Here Comes My Man (Hopelessly Bromantic Duet 2)

LET’S BE WICKED

TJ

Ah, it’s good to wake up in my bed after returning to New York in the dead zone, otherwise known as three a.m.

The only reason anyone should be awake at that time is to fuck.

Now it’s mid-morning on a gorgeous March day in New York, so I hit up Nolan for a run on the High Line. It’s been a while, so I’m stoked to see him. Bonus that this run will pass the time while Jude flies across the ocean, and I try not to obsess over whether he likes my book.

I give my college friend the behind-the-scenes on the private Instagram feed, then ask if he wants to meet Jude this weekend for a drink.

He says absolutely and I guess some things are easy like that—like friends understanding you.

On that note, I wave goodbye and run several blocks home. I take a quick shower, get dressed, and settle onto my couch to start a new chapter in my novel. But first, I fire off an email to Mason.

Did Webflix approve my idea for the change in Liam’s character? Also, hello. I am back. I am writing. All is well.

I return to the scene, checking the time far too often. Jude should land any minute, and I can’t wait to see him.

I can’t wait to find out what he thought of Top-Notch Boyfriend.

And I can’t wait to figure out what’s next for us.

When my phone rings a little later, I grab it instantly, hoping it’s Jude. But Mason’s name flashes across the screen. Heusually calls when he has good news. So, when I pick up, I say, “Tell me all the good things.”

A peculiar and heavy sigh is his answer. “Are you home? Because I can be there in five minutes.”

Shit. He’s never been over to my apartment.

Panic rushes through me. Did Webflix hate my idea? Did they nix my project? Except, that’s not enough for him to show up at my home. Which means he’s not calling about a deal gone sour. Something else is rotten in the state of my books.

Somehow, I croak out, “Yes. Why?”

“Check The Hollywood Scoop,” he says, then tells me he’s on his way.

I end the call, my gut churning like a blender. With a deep sense of dread, I click on the website.

You got fooled, and you got fooled, and you got fooled!

In a storyline ripped straight from romance novels, Oscar-nominated actor Jude Fox and bestselling author TJ Hardman were playing make-believe all along with their supposed love affair.

Turns out that the epic romance, complete with kisses on Broadway red carpets, appearances at restaurant openings, and sightings at charity concerts was all a ruse.

This intrepid blogger has learned the actor and writer have been faking their romance all along. The reason? To boost Fox’s Oscar image after his rep took a hit from dating the rocker who recently went to rehab. (Here’s hoping it lasts, William.)

Now the high-profile pair is primed to break up their fake romance, per their “orders” from whoever is orchestrating this whole fable. My bet? Their agency is pulling the strings since CTM reps both men.

Why Hardman needs a fake boyfriend remains a mystery to me, but my money is on . . . money. I suspect TJ was paid to pose as Jude’s beau.

And it worked! They’re the toast of the town and they’ve been shipped.

Mark my words. It’s only a matter of time before “FoxMan” posts a “we’re parting ways and please respect our privacy” breakup letter. Straight from their publicists’ pen.

Ta-ta for now!

My face is red and hot. Shame creeps up my neck. Embarrassment crawls over my skin. I want to point out every detail that’s wrong with this piece.

Starting with the suggestion I got paid.

And . . .

Well . . .

That’s the only part Rikki Finch got wrong.

Malcolm must have taken a wild guess and planted the bug in her ear. The irony that the bloviator should be right about the one thing that can ruin my life. He probably told her I would stage a breakup again, and then she ran with that tip and figured out the rest. I can’t even blame the Man’s Man for tipping her off and sharing his theory.

This is all my fault. I agreed to this farce, knowing I’d be hoodwinking my readers. I deserve whatever consequences come my way.

Like I’m walking to my execution, I let Mason into my apartment a few minutes later. He’ll be the witness to the death of my career.

He’s all business. “Holly’s at the airport to pick up Jude and bring him here. Slade’s on his way. It’s crisis time, and your place is now the war room.”

And here I’d been hoping it’d be the reunion sex palace.

I sit on the couch with my agent. He whips off his glasses, a sign he’s about to tell it like it is. But Mason looks tired. Like this has been a long week. Hell, it’s been a long year for him dealing with me. I haven’t been the easiest client. He’s managed the hell out of my writer’s block. He’s also looked out for me for my entire career, and writing is everything to me.

Sure, he gets fifteen percent for his work, but he’s also a friend, and I owe him the truth. Before he can start in on his plans, I stop him and say, “Listen, I want you to know something.”

As I tell him the truth about Jude and me, I care less and less about what happens to me and more and more about the people in my life.

Especially the guy on his way to my home.

* * *

When Jude arrives, I’m a dog rushing the door. I swing it open, and it takes all my self-control not to jump up and down.

Then bring him in for a hug.

Ask how he’s doing. If the piece freaked him out. What he needs from me. How the hell I can help.

But we’re not alone, and his eyes are tired. For a few seconds, all my fears swim up. Will Rikki exposing us send him running from me? Will he want to cool things off till the press dies down?

Then I lecture myself. Of course, his eyes are tired. He’s been up for hours.

And fuck my fears. We didn’t go through the last few weeks of opening up, letting each other in, and learning to trust just to toss it all away when shit gets hard.

Life is hard, and we’re here for each other.

“Hi,” I say softly to the guy I adore.

“Hey, you.” His voice is tender too, a spark returning to his eyes.

