Here Comes My Man (Hopelessly Bromantic Duet 2)

DEFINITELY LIAM

TJ

On Thursday morning, I walk along the promenade in Santa Monica and duck into a coffee shop.

I’ve got a final meeting with Webflix in an hour to go over my revisions. I’m this close to cracking the code on the script. But I’m still unsettled about something.

I order a coffee, and while the barista measures the beans, I stare out the window of the shop, contemplating my fictional heroes. Is the unease about them?

The script problem was, frankly, easy to diagnose. The adaptation veered too far from the book. In my revision, I went back to the basics of the story itself—the dialogue on the pages of the novel.

Still, a couple of details about the heroes nag at me. Have I done enough with them in the adaptation?

I’m close, but not quite there.

Sort of like . . . my situation with Jude.

Theoretically, I should feel better about my romantic life after we made it official between us Sunday morning in Las Vegas. Plus, we’ve been texting all week. I click on our texts, re-reading some of them, like his: Wish you were here.

Then my reply, sent a few hours later: I wish I could be in London with you too. I hear the shower curtain shopping dates are stellar there. But blanket shopping is on the list for New York.

He replied this morning. You can never have enough blankets, color, coffee, books. Or sex.

The texts bring a smile to my face and a spring to my step and cock, but the trouble is I don’t feel as settled or certain as I’d hoped.

“Here’s your Ethiopian drip,” the barista says, sliding me the mug. I thank him.

Coffee in hand, I head outside, grab a table, and pop open my laptop.

But before I dive back in, I noodle on my zigzagging thoughts today. Is asking Jude to be my boyfriend enough?

No, you dipshit.

The answer smacks me on the back of the head like a big brother.

Boyfriendship is just the start. We have so much more to figure out—like what to do when the agency wants us to part ways.

But we can sort that out in New York this weekend. I’ll see Jude tomorrow, and we can start then.

As I take a drink of my fuel, I slide into the role of The Handyman, Script Doctor style.

I laugh silently, still incredulous.

Is this my life?

Yup. And I hope Webflix loves my revisions. I fucking love this story. I fucking love these characters. And I fucking love that Webflix asked me to fix the script.

While I was fixing the dialogue, I discovered another problem. The Webflix adaptation started in the wrong place, skipping the prologue entirely.

Oh, just the moment when, you know, the heroes meet for the first time.

I returned to the book on that too—a scene in the past when the guys meet in an art supply shop, hit it off, exchange names and numbers. But before they can start a romance, Jackson realizes—oops!—Liam is his best friend’s brother.

My readers loved the meet-cute and the subsequent oh shit he’s off-limits moment.

So, I added the meet-cute, adapting it straight from the prologue. Sipping my coffee, I read it for the fiftieth time. But I want to hear the lines out loud before I share this latest revision with Robert’s team.

There’s only one person I can ask to run these lines with me. I call Hazel on FaceTime.

My work wife answers right away, and I recognize the framed coffee cup behind her. She’s at our regular haunt in Chelsea, and I miss both Big Cup and her. Holding up a finger, she slings her bag on her shoulder and leaves the shop, walking down the familiar tree-lined block in New York.

“This might sound a little silly,” I begin.

She snorts. “Nothing sounds silly to a writer. Hit me up.”

“Would you read this scene with me?”

She’s not even fazed. “Which guy do I get to be?”

“You can be Liam.”

“He’s such a soulful hottie, and I love his flirty side.” She makes a gimme gesture with her fingers. “Where is it?”

“Sending now,” I say, then drop the scene into an email.

She stops, sits on a stoop that’s straight out of Carrie Bradshaw’s hood, then scans the scene. When she reaches the end, she adopts a deeper man’s voice, and we begin.

Interior: Art Supply Shop—Day.

Liam hands a sketch pad to Jackson.

LIAM: And here’s the one you’re looking for.

JACKSON: Thanks. (A PAUSE) There was something else I wanted, though.

LIAM: Ah, I had a feeling. I’m Liam.

JACKSON: You knew I wanted your name?

LIAM: I’m a bit of an amateur detective.

JACKSON: Evidently, but I have to ask the obvious. Is your name really Liam?

LIAM: You doubt my name?

JACKSON: It’s just that Liam is such a classic . . . cute guy’s name.

LIAM: Do you think I made it up to impress you?

JACKSON: Maybe I was hoping you did.

LIAM: In that case, I’m Definitely Liam.

JACKSON: Definitely Liam has a nice ring to it.

LIAM: Then you can call me Definitely Liam.

I stop, release a big breath. That felt good to me. I hope it worked for Hazel. “What did you think?”

“It’s soooo good. And you know why? Those are—gasp—the lines in the novel. The lines readers love. That whole definitely Liam bit hooked me the very first time I read your prologue.”

“Thanks. I like it too,” I say.

But it’s not quite there. It’s still missing something. Hmm.

Wait.

Could that be it?

“What are you grinning over?” Hazel asks. “Because you sure as heck look like you just discovered calorie-free cake.”

I think I know what the adaptation needs most.

I ask Hazel for another reading but with a slight tweak.

With a roll of her eyes, she drops into a stage whisper. “I had a hunch you were going to ask me for that.”

Still smiling, I shrug. I’ve been busted and just don’t care. “Write what you know.”

“And you did,” she says. “A story rich with longing.”

We redo the scene with the tweak, and wow. Holy shit. Yes. That’s it.

All my story uncertainty vanishes. I’ve cracked the final code on the rewrite. I just need to pitch Webflix on the changes when I go into the meeting.

Where the adaptation is concerned, I know I’ve nailed it.

But have I done enough for my own love story?

I stare at the screen for so long the letters in Top-Notch Boyfriend start to blur. But in them, I find the beginning of the answer.

No.

I didn’t say enough to Jude. That’s why I’m unsettled. I have so much more to say to him.

I want it to be Friday afternoon now, so I can see him and tell him everything in person.

With a glance at the title on my screen—the words become crystal clear—I know exactly how to start. It’s late in London, but I call a store and order delivery to Jude’s hotel.