Here Comes My Man (Hopelessly Bromantic Duet 2)

WHEN WE WERE GOOD, WE WERE REALLY GOOD

Jude

I don’t really have the time for a call, but I have to answer, considering the state William was in when I last saw him. What if I don’t and something happens? Or he breaks more than a hotel room? I step away from the crowds, darting into the doorway of a shuttered store. “Hey, mate. How’s it going?”

I brace myself for the usual lies—everything is great. I swear, I’m fine. I just miss all my friends.

But what I get instead is a deep breath. “Hey. I’m good. Really good. Listen, I wanted to say I’ve been thinking about what you said last time I saw you. When you took me home from the Luxe.”

Hope rises in me. “Yeah?”

“About making changes and whatnot,” he adds as if I don’t recall every word.

“And what are you thinking?” Rehab. Please say rehab.

He’s quiet, but New York’s not. Cabs lurch by, and crowds jabber. Somewhere nearby, a siren wails.

“I’m definitely thinking,” he finally says.

But if he can’t even say the word rehab, he might not be ready to quit drinking. “How’s it going this week? Have you been back at yoga?”

“Oh!” There’s sunny excitement in his voice. “I didn’t tell you?” I wince. Those words rarely mean good news with alcoholics.

“Tell me what?”

“I have been going on the reg. My new yoga teacher is fine as fuck, and we went out last night for a smoothie.”

“Is that code for something?”

“No, it was legit a smoothie. Tonight, we’re going to . . . a bonfire on the beach.”

Bonfires on the beach usually involve bottles. I check the time. “William, I need to take off. I’m due at the theater any minute. But be careful, okay?”

“At the beach? Don’t you worry. I’ll fight off all the sharks.”

“You know what I mean,” I say. Why the fuck won’t anyone else tell him the truth? Why won’t his family, his agent, his other friends? “I want you to think seriously about getting help,” I say, and tough love hurts. It’s gut-wrenching.

“I know you do, Jude. And like I said, I’m thinking about it. I’ll talk to Damian about it.”

“Is that your new guy?”

“Let’s hope so. Have I mentioned he’s hot?”

“Yes. Yes, you have,” I say, wishing his yoga fling was a good sign, when in fact, it’s probably a sign he’s turning to men, as well as alcohol, to fix whatever is empty inside him.

“Anyway, you enjoy the show. Say hi to TJ for me. Would be fun for us to hang again now that you’re back with your man,” he says, and that’s the guy I know. Earnest, real, unfiltered.

I latch onto the memory of the supportive person he can be. He’s always wanted his friends to be happy. “I will,” I say, though I know I won’t tell TJ I spoke to William.

Anytime his name comes up, TJ turns into a jealous dragon . . .

Wait a moment. This is bonkers. How did I miss that obvious fucking neon sign?

If TJ’s jealous, that might mean he’s not over me after all.

I’m practically buzzed as I tuck my phone into my pocket. When I reach the St. James, I’m still grinning. The lobby is teeming with photographers, snapping pics of influencers, producers, celebrities of all shapes and sizes.

I cut through the crowds, saying hi here and there to a few industry people. I spot that guy from Food who TJ introduced me to earlier in the week—the Man’s Man. He’s built like a slab of beef. He tips his chin toward me. “Hey, Jude,” he says. “Whoa. Like The Beatles song.”

Never heard that before. “Indeed, like The Beatles song, Malcolm.”

“Good to see you again.” He offers his fist in some sort of frat-bro bump. Can I pretend I don’t see that? Not with all the paps around. But the last thing I want is someone taking a shot of me fist-bumping a frat bro, so I pat his shoulder in greeting instead.

“Hope you enjoy the show, Malcolm. Lovely to see you again,” I say.

“Tell your dude I DM’d him,” Malcolm calls out.

I flash a red-carpet grin. “Absolutely.”

I push him out of my mind, returning to the delight of TJ’s jealousy. When I find my date, he’s just beyond the doors, swiping the screen on his phone. My smile is unbeatable. So is my libido as I rake my gaze over the man from head to toe. He looks sharp in stylish black trousers and a shirt with—Are those psychedelic mushroom drawings on it?

The man has style, and it’s because of me. The memory of thrifting in London is such a feel-good drug.

I cut through the crowds, walking past a few photographers on the hunt for celeb shots, and stride right over to my date. When he notices me, he tucks his phone into his pocket. I stop a few inches away. Before he can say a word, I cup his face.

