Shameless Flirt (Hopelessly Bromantic Duet 0.50)

Helen shudders. “No. But we’ll soon change that. I’ll have you turned out positively fetching, and you’ll have all the lads eating out of the palm of your hand.”

“I came to the right place,” I say, pretty damn pleased.

She tips her head to the door, a knowing look in her eyes. “We’re LGBTQ-friendly. Angie is married to a woman.”

“Cool. That’s awesome. All of that,” I say. But especially awesome is the part I keep in my head.

This might be the writer in me, finding motives in coincidence, but could Jude have sent me here because he caught on that I like dudes? Could it mean he does too?

Yeah, TJ, that’s it. The hot Brit sent you on a scavenger hunt to a gay-friendly shop as a secret handshake inviting you into Pink London.

Sighing, I shake my head at myself. I need some sleep, or I’ll be imagining cryptic passwords and rainbow illuminati.

I yank the dressing room curtain closed and change into a tee with The Dude Abides stretching over my pecs. The Big Lebowski makes this a no-brainer yes.

As I pull on the next shirt, my brain turns to mulling over the scavenger hunt notion again. On one hand, it’s ridiculous to think Jude sent me here on purpose and equally ridiculous to think he invited me to his store.

Yet, on the other hand, I keep coming back to the idea. Does that mean there’s something to it?

Something besides wishful thinking?

I shake off the thought and put on my old black tee, then grab the shirts and meet Helen by the racks. “I’ll take all three.”

“Wonderful,” Eggplant Helen says as she ushers me to the register. “Now, I know I’m not your target market, but you did look quite scrummy in the Tetris one, so I bet you’ll attract the locals in that, no problem.”

If I’ve learned anything today, it’s the ease of talking to strangers—no one judges you, or if they do, it doesn’t matter.

“Helen, can I ask your advice?” I venture.

“I sure wish you would.”

I check that there are no customers in earshot; I don’t want to sound like an idiot. “I heard about your store when I was standing outside TK Maxx.”

She grimaces. “That place is ghastly for clothes.”

“You’re not wrong. But while I was there, this guy . . .” I pause, and her eyes say tell me more. “This very handsome guy stopped and mentioned your shop and suggested I shop here.”

Her eyebrows shoot toward her hairline. “And then?” She beckons with her fingers for me to give her more. “I want every detail.”

“And then he happened to mention his name.”

She gasps.

“And that he worked at a bookstore on Cecil Court,” I add.

Helen vibrates with enthusiasm like a chihuahua at dinnertime. “Take these shirts. Slap on some cologne. Go change and get moving to that bookstore.”

I laugh, trying to stifle my hope, but I’m not sure I’m successful at hiding how excited I am. “You think so?”

She stares at me sternly. “Why else would he mention where he worked? Drop the tidbit of his name? Send you here? Off you go!” She stuffs the shirts into a plastic bag, thrusts it at me, and points to the door. “But report back tomorrow. I do fancy myself a matchmaker,” she adds in a confessional whisper.

“I can tell, and I will report back. I promise.” I take a step toward the door then turn back when I remember, “I also need a strong coffee. But nothing from an American chain, please. Their coffee is like drinking burnt sadness.”

“And ours is like drinking watered-down malaise. Best to learn that harsh lesson sooner rather than later. But an English Breakfast tea is like a shot in the arm. Ought to wake you right up.”

Once I leave, I swing back to TK Maxx. I do need boxer briefs, and consignment isn’t my preference for those. Then, I pop into a café and order an English Breakfast tea.

With that jolt of caffeine, I return to my hotel where my room is ready, and so is the shower.

Maybe the gods of horny young men are looking out for me.

6

Trick Address

TJ

* * *

I forgot an important detail about Cecil Court, and when I round the corner into the famous alley, I stop in my tracks and stare slack-jawed.

I’m that guy—the one duped by a transposed phone number or a fake name. The guy who goes to the address Mister Perfect gave him, and oops! It’s an empty lot! It’s a sewage plant! Or . . . surprise! There are twenty fucking bookshops on Cecil Court.

Time fooled me over the years, erasing all the other shops on this street. Or maybe at thirteen, the only place that existed for me was the nameless one where I whiled away hours in a corner, lost in a story.