Here Comes My Man (Hopelessly Bromantic Duet 2)

RETURN TO SENDER

TJ

My stomach growls as Jude and I wait in line to order at a hip breakfast eatery in the hotel.

“Must. Eat. Soon,” I moan as I stare at the counter and the food, so close, yet so far away.

Jude pats my arm. “There, there.”

We’ve been waiting twenty minutes already, and I hate lines on principle. I don’t do them. But when I asked Nolan for Vegas food recs, he said Egg-asmic was a must. “Nolan better not be lying. He told me the egg sandwiches live up to the shop’s name,” I say to Jude, showing him the message from my college buddy.

Fair warning: you might come as you eat, so, ya know, get extra napkins.

Jude raises an eyebrow. “That’s a helpful warning. Does it apply to the Egg Solo too? Since I’ll be getting that—no bread and all.”

“I guess you’ll have to find out,” I say.

“Adventures in orgasmic dining.”

The couple in front of us moves up in line. We’re that much closer to ordering. And I’m this much closer to telling Nolan about Jude for real. But it feels weird just to start dropping notes to my buds. Hey, there. That guy I’m seeing in the media? Wanted you to know it’s a fake romance only it’s not really and now you know.

There has to be another way.

And I’ll have to figure it out soon. Nolan’s not the only one I need to come out to about Jude. My brother texted this morning. I click on that note again, my stomach dropping as I show it to Jude. “Chance sent me this today.”

The blond Brit peers at the screen, reading my brother’s words. Oh hey, I’m doing great too, thanks for asking, so cool to learn about your NEW MAN FROM MY WIFE. WHO READ IT IN A BLOG. SENT TO HER BY A FRIEND. Big Bro, Whaddup?

Jude gives me an ouch that stings smile. “So . . . um . . .  whaddup?”

I snort. The list of people I need to come clean to is way too long.

Tomorrow night, I’ll introduce Jude to Jason. But what the hell do I say to my brother? Let alone Nolan, Jo, Easton, my parents, and on and on.

I need a plan, but I’m too hungry to think straight. “That is an excellent question, and I’m working on it,” I say.

“Good to know,” Jude says, and I’m glad he’s letting me figure out this friend thing in my own time. Jude’s always been more open about us; he’s giving me the space to catch up, and I appreciate it. “I texted William like we talked about last night.”

“What did he say?”

“That he had—his words—really good fucking totally brilliant bonkers news. And he’d get back to me soon to share the news in all its glory,” Jude says, with an I don’t know what to make of it shrug. “It could be a good sign, or it could be more of the same.”

“You want me to check in with him too? See how he’s doing?”

Jude gives a soft smile. “I would like that. I think he would too.”

Easy enough. As we move up in the line, I send William a text.

Hey, there, wand steamer. Jude and I were thinking of you, and I just wanted to say I hope you’re doing well. Next time you’re in New York, we should all hang sometime soon.

Five seconds later, he replies.

New York or anywhere! I’m in. And it’s really great to hear from you. P.S.—I finished Top-Notch Boyfriend. Can I just say I’m so stinking glad you didn’t write that thriller whodunit what have you with the rubbish title.

Laughing, I show the note to Jude. “He sounds . . . really good,” I say, encouraged.

“Yeah, he actually does.”

Jude doesn’t say anything about William reading my book. That’s progress too. Letting go of the thing that came between us.

* * *

Thirty minutes later, an egg sandwich and an Ethiopian coffee have restored my brainpower. Jude’s polished off just eggs, and they made him moan in pleasure. “I need a thousand napkins for that,” he says. “Which means, I didn’t even miss the bread.”

“My bud did not lie,” I say, then wince. But I’m lying to Nolan by omission.

Man, having a conscience sucks sometimes. On the flip side, being with Jude does not suck whatsoever.

After we bus our table, I gesture to the café’s sign. “Does that count as another secret real date?”

Jude wraps an arm around me, smiling as we leave. “Yes. So we need another picture.”

“Aww. Are we making a Shutterfly album?”