Holly clears her throat. “Let’s do this, gentlemen. I have dinner reservations.” She’s kind but firm as she shoos Jude inside. Slade follows. “No time to linger in the hall either.”

Slade shepherds us to my couch like we’re chastened children. That’s what we’ve always been to him. “How the hell did The Hollywood Scoop know we were gonna have you post a breakup letter?”

Is that a real question? “She made a lucky guess,” I say.

Then I can’t help myself—I steal a glance at Jude.

It’s been days since I saw him. God, he looks good, even after traveling all day. His hair is messy, but his blue eyes are bright now. I want to run a hand through his hair. He raises an eyebrow as if he catches me looking at him. And like he likes it. My heart pounds in my ears.

“And breakup letters are customary,” Jude adds, in a calm voice to soothe the PR guy.

Slade is wound all the way up, though. “I know that, but how did Rikki know that?”

Mason scoffs. “She knows everything, Slade.”

The publicist grips his bald head, clearly pissed that his plan went belly up.

I’m not pissed, though. I’m only worried about Jude and whether this news is affecting him. When he sneaks a hand toward me on the couch cushion, I feel warm everywhere. We’re in this together.

“We’re going to have to double down,” Slade begins, counting off on his fingers.

“More dates, you mean?” Holly asks wearily.

“Dates, appearances, press,” Slade says, rambling on.

Mason sighs, then shakes his head. “I’m not sure we should. Sometimes you have to cut your losses.”

Holly nods thoughtfully. “Exactly. We might have done enough at this point. Best to tackle this another way.”

Jude doesn’t even look at her as he inches closer to me. He’s not bothered by any of this career triage. All he cares about is touching me.

That’s when it hits me—he told Holly the truth, just like I told Mason. Our story is no longer up to them. It’s ours.

“I’m thinking a coffee run in a few minutes. Maybe along Fifth Avenue for everyone to see,” Slade rattles. “A walk along Central Park. A dinner. More posts, more dates, more—”

“Nope.” I stand, cutting him off, then head to the door, open it, and gesture for them to get the hell out. “Not that I don’t appreciate your willingness to come over on a Friday afternoon, and not that I don’t value all you’ve done for Jude and me, but you all need to go. Now. Enjoy your night. I’ve got a real date with Jude, right here, right now, and it doesn’t involve anyone but us.”

Across the living room, my boyfriend smiles. His spotlight shines beautifully on me.

Just me.

My heart thuds like a drum. Yeah, I made the right call kicking them out.

“Well, then,” Holly says, but her lips twitch into a grin as she heads to the door.

Mason is all too happy to ditch us. “Clutch. Fucking clutch, TJ. Put that move in your next book. Make the laidback hero say it and it’ll get all the readers hot,” Mason says on his way to the door.

I laugh. “Get out of here.”

Slade sputters, “But wait. Hold on. We need to—”

Mason slaps a hand on Slade’s mouth. “Sometimes you have to let the kids do their thing.”

My agent escorts the publicist out of my place. The fake boyfriend game is officially over.

I shut the door with a satisfying click, then turn around, ready to haul Jude into my arms . . .

But he’s already come to me. He’s a foot away, and he grabs my face to hold me tight. “I love you. I love you so much. I am utterly, absolutely in love with you, TJ.”

Joy floods every cell in my body. He took the words right out of my heart.

The only thing I’ve loved more than writing is this man. “I love you too, Jude.” I press a kiss to his lips. “I just love you.”

We stop talking and kiss like it’s the answer to every problem.

Fine, this kiss doesn’t erase Rikki’s story. It doesn’t clean up the mess. And it doesn’t solve our career issues.

But it does one thing spectacularly well. It reminds me that all of that will be fine. Whatever happens, I’ll be fine as long as Jude is here with me.

And I do. I have the man I love in my arms.

When we break the kiss, Jude looks elated. “You are such a sneaky fucker,” he says, grinning wickedly.

I shrug playfully. “No idea what you mean.”

“You’ve been leading a double life. You never said a word to me about your inspiration.”

I roam my hands down his arms, enjoying every second of this. I got the guy. I’m riding off into the sunset with him. “I didn’t not say a word either.”

“You didn’t tell me! How could you not tell me?”

“Dude. If you had just read it . . .”

“You told me not to read it,” he insists.

“You don’t always listen to me,” I say, but we’re both laughing, we’re both giddy, and neither one of us is talking about Malcolm or Rikki or the paps or a fake romance.

Because we’re real. Definitely real.

Just like all those feelings in my book came from this real love, the first time around. When I wrote that romance, Jude was the guy who got away. At the time, I was gambling that he’d read it and like it, think it was clever and fun. But, I’m so glad he read it today.

Jude runs his thumb along my face, tracing my jaw. His smile widens, and his voice softens. “You wrote me a love letter in your book.”

My heart hammers. “I did. I remember the day at the river when you asked me to write a story about you.” I take a beat, enjoying this moment more than anyone has a right to enjoy anything. “You’ve been all my inspiration since I left London. I’ve been longing for you the whole time, and I put that in every book I wrote. You’re every love story. You’re every romance I write.”

He threads his fingers through my hair. “I fell in love with you in London. And then again in Los Angeles. And then once more over the last few weeks.”

“I can’t seem to stop falling in love with you either,” I say.

“Don’t stop. I won’t either,” he says.

Nothing else matters. I need him. “Kiss me again.”

Jude obliges with a long, deep, passionate kiss that has me pulling him to the bedroom and tugging him onto the bed on top of me.