Fuck cheek kisses. I want his sexy mouth, so I take it, lingering for a few risqué seconds on his lips.

He trembles, then whispers, Wow.

“Hope you don’t mind that I went off-script,” I murmur.

His strong arm wraps around my waist. “Your ad-lib is on point.”

When I pull away, he does as we planned, dropping a kiss to my cheek and . . . click.

There’s a camera. There’s a flash of light. There’s Slade in the corner of the lobby, approvingly smiling as he chats with the morning news host from the infamous chicken dude interview.

Slade mentioned he might grab tickets, so I’m not surprised to see him. Plus, as the press guy for a talent agency, no one would think he was here to babysit two clients faking a romance. He looks like he belongs.

And perhaps, for the first time since we met again, TJ and I look like we belong together too.

Trish beelines for us, clasping a mic, her blonde bob as unmoving as the hair on a Lego woman. I flash back to the viral video, picturing the moment when TJ’s ex refused to hold his hand on camera.

I grab his hand. His brown-eyed gaze sails to our threaded fingers. Is he thinking about that other interview? Cataloging the differences?

I hope so.

Trish arrives and sticks out a hand. “Hi there, TJ. I’m Trish from the morning news, and we’ve talked in the past.”

“Of course. Good to see you again,” he says, so smooth and on it.

She shifts to me, introducing herself. “And I’ve adored you since Afternoon Delight and Our Secret Courtship. And, get ready for this—I even saw you in The Artificial Girlfriend way back when.”

Whoa. That’s hardcore. “Hardly anyone mentions that show,” I say, truly surprised.

TJ nudges my side. The pride on his face is picture-perfect. “Told you you were great in that.”

Trish thrusts the mic in his face. “So, you saw The Artificial Girlfriend too?”

“I did,” TJ says warmly. “Little-known fact. I helped Jude rehearse for that series.”

Trish looks confused. “How did you do that?”

TJ squeezes my hand, giving me an affectionate glance before returning his focus to Trish. “We were roomies for three weeks in London. Eight years ago,” he says, and the memories—dear God, the fucking amazing memories—of those twenty-one days hit me like the sun rising in the morning.

“He helped me run lines for that audition,” I say.

“He was nervous. But I knew he’d get it.”

I smile, a little embarrassed. “He was very, very encouraging.”

“That’s not all, Trish,” TJ says, and I freeze for a second, unsure where he’s going. Then, he turns to me and finishes, “Remember what I said about you getting an Oscar someday?”

Damn, that’s sweet and sexy. I lift a finger, wag it. “Don’t jinx me.”

He returns to Trish, who’s waiting with avid eyes with a laugh. “Allow me. I told him, and this is pretty much an exact quote, When you get your Oscar, be sure to thank me for running the lines that got you your breakout gig.”

I smile for the twentieth time tonight, a little glowy everywhere.

“You did say that.”

Trish beams. “What a wonderful story. Roomies reunited.”

“Hey, that could be the name of your book, TJ. Or wait—maybe The Roommate Arrangement. How about that?”

He gives me a crooked grin. “You’re naming my books now, Jude?”

“Seems I am,” I say, bumping my shoulder to his.

“Just one more question,” Trish says. We’ve made it this far, so I mentally cross my fingers that she isn’t about to curveball me with an Is William really just a friend?

She turns to my date instead. “TJ, is it too soon to expect that Jude might inspire your next big book?”

He blinks as if he’s caught unprepared. Then he parts his lips to speak, but no sound comes. He looks lost.

I jump in. “A man can hope. Thanks again, Trish.” I want to ask him what’s wrong, but a few more bloggers ask for photos, so we smile and pose and answer a few simple questions.

Are you looking forward to the musical?

-Absolutely.

What do you think of your Oscar prospects?

-It’s an honor to be nominated.

How are you enjoying New York?

-It’s wonderful, especially since my boyfriend’s here.

When we’re done, I guide TJ away from the spotlight of reporters and away from Slade and the handsome man by his side, presumably his date. I tug TJ into a corner of the theater, near a bar. “Sorry Trish asked you that.”

He shakes his head like he’s trying to shake off a mood. “It’s okay. It’s not a big deal.”

But his smile is unconvincing. “Are you sure?”

“I’m positive,” he says firmly, then nods to the seats. “Should we sit?”

