Here Comes My Man (Hopelessly Bromantic Duet 2)

BEING CHEEKY

Jude

Man can’t survive on his opinion alone.

Fortunately, I have a woman to help me pick the right outfit. My bed is littered with the wrong ones.

I take off a pale-yellow linen button-up and toss it on the pile. “Supplies are rapidly dwindling, Liv,” I warn as the mountain of do-not-wear shirts grows taller.

She ignores my concern, flicking through the shirts still on hangers at lightning speed. “Not that one,” Olivia declares as she nixes a purple button-up.

“I like aubergine,” I protest.

“I like eggplant, too,” she says, tossing me a bawdy wink. “And peaches. But this shirt doesn’t say anything.”

“It’s a shirt. What do you want it to say?”

That earns me a sharp stare. “Seriously, Jude?”

“Yes, seriously. That’s why I’m asking.” I flap a hand at the pile. “At this rate, I’ll have nothing left to wear.”

“Poor Jude will have to go shirtless. Cry me a fucking river.”

“The abuse, dear woman. The abuse I endure.”

“You’ll miss your free stylist when you’re paying some Hollywood person a pretty penny for picking your wardrobe.”

“I’m not going to have a stylist,” I say. That’s too wild a thought. I still can’t truly believe I nabbed the part in If Found, Please Return, let alone that critics lauded it. I can barely breathe out loud that I’ve been nominated. It’s all too surreal, especially after those two years when I hardly worked at all.

Those dark days never feel like they’re in the past. Just like that, I could be there again, so I need to stay several steps ahead.

“You are,” Olivia insists. “In, oh, say, three fucking weeks, when you go to Los Angeles and accept your Academy Award.”

I cover my ears. “Tra la la la la.”

Stopping her shirt perusal, she grabs my hands. “Please. Don’t be so modest. You’re going to win, and I’m going to be right, and it’s going to be fucking fabulous.”

“What part are you looking forward to the most? Being right?”

She wiggles her brows as she returns to the wardrobe assessment. “Obviously. Being right is one of my favorite things. After dark chocolate cake and multiple orgasms, both of which are on my agenda tonight. Amelia got a new toy to try, so after the show, it’ll be time for cake and banging.”

“In that order?”

She lifts a finger, pausing to think. “Fair point. She’s been sending me nudes all day, so maybe I want the banging first, then the chocolate cake.”

I laugh. “So you’re going to squeeze in a quickie before Adventures of The Last Single Guy in New York?”

“Well, Amelia doesn’t take long to get in makeup.” Olivia stares at the ceiling and taps her lip, likely adding up the minutes to blast off for her and her new main squeeze—the former London Wicked star who’s playing one of the leads in the show we’re seeing tonight. “Now that you bring it up, if I leave right now, I could probably just nip off to her dressing room and sit on her face before she puts on her mascara.”

I roll my eyes. “I can’t take you anywhere.”

“And I can’t take you to opening night if we don’t pick out some clothes. Stop taking so long.”

“Right, right. It’s me taking forever.”

“It so is,” she says, then wheels around to the closet. She gasps and makes a slow-mo point to a robin’s-egg blue shirt. “This shirt says something. It says ‘hot rising star.’ You’re wearing this, and you’re going to look fucking amazing, and TJ is going to melt to pieces when he sees you.”

That’s reason enough. I snatch it from the hanger and put it on.

“You want him to melt, don’t you?” Olivia goads like she’s caught me K-I-S-S-I-N-G in a tree.

No point pretending with her. She can always sniff out the truth. “Yes.”

She swats my shoulder. “I knew it!”

I shoot her a dry look. “You say that like me wanting TJ to melt is a surprise.”

“Because you’ve acted cold! These last months, you’ve acted like you were over him.” She wags a finger. “You’ve been all nose to the grindstone. Work, work, work. No mention of TJ.”

“I wanted to be over him. And honestly, I’m not sure there’s much point in talking about him now, since it’s all a ruse,” I say a little heavily as I reach the last button.

She gives me a doubtful look. “Is it, though? That kiss in the limo sounded pretty stinking hot.”

“Right, but it’s not like we’re getting back together. I mean, Liv, they even have our fake boyfriend breakup scripted out for us.”

“If it’s all just a ruse, why do you sound bummed about it ending eventually?”

Because of the jittery, unpredictable way I feel around my ex—like a popcorn popper, about to explode. “You’re right,” I say as I roll up the cuffs. “We’re faking our romance, so who cares?”

She arches a brow as she slinks forward and straightens my shirt. “You care.”

“Hardly.” I tuck the shirt in, trying to hold my ground. Like, I’m not counting down the minutes till I see my ex. Like, I’m not replaying our kiss over and over. Like, I don’t care one bit.

She steps back, her eyes touring my wardrobe: black trousers, the robin’s egg shirt, short black trendy boots. “Damn, I did well. TJ is going to be a hot mess tonight.”

I can’t hold back my grin. “That’s very, very good.”

Her face says busted, and I honestly don’t mind. “Like I said, you care,” Olivia says. “And I was right, which pleases me to no end. Now, tell me, why do you want him to be affected by you?”

I don’t need to ponder her question as we leave my room. One day after that fierce, angry kiss in the back of a limo, I’ve got the answer. “Because he still does it for me,” I admit.

And that’s very good for our fake boyfriend theater and very bad for my heart.

* * *

When we exit the subway and head into the zoo of Times Square, Olivia tells me she’s going to run ahead because Amelia has demanded she come backstage.

“Did she use those exact words? Come backstage?”

“Yes, but she added pretty please.”

“Did you meet your soul mate in Amelia Stone or what?”

“Manners get me in the mood every time,” she says.

“Which would explain why you’re taking off for the theater right now,” I say.

She waves then flies through the crowd, determined to get some, it seems. I don’t rush, though, because I’m not going to show up sweaty and disheveled for the cameras. Or for TJ. But as I weave through the Eighth Avenue foot traffic, I text him that I’m on my way.

Jude: Almost there. I’ve been running lines in my head all day for when I see you. We don’t want to fuck this one up for Daddy. How’s this for a greeting? “Hey there.”

TJ: Brilliant. But who’s giving the cheek and who’s giving the kiss? Details, or Daddy will have a fit.

Jude: If you’re as late as you were at the restaurant, I’ll have to kiss your cheek when you finally saunter in.

TJ: That was a trick question. One, I can be trained, ergo I’m here already at the St. James. Two, you’re the star. Therefore, you offer the cheek, and I kiss it.

I do like his logic. It’s sort of sweet, as if he wants to play the role of the man behind the scenes. As I turn onto Forty-Fourth Street, the shimmering marquee of the St. James beckoning against the March sky, I write back.

Jude: Are you being cheeky?

TJ: LOL!

Jude: Stop the presses. You use Internet abbreviations?

TJ: Take the compliment, Jude.

Jude: Taken. :) I’ll be there in five.

TJ: I’ll be waiting.

My chest flutters at those three words. They’re a little romantic, a little poignant.

Or maybe he’s simply playing his part.

Ugh. I wish I knew what was fake and what was real with him. But I know this—I’d do well to avoid another obsession with him, so I should stop analyzing.

As I near the theater, my phone rings. William’s name flashes on the screen, and I debate whether to pick it up.