“For all our besties,” he says, then smacks a kiss onto my cheek.

Teasing Jude is way more fun than blasting my is-it-fake-or-is-it-real-news to friends and family. After all that honesty yesterday, I might burst if I scoop out another serving of my soul. I’ll deal with my brother later. Same for Nolan.

Now is my time, so in the concourse of the Vegas hotel, against the backdrop of Egg-asmic, I haul Jude close. Then I take out my phone, drape an arm around him, and snap the pic.

When I show it to Jude, he hums as he studies it, then points to my face on the screen. “Look at you. You’re all Mister Casual.”

I tense. “Is that bad?”

“No. It’s good. I get to see more sides of you on our secret dates. I like it,” he says.

Yeah, I just want a slice of nice and easy today. No secrets served up, no insides excavated. “Glad you approve of the sides of me, and the photo, sweetheart,” I say, tossing his pet name back at him.

“You don’t like my pet name, baby?”

If he only knew how much I love all his shows of affection. I plant a loud kiss on his cheek. “It’s all right,” I say drily.

Out of the corner of my eye, something catches my attention. A short, pale blonde stands in front of a map shop just past the café, lowering her cell phone as she looks our way. She wears a pink blouse, a messenger bag slung across her chest, and a satisfied smile as she turns and walks away.

Feels like more than a random fan snapping a pic. “Do you know who that was?” I ask cautiously. “She felt . . . familiar.”

Jude shakes his head, frowning like he also thinks she’s familiar but can’t place her. “No. Sorry.”

We walk the other way, toward the casino. My neck grows hotter as if I’m being watched. I feel more off-kilter than I have with all the posed pics. “I should be used to it by now, this whole thing. You and me and the photogs,” I say, puzzling out the feeling.

But I’m not sure if my issue is the picture or that someone captured a private moment back there, a record of our secret date.

“TJ,” Jude says, carefully, taking his time. “It would be like this. I don’t want to sound like a conceited ass, but it would be like this. You know . . .”

If we keep doing this.

He doesn’t add those words, but that’s what he means.

It’s a warning. Be careful what you sign up for.

But I already gave up some privacy when my books started selling, and I lost a whole lot more of it when Flynn’s breakup video went viral. True, being with an Oscar-nominated actor is next level, but I’m not sure privacy is the big issue.

The issue is . . . me.

Are our secret dates just another version of my lie of omission?

“I know,” I say, but I won't elaborate since I don’t know the answer to this new quandary. Besides, when we reach the casino, my phone buzzes and his beeps.

We groan in tandem, Pavlovian dogs who know what’s coming.

“Daddy,” I mutter.

I grab my phone and click on Slade’s instructions. As I read, my stomach twists. It turns. I feel like my breakfast might come back up.

Grabbing Jude’s hand, I pull him next to a sleek, silver slot machine. He looks as awful as I feel. “This is a breakup script,” he chokes out.

“It is,” I echo, then scratch my arm. My skin crawls. These banal words are bugs creeping over my flesh.

The letter echoes in my head.

After this final week, you’ll lie low for a bit. TJ will be busy writing. Jude will be busy in rehearsals. Then it’s Oscars, baby, Oscars! That’ll be your last hurrah together and after it you’ll be free. A few weeks later, you’ll each post a breakup letter to your socials. It’ll say—Hi Everyone. We wanted to let you know that we recently decided to part ways. We respect and admire each other and remain friends. Thank you for honoring our privacy. Jude and TJ.”

It’s awful.

In its starkness. In its blandness. In its mere existence.

I shake my head as if I can erase this message—return to sender. “I don’t want to deal with this right now,” I say.

“Me neither.”

I need something to wash the taste of this letter out of my mouth. A poker game. A roller coaster. An arcade. Vegas is the land of distractions. This ought to be easy. I scan the hotel, looking for an escape from reality. But when I see Malcolm Mann saunter past the nearby roulette game, laughing as he talks on his phone and giving us a wave, this hotel is the last place I want to be.

“Let’s get out of here,” I say.

His eyes say hell yes.

We fly out the door.