We do, and I’m left with that all-too-familiar feeling that he’s keeping secrets. Just when I let myself believe he might feel something for me, I’m reminded of why we’re bad for each other.

We are friction. We scrape, and we grate. That’s the problem. When we’ve been good, we’ve been very good.

Trouble is, we don’t always talk to each other. We don’t break down walls very well.

But we’ve got to sell this fake romance, so I focus on the job and the parts we’re playing. As the house lights flicker, I take his hand, squeeze it, and kiss his cheek once more. “You look good tonight.” That’s true, but it’s also easy to say.

He turns to me, his expression serious, his eyes vulnerable. “Lately, I don’t like it when people ask where my ideas come from,” he says softly, just for me. “It makes me feel like a failure. Like I have no imagination. I already feel that way.”

That’s a surprising one-eighty, but a damn welcome one as TJ unexpectedly opens up to me. Though I hate that he’s so hard on himself, I’m touched that he’s sharing. “You’re not a failure. You’re brilliant, and you’re creative, and you’re just going through a rough patch.”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m broken.”

I squeeze his shoulder, trying to impart some confidence to him. “You’re not. I’ve been through times like that when nothing is happening. But you’re not broken. This is a business of ups and downs.”

“It’s a lot of down right now,” he says, blowing out a heavy breath.

“It’ll change. I’ve read your books. And besides, now I have to inspire you, as Slade said. Take you on swoony dates,” I say, trying to lift his spirits as I raise my hand and play with the ends of his hair.

He offers a small smile. “Thanks. It’s a little silly. The whole thing is.”

“Yes, it is. But we can do this. We convinced Trish. We fucking nailed that. And we are going to nail the dating thing,” I say, my face dipping closer to his. And fuck it. I want to kiss him, and I’m pretty sure he wants me to.

Our lips brush, and my whole body feels every delicious second of it.

“Mmm,” he murmurs, and as we kiss chastely for the theater, an idea flashes before me, bright and brilliant.

When we separate, I say, “Why don’t we do what we did in London?”

“What do you mean?”

“We scoped out places for your book. The novel you were working on. Why don’t we do that and find some places in New York? Fun, off-the-beaten-path, or just pure date-y places.”

He takes a few seconds, maybe to process my offer. “I’d like that.” Then he grins. “A whole lot more than seeing a musical.”

“Oh, please. You’re going to love it.”

“Doubtful,” he says as the audience claps, and the overture begins.

I turn to the stage but remember my lobby run-in with the Man’s Man. I don’t want to forget my messenger role just in case it’s important to TJ someday. I lean in closer, cup my hand over his ear. “By the way, try not to get too excited. But Malcolm is here. He told me to tell you he DM’d you. Isn’t that thrilling?”

TJ shudders in over-the-top glee. “I can’t wait.”

I laugh. “Can I please tag along when you meet him for drinks? It would be fantastic character work if I ever have to play a douchey dude.”

“Anything for research,” he says, then we turn our attention to the stage.

* * *

Two and a half hours later, we give the cast a standing ovation then make our way out of the theater. “And you loved it, right? You totally loved it?”

He scoffs. “I would say I tolerated it.”

I tease him about hating musicals until we emerge on the street. Taxis line up, and theatergoers head for restaurants or home. It’s the moment of truth.

This is where we fucked up the other night. This is where we need to nail it.

Crowds are everywhere. Bloggers, reporters, tourists, theatergoers, and anyone with a phone—which is everyone—can snap our photo.

I turn to my fake date. “Your place or mine?”

When our eyes lock, heat flares between us. “Yours. I’ll get a Lyft.”

As he orders the car, my mind races ahead fifteen minutes. I have no idea what will happen when he walks through the door of my home, but I know what I want.

While he’s on his phone, he drapes his arm around my shoulder, and we head to Seventh Avenue for the pickup. It’ll take forever for any vehicle to turn onto Forty-Fourth Street on a show night. We barely make it past Sardi’s when a gorgeous—by all empirical standards—man overtakes us, then stops one foot away and does a double-take.

“Hey—” The square-jawed Adonis of a movie star swings his gaze from TJ to me. “Wait. You two?”

TJ frowns for a second, and something like guilt flickers in his eyes. “Yeah. We are,” he says, squeezing my shoulder.

