Here Comes My Man (Hopelessly Bromantic Duet 2)

AN OPEN BOOK

Jude

I have a free day before the press junket, so after I grab a bite with my brother, I pay a visit to a special thrift shop, pinning all my sartorial hopes on this store.

Inside Angie’s Vintage Duds, I spot my favorite shopkeeper behind the register. Helen gasps when she sees me, drops the scarves she is folding, flies around the counter and over to me, arms outstretched.

“After all these years, I knew you’d come back to me.”

I hug her, laughing as her purple hair swishes past my cheeks. “I’ve been gone less than a year.”

“I measure time like a dog. In Helen years, it’s been forever,” she says, then lets go, only to hold my face and pinch my cheeks. “Are you well? Eating enough? You’re quite trim and toned, but be sure to eat some scones now and then, love.”

“Scones hate me.”

“Scones love everyone,” she says, smiling warmly. “I’ve been making plans for my Oscar watch party. Have you got your speech done yet? It’s in two weeks. You need to be ready for when you get that statue.”

I won’t listen to her and tempt fate. “I haven’t written a speech because I won’t win.”

“Nonsense. You have my vote.” She swings her gaze around the store. “Now, are you looking for something for your fabulous man?”

I love that she figured me out just like that. “I am,” I say, and it’s such a relief to be out of the public eye and in the haven of Angie’s. I’m not stressed one bit about my image with Helen. “If you have a shirt his size with fox illustrations, I’ll pretty much love you forever.”

She bops me on the nose. “You already love me forever, but as it happens, I do have a shirt just like that.” She beckons me to a rack by the dressing room. “Come along.”

“You’re a goddess, Helen.”

“The goddess of scrummy clothes for scrummy men.” She stops at a rack, flicks through shirt after endless variety of shirt, then grabs a yellow one emblazoned with tiny cartoon foxes, tails held high.

I can’t even handle its hipster perfection. TJ will lose his mind. “I’m in love. I’ll take it,” I say.

“Good. Now, tell me everything,” she says as we return to the counter and chat.

I catch her up on the details of my life—from moving to New York to reconnecting with TJ to our trip to Vegas. “And then he made this private Instagram account for us.” I grab my mobile and show her our pics. “Want me to send you the link?”

“Obviously. I’ll be checking it every day. I consider myself your matchmaker,” she says, then blows on her fingernails. “And I’ll be taking credit at your wedding.”

I jerk back, hold up a stop-sign hand. “No one is talking marriage.”

She laughs sagely. “Not yet, but someday. He’s the one for you and you’re the one for him . . . as I’m sure you let him know every day.”

I gulp, chagrined.

He is the one for me. But I haven’t said those words in no uncertain terms. “I will tell him,” I say tentatively, bracing myself for the blowback.

Helen tugs on my earlobe. “Shame on you. You must tell him. Life is short. You eat the chocolate. Get the shirt. Tell the man he’s yours.”

Those are some words to live by.

I’ll start with the shirt.

* * *

On Friday morning, Slade whisks me to the Savoy Hotel for an early Q and A. Reporters fire off questions about the movie, the Oscars, Unfinished Business.

But also . . . TJ.

You were supposed to be on this tour with him. Everything okay?

What’s the latest with you and the author?

You were inseparable for a while, and now you’re separable?

His work on the script is under wraps, so I keep my answers vague but truthful. “Everything’s great with TJ.”

“Rumor is you’ve broken up. Care to comment?” one man asks.

Before I can reply, another reporter shouts, “Yeah, what’s the real reason he’s not here?”

I haven’t been this anxious in ages. I steal a glance at Slade in the front row. He pastes on a big grin. Smile and wave.

But I don’t smile. I tackle the obnoxious question head-on.

“I assure you we didn’t break up. Everything is fantastic. In fact, it’s never been better,” I say, fueled by the memories of Vegas and my dreams for this coming weekend. “He has a deadline and needed to work on his book. He’s incredibly supportive of me. So, I wanted to be supportive of him.”

There. All completely true.

Slade stares sternly at me, shut up written all over his face. But I wanted to answer honestly, and I don’t regret what I said.

Another reporter presses on. “But he’s been seen in Los Angeles. He lives in New York. William and Christian live in LA.”

It’s a slap in the face. That’s where honesty gets me.

Behind the podium, I clench and unclench my fists. “The great thing is he can write from anywhere,” I say, injecting cheer into my tone.

“Why not here, then? With you?” the reporter continues.

Why do they care so much? It’s like I’m naked on stage, the way they pick apart every word.

Slade strides to the front of the room, cups his mouth, and booms in his big voice, “One more question is all we have time for, folks.”

“But Jude didn’t answer the last one,” the reporter unhelpfully reminds the room.

“He did,” Slade says. “TJ has business to tend to as well. They can’t always travel side by side. But they’ll be seeing each other when they both return to New York this weekend. Thank you again. That was the last question.”

I’m so wrung out. I’ve no problem letting Slade shepherd me out the back door of the briefing room. It’s exhausting defending what feels like a lie, even though it’s true.

But reality and farce are spilling over into each other. It’s too much, this balancing act between actual and pretend boyfriends. All I want is to be in New York, where I can talk to TJ and figure out how to live fully in the real us land.

“You and TJ need a public date this weekend,” Slade murmurs out of the corner of his mouth.

I groan privately. I don’t want to perform a date. I want to have a date with my boyfriend and only my boyfriend.

When I return to the hotel room to finish packing for my flight in a few hours, I’m desperate to connect with TJ. He’s the only one I want to talk to about anything.

But it’s the middle of the night in New York. Time zones can fuck off. I text him instead.

Jude: This weekend, can we please figure out what to tell our agents? I want to put this whole fake boyfriend thing behind us and just be real.

A half hour later, he replies. He must be up late or having trouble sleeping. That’s no fun, but I’m thrilled to hear from him.

TJ: Me too. Can’t wait to see you today. Also, there’s a gift for you at the front desk of your hotel. It arrived in the nick of time. Grab it before you catch your flight soon. Please.

My frustration slinks away as I answer him.

Jude: I love gifts. What is it?

TJ: Open it, Jude. I’m going back to sleep. I need to rest up before you return.

Jude: Yes, you definitely need to rest up since I have plans for you.

TJ: Mmm . . . I like being on your to-do list.

Jude: You are all of the list.

* * *

I stop at the concierge desk on my way to the airport, excited about the gift. The clerk hands me a package, and I thank him, then rip off the brown butcher paper from An Open Book.

I freeze.

This is the last thing I expected—a copy of Top-Notch Boyfriend. Why is he sending me his book now? Is this his way of taking me up on my offer to help sort out any continuity issues with the crossover?

I turn the book over, read the jacket copy I already know, about the best friend’s-brother romance between an illustrator and a violinist. Jackson and Liam are full of charm, banter, and heat, one reviewer says. These two heroes stole my whole heart with their connection, another writes.

My stomach twists, but it’s time for me to brave this tale of his past love. I’ve dreaded this moment, but I suppose it was inevitable that someday I’d have to read the story Flynn inspired. TJ needs me, and this is such a TJ way of asking for help.

I pat the cover, like that settles that, when a bookmark slips out. No, wait. It’s a piece of stationery from my former store. Under the logo for An Open Book, it looks like someone from the shop has written a message.

But the words are TJ’s.

I want you to read this. Trust me. I think you’ll like it. I think you’ll know why.