34
Things I’ve Done
TJ
There’s a lot to learn.
For instance, I never knew Jude liked kale so much. But he’s actually eating it for breakfast, along with his egg-white omelet.
“I feel like you were a toast guy before,” I say as I dig into eggs and potatoes.
He groans. “Do not mention that four-letter word.”
“Toast is five letters, honey,” I tease.
“C-A-R-B,” he says as the sun streaks through his hair at the sidewalk café.
“Ah,” I say, after I finish a bite. “Let me guess. You’re not allowed to eat anything except kale, eggs, mangoes, and chia seeds.”
He points dramatically with his fork. “Blueberries! Do not try to take my blueberries away from me. I can eat those too.”
I take another bite of my eggs. “I almost feel guilty about the pizza I had in New York before I left.”
He growls, his eyes narrowed. “I warned you. Carb is a dirty word. I must pretend pizza doesn’t exist.”
“I’m pretty good at putting my head in the sand, but there’s no way I could even imagine a world without pizza,” I say, as I wave my fork at him and his toned physique. “But I get it. You probably have to maintain a strict regime and whatnot.”
“I do,” he says, but shrugs happily. “It is what it is. I kind of did a whole reboot a couple years ago, and that was part of it.”
He must mean those two years when I didn’t see him in anything. “Do you mean after Our Secret Courtship? What happened there with your character?”
His expression shifts, a hard edge in his eyes I’m not used to seeing. Then it disappears, replaced by a breezy grin. “Creative differences,” he says, like it’s no big deal. “But by reboot I meant I switched agents. I’m with the Astor Agency now. And when I signed, we went over everything I needed to do to get to the next level. All the things, from kale to auditions.”
“Was the other guy not cutting it? Harry, was it?”
Jude frowns. “Harry and I didn’t part on the best of terms.”
I don’t like the sound of that. “What did he do to you, and do I need to take out a hit on him?”
He sets down his fork, sighing, then glances around. The café is bustling. At the table behind us, a woman in pink yoga pants slips a piece of ham to a chihuahua in a handbag. By the door, a pair of young moms try to get a toddler to eat eggs. Jude lowers his voice. “Look, I know you’ll understand because of the whole chicken cook wanker.” Normally, I don’t like to be reminded of Flynn. But if Jude’s gearing up to tell me something, it’s probably something I want to know. Since, well, I want to know him. “My agent screwed this guy I was seeing. It was a whole terrible mess.”
Good thing I’m not eating this second because my jaw drops. Anger courses through me. “I’ll take out a double hit then. That’s terrible.”
“It was. But here we are, you and me, a couple of great dicks,” he says, a call back to the night I told him about my name, when he then told me about his college boyfriend. This time, his words mean even more. The two of us have this second chance because we dated jackasses and because we’re no longer dating jackasses.
“Here we are,” I echo, but I don’t think he wants to linger on his exes or mine, so I shift back to shop talk before I take another drink of my coffee. “The new agent? Is he or she better? I hear good things about Astor so it sounds like a good move.”
“It feels like a partnership so far, so that’s good. I have a film and TV agent there, Holly. And a theater one, Kenta. They’re both great. And yes, I do the whole actor watch-what-you-eat thing. It’s just part of Hollywood, I suppose. Which is what I want.”
“To work in Hollywood?” I ask curiously.
“Yes, TJ. Of course. Hollywood’s the top of our business.” Jude says that like it’s obvious, and I feel a little foolish for not gleaning that as soon as he said it.
“Why do you say it like I should have known? Not everyone’s goal is to work in Hollywood. It’s not mine,” I say, especially given what my agent told me when Top Notch Boyfriend shot up the charts. Everyone from Hollywood is nice to your face, but when you turn around, you should trust no one as you smile and wave at the sharks while they swim by.
“Look, London is great and all, but the action is here,” Jude says. “I want jobs in America. Or Canada, or Georgia—wherever they’re shooting.”
Ah, that adds up. “So you’d move here?” I privately cross my fingers. If he were in Los Angeles instead of London, I could see him even more easily. Fly here on weekends. Or weekdays. My schedule is my own. I could make a go of it.
Except I’m getting ahead of myself. No idea if he wants that.
“If the opportunities allow,” Jude says, thoroughly business-like.
And that’s my reminder to get a grip. We haven’t even been together for twenty-four hours yet. I should not get ahead of myself. He hasn’t given any indication that he wants to do this, whatever this is.
Best to focus on what I know—that this man is a star. “They will. You’re opening a show at Mark Taper. You opened in London. Jude, you’re a big fucking deal.”
“TJ, you don’t have to suck up to me.”
I crease my brow, confused. “What do you mean? I’m not just saying it.”
“Look, you’re further along than I am,” he says, and it almost sounds like he’s biting out the words.
“That’s not true,” I protest.
