Hopelessly Bromantic (Hopelessly Bromantic Duet 1)

Part One

Seven Years Ago

And so it begins . . .

1

What Kind of Lap Dances Does He Like?

Jude

This is the greatest vacuum cleaner ever. There has never been a better one in all the land. It’s literally going to change your life.

I repeat those notes from my agent before I head into the audition room—a drab, windowless shoebox of a place above a strip club on the outskirts of Leicester Square.

I’ve got no problem with the business of exotic dancing. But all things being equal, I’d rather audition for a new commercial above, say, a Tesco or an insurance office.

But a gig is a gig is a gig.

I put on my best smile as I give the casting director my name. “Jude Graham with Premier Talent. Harry Atkinson reps me, and it’s a pleasure to be here.”

The casting director looks up from her tablet, question marks in her eyes. “Harry? I thought he was—” She makes a slashing gesture against her throat.

“I hope not. I saw him a week ago. Very much alive. And also, not headless.”

“Ah, must have been someone else,” she says.

Yes, I’ve noticed the epidemic of talent-agent beheadings in London lately.

“Sorry for whoever that might be,” I add.

She smiles faintly, the thick coat of plum lipstick cracking. “All right, show us you’re in the market for a Cleaneroo.”

Somehow, she manages to keep a straight face when she says the brand name—something I’ll be required to do in three, two, one . . .

I become a cheerful, British businessman returning home to his flat after a hard day at the office. “Sweetheart, I swear the floors have never been prettier. Did you get that new Cleaneroo?”

Could this script be any more 1950s?

“Thank you,” the casting director says, revealing zilch about how I did.

“Thank you for having me,” I say with a gentlemanly nod as old-fashioned as this script.

Shit.

That was more of a bow. I meant to be jaunty, not obsequious. No matter. She didn’t even notice. She’s dragging her chipped red fingernail on the tablet screen, already done with me.

I grab my messenger bag and make my way down the rickety stairs in the back of the building, heading out through the strip club. A brunette dancer weaves past me, pink thigh-high boots jacking her up several inches, white seashells covering maybe half her breasts. An unlit cigarette dangles from her lips as she gives me a once-over. “Fancy a lap dance? Half off for you . . . I like blonds,” she says.

“Thanks, but I’m on a lap-dance fast,” I say, making my way to the exit.

Once I hit the street, I call my agent. “Why do these Cleaneroo people think you’re dead, Harry?”

He chortles. “Ah, that’s so typical of Vicki. When I don’t send her anyone for a while, she assumes I’ve kicked the bucket.”

That’s not the most reassuring answer. But last year, Harry did book me a sweet spot that’s still paying the bills, so I let rumors of his demise slide. “Maybe let her know you’re still alive?”

“Oh, I already told her, Jude. She just called.”

I perk up. That has to be good. “Did I get a callback already? I can turn around right now. Or is it even better? Did I get the job?” Antiquated gender stereotypes aside, I wouldn’t mind the money.

“She said you look too much like Apollo. The Greek god.”

What the hell does that mean? “Is that a good thing?”

“Of course it is,” he says, too chipper to trust. “But they think you’re too good-looking to peddle a vacuum. Like, no one believes you’d think about anything besides abs or kale smoothies, let alone cleaning. So it’s a compliment, in a way . . .”

I sigh. “And, also, kind of not.”

“It’s a double-edged sword—your godly good looks.”

I’m not sure what to say to that. “Should I forgo showers for a few days ahead of time for the next audition?”

He laughs. “Chin up. We’ll find some more commercials for you soon. But in the meantime, the body spray people just sent a residual.”

“Well, there’s that double-edged sword too.” I played a complete douche in that advert, spraying Hammer Body Spray on my armpits before I sauntered into a nightclub. “Thanks, Harry.”

I hang up and check the time. I’m not due at An Open Book for a half hour, but I might as well head over. Too bad the Cleaneroo commercial flopped—I rearranged my schedule at the store today to do that audition. C’est la vie.

I pop in my earbuds and tune into Carrie Fisher’s memoir—someday, I’d like to have a secret affair with someone like Harrison Ford—as I make my way to Cecil Court. I turn down the next street, and there’s no way I can miss the strapping man on the corner, staring up at the TK Maxx sign. He looks perturbed and, also, really fucking hot, with a strong jaw and thick dark hair.

A brooding sort of stuntman, he’s all casual in jeans and a black T-shirt, no pretenses.

Time to take out my earbuds right now.

He sighs in frustration, flings a hand at the store.

“It’s literally the British equivalent of T.J. Maxx,” he mutters.

He’s loud enough for me to hear and American enough for my happy radar to beep. I happen to be a connoisseur of American accents.

I stop a few feet from him. “It is, indeed,” I agree. I’ve heard that about this shop, and I’m so bloody helpful to lumberjack-like men.

He turns, giving me a full, close-up view. Those eyes. Fuck me with a ten-inch dildo—they are a dreamy chocolate-brown with gold flecks.

I am not walking away.

I will continue this conversation for as long as I possibly can, or until I learn what kind of lap dances he likes. “It’s our discount shop. It has a little bit of everything,” I say.

He doesn’t answer right away. Maybe he’s straight. Sadder things have happened to me today.

“What do you know?” he asks in a voice that sounds like he just got out of bed after having sex.

I like that image—a lot.

His dark eyes flicker, perhaps with dirty deeds. Maybe he’s got the same images running through his head that I do. “I might be in the market for a little bit of everything,” he adds. “Where should I start at TK Maxx?”

How about letting me show you around?

But best to make certain he’s into the same things I am before getting too flirty. “Depends on what you’re looking for. They have surprisingly fashionable dog clothes, excellent popcorn, and also home furnishings,” I say, starting with a bit of charm.

His lips tilt into a bit of a grin as if I’ve entertained him. “Good to know, in case I get a late-night craving.”

I’ve got a craving right now, all right.

The American gestures to his shirt. “But I’m on the hunt for a new shirt.”

I wave a hand at his firm chest. “You might want to try Angie’s Vintage Duds around the corner if that’s your thing. They have cool retro tees and stuff,” I say while I cycle through tactics to get his number.

To satisfy my craving.

“Thanks. Maybe I’ll hit up Angie’s. You never know who you might meet your first day in London.”

He shoots me a smile.

Trouble is, it’s only a friendly one, not quite a come-and-get-me one.

I’m getting ahead of myself. I should get on my way because I don’t usually hit on men on the street. Maybe the thing to do is leave him a clue and put the ball in his court.

“True. You never know.” I pause for a moment, then . . . What the hell. You’re only young once. “By the way, I’m Jude. I work at a bookshop on Cecil Court.”

With that, I turn and get on my way, and I don’t look back.

Not until I reach the end of the street. Then, I can’t resist one more glance his way.

He hasn’t moved, except to turn his face toward me, watching me walk away.

A kernel of warmth spreads in my chest, and I know later, at the shop, I’ll be staring at the door, hoping he walks in.

A few minutes later, as I reach Cecil Court, I realize what a daft idiot I am.

I didn’t tell him which store I work in, and there are only twenty bookshops on this street. I check my watch. I can make it to Angie’s to correct my mistake and still be on time for my shift. Spinning around, I walk quickly to Angie’s. But as I peer in the window for a few long seconds, I only see the purple-haired woman who works there. I give her a wave, then head off.

Sigh. Another tiny heartbreak today, since I’ve a better chance of selling a Cleaneroo than seeing the American again.