinking too.

“Generally, clothes dry better that way,” he says, then he whispers, “Not to brag but I have a washer/dryer. And it is the absolute shit.”

My jaw comes unhinged. “I stand corrected. You are definitely the luckiest guy in the world.”

With a radiant smile, he blows on his fingernails. “I know.”

“That’s hotter than having your own parking spot,” I say.

He scoffs. “Please. As if I’d have a car in the city.”

I smile as I unbutton the top button. “Understandable. I hate cars,” I admit.

“Same. One of my life goals is to never need to own one. Or to drive one,” he adds.

“Driving is so overrated,” I say, my fingers midway down the shirt now. Jude steals a peek at my chest, half exposed, then tries to look away. But as he swings his gaze around the room, he returns to me over and over as I undo more buttons.

Once I shrug off the shirt, Jude breathes out hard then reaches for it. “I’ll take a chauffeur over driving myself any day,” he says, voice a little rough.

“That tracks, since you did once say your greatest dream was to have a valet.”

Jude clutches the fabric. “Good memory.”

“For some things.” Like, say, everything involving you.

“The washer/dryer is down the hall.” His tone shifts away from sensual, zooming back to cordial. “Want to see?”

“Yes,” I say and follow him down the hall, “since I like porn.”

He jerks his head around, one brow lifted in question.

“New York real estate porn, that is,” I add.

Jude tosses his head back and laughs. “This is triple-X variety then.” Halfway down the hall, he opens a door with a creak of the hinges. “And here is the money shot. I’ve got tissues in case you need them straightaway.”

“Ohhhh God,” I groan salaciously as I stare at the stacked appliances. “I just came in my pants.”

Jude cracks up. “You should use that in your book.”

First Slade, now Jude with the suggestions. Am I funnier today than I was yesterday? If I am, I’d like to channel it for good—the good of my deadline. “Perhaps I will, since laundry in the home is its own foreplay,” I say as he tosses the shirt into the dryer.

He turns the dial, then leans against the machine, adopting a too-dirty look. “And I’m running this bad boy on . . . high heat.”

“Now I can really picture the scene perfectly,” I say.

“See? I’m very inspiring.” The way Jude stares at me then fights not to stare again kicks up heat in my chest.

That’s a good sensation—a familiar one. Sometimes, when I write the banter and the slow, sweet ache of tension, I feel this same kind of longing as I type. Like I do right now as Jude Fox gives me all sorts of slow-burn vibes while he undresses me with his eyes.

Yup, this is my hero’s recurring dirty daydream, for sure.

Will he act on it is the question.

But wait.

Stop. Just fucking stop.

I can’t even consider acting on anything.

Jude is dangerous. Jude is the guy who stole my creativity. Just because he likes me shirtless doesn’t change the score between us. He accused me of something I didn’t do. He flung my private words back at me.

And I walked away from him and froze him out.

Ergo, we are all the way broken up.

I try to focus on something else. Anything else. The creaky door. “Do you want me to fix your door? It’s a little loose,” I say, trying to shake the gravel from my voice.

“I don’t have any tools.”

“Some things never change.”

“Truer words,” Jude says wryly, and I don’t think he’s talking about tools.

That’s the trouble. We shouldn’t flirt. We should stop. I should be friendly, and that’s all. “I can come back sometime and fix it if you want?”

“Yeah?” He sounds so hopeful, as if I’ve proposed giving him that valet of his dreams.

“If you want me to fix it,” I add casually, so this doesn’t become a bigger deal than it should. “I have the time.”

His brow knits as if he’s puzzling that out. “Oh, you mean because you’re not writing?”

I shake my head. “Weirdly enough, not writing takes a lot of time. I stare at the screen, trying to write. It’s like insomnia. You spend a lot of time trying to sleep but rarely get any.”

“That sounds terrible,” he says, reaching out a hand, maybe to touch me, squeeze my arm. But he must think the better of it as he runs it through his hair instead.

“Yes, it’s been kind of awful,” I say heavily.

“I hope you’re able to write soon. I mean that truly,” he says.

I swallow past an uncomfortable knot of emotions. “Thanks. I appreciate that.”

“But what did you mean then, TJ? When you said you have the time?” He asks it like he’s on the edge of his seat, eager to know what I’ve been up to.

Now that he’s asked, I don’t know how to reply. That’s the big fucking problem with Jude lately. I don’t know what to share with him or hold back. I don’t know how to protect myself and rely on him as we navigate this charade. But I’m pretty sure I don’t want to say oh, I meant I have plenty of time because I’m single as fuck and have been for ten long months. Instead, I boomerang back to the reason Slade corralled us and ignore the question. “What do you think we did wrong last night?”

Jude takes a beat, maybe to process my left turn. “I dunno. I replayed the rest of the night after he texted us. We kissed on the cheek, and, fine, no one saw it, but how can he be pissed about that?”

“Right? That’s not our fault,” I say.

“Then we had a drink together. I’m honestly at a loss,” he says as the dryer beeps.

Jude yanks open the door, grabs my shirt, and hands it to me. I slide it on and thank him as I button it.