Almostlike he’s giving a demonstration for a how-to video on touching your partner in public on a busy street. “Christian Laird, this is Jude Fox. Jude’s my guy,” TJ says, and he sounds legit enough for most people. But not me. I can hear a touch of awkwardness in his tone.

But once again, it’s showtime. “Nice to meet you, Christian. I’m a huge fan.” I extend a hand, but Christian waves it off, holding his arms open wide.

“You! You are fucking amazing, Jude,” the man says, then yanks me in for a hug.

Oh. Well. I wasn’t expecting that. “Thanks,” I say.

When we separate, Christian parks a big hand on my shoulder. “Your movie was incredible. And now you’re doing a TV show? Who do I have to beg to get a role on your new show?”

I laugh rather than respond. I practically begged to work with him nearly a year ago, so I’m not sure what to do with his praise now. But is that why I feel off? Or is it because I don’t have a bloody clue what role Christian now plays in TJ’s life? They’re clearly on a first-name basis, but TJ hasn’t once mentioned him to me in the last few days. Although I guess we’ve been so caught up in getting our lies right, we haven’t had time to dwell on much else—including the past.

Christian turns to TJ. “And what the hell? Are we ever, ever, going to start working on your project?”

TJ sighs but smiles as he gazes heavenward. “I wish I knew.”

“It’s ridic. I am dying to get to work on Jackson.” Then, Christian turns to me. “The illustrator character.”

“Right,” I say, though I don’t know anything about the characters in that book. Or even their names till now. TJ always told me to stay away from it. The warning worked for me—I had no interest in reading the story Flynn inspired.

“Anyway, I was calling it Top-Notch Detour when we worked out last week,” Christian says, gesturing to TJ.

What? They’re gym buddies? That’s kind of romantic because workout dates are a thing.

Settle down. TJ’s not fake dating you and real dating someone else.He’s not like that.

Still, the fact that I don’t know TJ’s relationship status with this A-list gay actor bothers me. A lot.

But I cover it up with a smile. “Yeah, it’s a rom-comedy of errors,” I say, grateful I read that Hollywood Scoop piece to get up to speed.

Christian laughs. “Sure is, but we’ll get there someday,” he says, all sweet and supportive as if they give each other pep talks all the time.

Maybe right after they get sweaty with each other.

“Yes, Top-Notch Backburner will have its time in the sun,” TJ says, and ouch. That last one stings me. That’s what happened to my project with Laird when Webflix bought Top-Notch Boyfriend.

But then, everything worked out for me, didn’t it? Webflix passing me over gave me the freedom to say yes to If Found, Please Return. If I’d been too busy with the project Webflix delayed, I would have missed the biggest role of my life.

“Anyway, wasn’t the musical fantastic?” Christian asks, gesturing to the theater. “Let’s all catch up sometime. Grab a drink or a bite to eat. Cool, TJ?”

“Yeah, definitely,” my date says.

Christian drops a kiss to TJ’s cheek. Jealousy flares in me. That’s my job. What the hell are they to each other? Am I wrong about TJ? Maybe they’re not dating now, but did they in the last ten months?

The actor leans in and brushes a kiss on my cheek. “So great meeting you, Jude,” he says, then points to both of us. “Drinks. Let’s make it happen.”

Christian takes off, and as I figure out what to say to TJ, he’s waggling his phone. “The driver just messaged. He’s waiting for us.”

We power walk to a waiting black SUV, then slide into the back. A million questions tap on my brain, but when the Lyft driver checks us out a few times in the rearview mirror, I groan privately. Now is not the time to ask anything.

I look at TJ and tip my forehead to the front seat. He nods in understanding then takes my hand again.

We’re quiet as the car shoots us to the Village, but my brain is noisy.

Is he holding my hand for the driver or himself? Did he date Christian Laird? Did he see anyone else in the last ten months? Mostly, how does he feel about me now?

I’m tired of not knowing. Ten months ago, I’d have let these questions fester. But look how that ended. Tonight, I need to ask him.

When we reach my building, I wonder something else. Why was he adamant we come here instead of his place?

As we head upstairs, I practice the words in my head to ask calmly, the opposite of how I was in Venice.

But once we’re inside my home, I set my phone on the counter, and it blinks with a text from William.

The words flash on my screen for both of us to see.

Thanks again for talking earlier.

TJ arches a brow and gives me a scathing look. This is the problem with friction. It’s good in the bedroom, but it’s bad out of it.

And it turns out when we’re bad, we’re quite horrid.