“Please. It totally is. You have ten bestsellers, including a huge breakout hit. You’re a big fucking deal. You’ve done everything you said you’d do in London.”
“And you had a role on TV. You did the West End. You’re performing at Mark Taper,” I point out, all while trying to shut down an unpleasant idea that pops into my head. Is this Flynn 2.0?
“And I’m thrilled about that. But it’s not all sunshine and roses. I have a long road ahead, and a lot to accomplish. I’m not like you, already at the top.”
Why the hell is he comparing us? “I’m a writer. You’re an actor. We don’t have to be the same.”
Jude sighs, like I just don’t understand. “You’ve had hit after hit. It’s not like that for me. I don’t expect you to get it.”
Whoa. “But I do get it,” I insist, trying to impress that on him because I don’t want to go through the same thing again, not with Jude. “I understand what you’re saying. I just think you need to give yourself a chance. You’ll get there. You’re already on the way.” How does he not see this? “Your business is hard.”
“I know it’s hard, TJ,” he says, his tone laced with frustration as he sets down his fork. After he drags his hand through his hair, he jerks his gaze away from me, stares down the street, his jaw ticking.
I’m quiet, giving him the time he needs, even though worry spikes in me. Are we arguing over a race he shouldn’t be running between us? It’s like saying who has the bigger dick? Really, who cares?
Except, I care deeply about how he feels. And I care intensely about what we could be. But I don’t want Jude to judge me, or worse, judge himself by the metric of me. That’s a recipe for romance disaster. I can see it playing out in a book. The scenes are writing themselves, marching toward a dangerous moment I’ve got to try to stop. “Jude,” I say softly, puzzling over what to say next.
When he turns back to me, frustration is still etched in his eyes. “Look, it’s a sore spot,” he says, then lets out a long exhale, his expression softening slightly. “It’s not your fault, though. I appreciate everything you’re saying. But I’m still chasing my big break.”
Even though I don’t like how he’s talking, I also know you need to read the room. I got lucky with Top-Notch Boyfriend. Yes, it’s a good book. Yes, it’s probably my best book. But it also came out at the right time, when gay romance started having a big moment in the publishing sun. Add in the Flynn debacle, and it shot up the list, then sent my other books back up the charts, coattails and all. But telling that to Jude won’t change his desire to hit the next level. I try another tactic, since he’s not Flynn. Not at all. He’s the guy I want another chance with.
I reach for his hand. “Hey,” I say gently. “I’m on your side. I’m rooting for you. We don’t have to compete.”
“You’re right,” he says slowly after a beat, linking our fingers. “Sorry. I was an arse.”
I point at him with my free hand. “You said arse.”
He laughs. Finally, he laughs. “I did it for you. I’m not annoyed with you, TJ. I get annoyed with myself sometimes. Over . . . things I’ve done,” he says, but he doesn’t elaborate on those things. “I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”
I squeeze his hand harder. “It’s all good. But please know this—I do understand you. I like to think I always have.”
Jude squeezes back. “You have. I was a dick to get annoyed.”
I wag a finger at him. “Dick is a good four-letter word. It’s not like carb.” The waitress swings by with the pot of coffee, offering a refill.
I say yes, and when she leaves, Jude points to the cup. “Seconds at a café? I figured you’d turn up your nose. Have you given up your coffee snobbery?”
“Fuck no.” I shake my head. “The coffee’s horrid, but I like to punish myself with bad coffee.”
He holds up his hands in surrender. “Nothing, nothing in the whole world, could be more you than that.”
“You get me,” I say.
“I do.”
We both laugh, and this direction feels so much better. Still, I have one more thing to say on the prior topic. “Just know you don’t have to compare yourself to me or anyone else. You’re you. And comparison is the thief of joy.”
“Is that from one of your books?”
“Please,” I scoff. “It’s from a mug or a pillow or a fucking Instagram post. But originally, it’s from Teddy Roosevelt. Point is, you’re going to keep chasing your dreams. You’re going to land job after job. You said you have meetings while you’re here, right?”
His blue eyes twinkle. “I do. Holly set up a number of them. One with a network about a show. Another with a studio. Then there’s one on Friday about a possible streaming opportunity.”
“Yeah?” I ask, already excited for him.
He crosses his fingers. “I don’t want to get my hopes up, but they’ve been talking about maybe developing a show around me, and the best part is that it’s got some of me in it. It’s a queer romance. Supposedly, they’re talking to Christian Laird too. Not for the same part, though, since he’s American of course. But I’d love to work with him.”
I keep my mouth shut about my publisher going after the same guy. This is Jude’s moment, not mine to humble brag about a slim-to-nil chance of himrecording my books. “That’s perfect. I’m telling you, queer romance is the thing.”
“That’s what The Hollywood Scoop said in an article the other week, and I say it’s about time. What took Hollywood so long to figure out there’s nothing better?”