“Happy to help,” he says, then gestures grandly to my chest. “If only Daddy could see us now.”

“He would be so proud of us for getting along,” I say.

Maybe we’re finding our way to an unspoken truce this morning, somehow moving past the pain of that fight in Los Angeles. We’ve been laying down our weapons, working together to decipher Slade’s clues.

We leave, having made no plans to fix the door in his laundry room.

And it’s for the best. We don’t need to make plans to see each other outside of this ruse. He might like to flirt with me—he might even enjoy the view of my chest—but he’s not making plans with me, nor am I making plans with him.

We’re over, and he’s so clearly moved on. Too bad I haven’t.

But I’ve got to try, once and for all.

As we head down the hall, passing the open door to his bedroom, I tear my gaze away from those sheets.

Don’t want to see his bed. Don’t want to imagine pulling him down onto me, wrapping my arms tight around him.

Maybe I won’t write Fake Dating My Ex. That story might be too hard to tell.

My heart aches painfully, a weight in my chest.

But then, isn’t that how I felt when I wrote my first romance several months after I left London? A little achy? Stuffed to the brim with missing and longing and want? But back then, Jude was the guy who got away. Now, he’s my ex.

And I’m one of a handful of guys from his past.

Along with Robert the Wanker, who somehow wasn’t that into Jude, and Arlo, who cheated on him.

The possibility that I could be lumped with those assholes claws at me.

When we reach the front door, I grab it and hold it open. Jude always had a thing for gentlemen. I can be a better ex than those schmucks who didn’t appreciate this man by my side.

“Thank you,” he says, then drops a kiss to my cheek once we’re on the stoop.

Like he’d do if I’d spent the night and I was leaving in the morning.

Oh, fuck.

That’s it.

That’s what we missed.

But before I can tell Jude I cracked the Daddy code, the driver emerges and holds open the limo door for Jude and me.

After we slide inside, Slade wastes no time. “Nice move with the front door, TJ. Keep that up. Jude, nice move with the cheek kiss. It almost makes up for last night’s faux fucking pas,” he says as the driver pulls away. “Let me break this down for you. You two messed up last night—”

“When we left separately,” I cut in because I want points for solving the mystery.

Slade slow claps. “Yes! You figured it out. But it would have been better if you’d Sherlocked that answer last night, since Desmond Ratchet made a thing of you lovebirds leaving separately on Spotted in the Wild.”

Dragging a hand through his blond locks, Jude groans. “Ugh. His blog is all gossip and paps shots.”

“Yes. And the public loves gossip and paps shots. But we at CTM don’t love gossip and paps shots about our rising star and Oscar-nominated talent who’s playing a good guy on the new LGO show, do we?”

“No,” Jude says, dipping his face.

“So, let me remind you. Being boyfriends surprisingly means you have to act like you like each other. That also means—egad—leaving together because we want everyone to think you’re banging. But does Desmond think you’re banging?”

I gulp. “I’m guessing the answer is no.”

Slade clears his throat as he grabs his tablet. “From Spotted in the Wild,” and hits play on Desmond’s video report. “Hot new couple Jude Fox and TJ Hardman might be headed toward breakup already. Last night, the pair went to Food but left separately without so much as a kiss goodnight. We’re predicting a mutual split by next week. Who wants to place bets the Oscar-nommed actor is missing that naughty rocker?”

The anger that faded when Jude splashed me with tea reappears at the mention of William.

We’re not in this together. We’re in this against each other.

I’m such an idiot to think more of his eye-fucking and his flirting. That’s just part of his Judeness. Probably part of what seduced William too.

“It’s all fucking poppycock,” Jude says.

“Or pop-star cock,” I mutter under my breath.

Jude snaps his gaze to me. “What did you just say?”

“It’s like being cold-cocked,” I say innocently.

Jude stares at me like he doesn’t buy it. Whatever.

Slade sighs. “I’m not refereeing a lovers’ spat. You two need to step it up,” he says, then lasers his eyes at me. “TJ, I expect you won’t be the smoothest since your skill is peacocking with words. But Jude,” he says, shaking his head, “you’re an actor. You should do better. Sell this romance, like we talked about. How hard is it? You have less chemistry than I do with my aunt! You two didn’t even kiss last night!”

“Yes, we did,” I point out, annoyance flooding the whole car. I can smell the fumes coming off me.

“We definitely kissed,” Jude seconds.

“Ooh, big deal. Did anyone see it?”

“Are we supposed to scan for cameras before we smooch?” Jude asks.

“Yes!” Slade shouts. “I’m not having you pretend to be lovers in private. You’re putting on a show. Tap dance, razzle-dazzle. Find the lens, then give that smolder to the crowd. If two men kiss in a forest and no one is around to see it, did they even kiss?”

Jude hauls in a breath, his eyes fiery. “We kissed on the cheek in the middle of the restaurant. Right after you texted, and it was a great kiss. It was a fucking amazing kiss. I was not thinking of anyone else,” Jude bites out and, wow, he sounds livid.

But why? He’s over us. He’s over me.

I’ve only seen him this angry once before, and that was the day we split.