I shrug, what gives style. “No idea, but I’m glad they did, because I love it. And it gets me hot.”
Jude leans a little closer, whispers in his most seductive voice. “Tell me more about why it’s so damn sexy.”
“How about I show you later?” I tease, then slide a hand under the table and squeeze his thigh.
“You better show me tonight after the show.”
I’m tempted to bring up something I want to do in the bedroom. But now isn’t the time after that minor disagreement. I’ll wait till the mood seems right. I’m patient like that. “I will, Jude Fox.”
“Speaking of names, TJ Hardman, where did you come up with that perfect pen name?”
He truly doesn’t know? Oh, this will be fun. This may jolt him further out of his funk. “At first, I considered TJ Cummings, but then you have to get into the whole is it c-u-m or c-o-m-e debate.”
“Is this like the whole ass/arse debate we had before?”
“Oh, it’s bigger, Jude. So much bigger.”
“Gee, I wonder if I can figure out which one’s right in your world,” he deadpans, then stares. “I know the answer. I’ve read your books.”
I snap my fingers, playing along. “Dammit.”
He taps his chin. “But what I want to know is, which one is correct in your favorite book? That is, the dick-tionary?”
That’s my Jude, giving it good in the word-play department. “If you must know, the Merriam-Webster dictionary says both spellings are correct,” I say, enjoying the hell out of this answer. “And frankly, I like the way c-o-m-e looks written down better. But, let’s be honest, they both feel the same on the tongue.”
He murmurs his approval. “Mmm. They do. Though I might want to verify that before I leave for the theater.”
“You want me to give you a good luck BJ before curtain? I’ll allow it.”
“Or maybe I want to give you one. Seeing as another name you could have considered is . . . Sweetcox.”
Fuck, he’s good. But so am I. “And if I ever need to launch a new name I could be Phil . . . Accio.”
Jude slow claps. “You win.”
From my seat at the table, I take a small bow.
The sound of wheels racing by on the sidewalk snags my attention. “Dude! Team TJ! Rock on!”
Jude jerks his gaze to the surfer guy already down the block on his skateboard. Then he levels me with an amused stare. “Does that happen a lot?”
I roll my eyes. “Less than before. But zero times would be my preference.”
“Well, I’ve always been on Team TJ,” he says.
“Thanks,” I say, and that’s as good an entrée as any to a secret I want to share. Something I wasn’t sure I’d tell him but he was honest with me today, even though he was pissed. Still, he told me something that was clearly tough, something that revealed some insecurities. It’s hard to make yourself vulnerable, so he deserves this intel.
“Do you remember the first night we went out?” I ask.
“The night you fell asleep at the table, you mean?”
“I did not fall asleep,” I huff.
“You yawned your face off. And it slowed down our time to shag. We were going to fuck that night, and instead, I had to wait fifteen long and hard days.”
“And was it worth it, Jude? All those long and hard days?”
He grumbles out a yes.
I cup my ear. “I can’t hear you.”
“Yes, fine, it was good. Fine, it was great. Okay, it was fucking amazing. So, what should I remember about the night we met?”
“At the bar, I wrote a note in my phone.”
His eyes light up from the memory. “That’s right! You did. I asked if you were taking notes on our conversation.”
“Because you gave me an idea.”
His eyes brighten. The memory must snap into place for him. “I said I enjoy a hard man. Are you fucking kidding me? That’s where your pen name came from? That was the note you wrote down?”
“Yes,” I say, and wow, did I just tell him something this big? I did, and it’s a little scary being this open, but a little awesome too.
“I love that,” he says, then sighs happily. “Did you happen to notice my handle on Instagram?”
I sure as shit did. “It’s JustJude,” I say.
He says nothing more. There’s no need to since we both just said enough. That we matter to each other. That we’ve mattered for a long time.
Even though we might have had a minor argument, we can make it through.
After our late breakfast, we walk along the beach, pop into shops, and track down consignment stores where we both buy some new clothes.
It’s London in Los Angeles all right, and it’s a perfect day.
As the afternoon ends, we head back toward the promenade when a bus rumbles along, a poster for Our Secret Courtship with the new Victor on it.
I flip him the bird.
Jude laughs. “Thank you for the support. That bloke is a total twat. He took my role.”
“It’s a tough business,” I say, hoping Jude doesn’t get annoyed again.
“It is,” he says, his mouth a straight line. “You just never know who has your best interests at heart.”
I drape an arm around his shoulder, wanting to reassure him, even though I don’t entirely know what he’s dealing with. “I think I get it. I want to get it.”
Jude gives me a soft smile. “I knew you’d understand,” he says, and I’m thankful for that.
Very, very thankful.
When I spot a bookstore at the end of the block, that sparks an idea. Something I never did for him in London. Something I can do now.