Here Comes My Man (Hopelessly Bromantic Duet 2)

MY SECRET CAVE IN MIDDLE EARTH

TJ

First comes the bright tone of the trumpet—next the majestic rumble of the tuba. Then the crisp rattle of the snare drum.

Mason rounds his desk, waving an imaginary baton, conducting the marching band pumping through his computer.

“You wanted a parade,” he declares as I stare from the doorway, my jaw on the floor. In the pantheon of Mason praise, this is Everest.

“For real?”

He stretches across his desk with a flourish, hits a key, then cuts the sound. “For real, but don’t let it go to your head, kid.”

“You do an excellent job at downsizing my head daily.”

The dapper man takes a chair across from the couch, gesturing for me to grab a seat too.

I do, and I’m literally and figuratively on the edge of it. The possibility that the pages I sent him last night aren’t garbage is exhilarating. But just to make sure . . . “So? You like the first few chapters?”

“No, TJ. I just planned that entire Sousa reenactment on a Wednesday morning because I hated them,” he says with an aggrieved sigh, lifting his gaze heavenward. “What is it with today’s youth? They’re so needy. Back in my day—”

“Oh, we’re talking about the Paleolithic era again. I do love your dinosaur tales. Continue.”

He ignores me, whipping off his black glasses and setting them on the sleek metal table. “It’s got everything I want in a sexy rom-com. The mix-up with the laundry when the laid-back hero gets the uptight one’s washed and folded clothes, but then they discover they wear the same Rafe Rodmans and that throws them both into a tizzy. Hello! Hot underwear can distract even the most disciplined man!”

“Especially if it’s yellow with fox illustrations on the waistband,” I offer with a grin.

“Who knew laundry could be so sexy?”

Me. I learned it last week with Jude. “Dude, dryers. Am I right?”

Mason waggles a finger at me. “And the blanket-shopping date. Where did you come up with that? That was brimming with sexual tension and flirting. Also, why are there blankets in literally every store?”

“Everywhere, blankets are multiplying. So obviously, blankets are banging,” I say, seconding my laid-back hero’s thesis. Also, these fictional guys I’m writing aren’t carbon copies of Jude and me—no one would ever accuse me of being laid-back, and Jude Fox is not uptight.

This is my imagination cranking.

But Jude certainly helps.

“And then that scalding-hot kiss in the back of the SUV while they drove around the city.” Mason brings his fingers to his lips in a chef’s kiss. “It was hate-kiss perfection. And I was like, ‘Tremaine, you sexy beast. Get over here right now, hubs.’”

That’s the highest of praise. “I’m like lube, Mason.”

“Top-shelf lube at that. Anyway, after I read the pages, I took the liberty of talking you up to Brooks & Bailey this morning,” he says.

Shit. I was kind of hoping to stay off my publisher’s radar until I was done. Like maybe they’ll collectively have professional amnesia that I’m a year late with my book.

“And?” I ask, my nerves tripping over themselves.

“Amy Summers sent this over. Think of it as a motivational gift.” He heads to his desk to grab an orange ceramic mug then thrusts it at me. Inside the mug is a fox—my editor loves mugs with animal head figures at the bottom. Creature cups, she calls them. I smile, then unwrap the piece of paper around the fox and read her note.

Dear TJ,

Reading your books is like drinking a vanilla latte and finding a cute ceramic fox at the bottom of the cup. I can’t wait to read your new romance and discover what delights await readers on the pages! Carry on and have all the coffee!

Xoxo Amy

“Aww. I’m gonna post it on Insta when I go to Doctor Insomnia’s Tea and Coffee Emporium later today. This is like the nice editor’s way of saying don’t fucking miss a deadline again,” I say, tucking the mug into my messenger bag.

“I see you haven’t lost your ability to read between the lines. Keep those skills sharp.”

“Always.”

“Now, don’t rest on your laurels. Don’t get complacent. Keep it up. Write, write, write. At the pace you’ve set the last five days, I think you could finish this in a month.”

Has he lost his mind? “Seriously?”

Judging from his blank stare, the answer is yes, seriously. “You’ve written sixteen thousand words,” Mason says. “That’s more than three thousand words a day. Do I really need to say I was right or is it patently obvious? You needed some dates. I sent you on some.”

He’s . . . not wrong.

Dating Jude did inspire me.

But not until we cleared the air and fucked it out.

That was when the words began to flow. Words have flown faster since our just-for-us date on Sunday.

“You sure did,” I tell Mason, but I don’t dive into the truth. Fake dating didn’t motivate me. Real dating did. Maybe because my heart is no longer imitating Han Solo in carbonite.

“See? A little make-believe never hurt anyone.” Mason strides to his desk, rapping his knuckles on it. “By the way, you’re a damn good actor. The pics of you and Jude make it look like you’re enjoying his company a lot more than a ball waxing. But hey, maybe you get your balls waxed at a different kind of place than I do,” he says with a wink.

“I am enjoying it,” I say, not sure why I need to defend my fake romance to Mason.

“Good, good,” he says quickly, then pats the table. “Let’s chat about Web—”

“I mean it. Jude is—”

Mason tilts his head, curious. “Easy on the eyes, like I said? Fun? Gentlemanly?”

He’s all of that, but the words barely cover Jude. “He’s great,” I say, and even though it’s true, it tastes like a lie, acrid and bitter.

I don’t want to bite into this taste again.

“Listen, I talked to Robert Walsh at Webflix last night, and they just snagged Sebastian Lowe to play opposite Christian,” he says.

That’s quite a coup. Sebastian’s latest movie is a critic’s darling. “Sebastian is great,” I say.

“And fingers crossed, they’ve got a new writer working on the adaptation for film. He’s sharp and hilarious and loves queer romance because, you know, he has taste, and he knows it’s the best thing since dogs. So, there you go. We should get this Top-Notch Boyfriend train rolling again,” he says. “Choo-choo.”

“That’s great too,” I say.

And truly, this is good news.

But as I leave, a weight sinks in my gut. I’m lying to Mason by omission. As long as this fake romance continues, I’ll have to keep biting off these lies. Sure, Mason doesn’t have to know the full truth of Jude and me. Maybe he wouldn’t even care if he did. But I’m lying by telling everyone he’s my boyfriend when the truth is so much more complicated than that.

Jude Fox is the first guy I ever fell in love with, the only man I’ve ever loved, and the person I want to get to know all over again right now.

And over the last few days, I haven’t lied with Jude. I’ve been real with him, truthful with him, honest with him. I like the new me.

It’s a big change, stripping away my defenses, but it feels good.

I just wish I didn’t feel this bad as I head into the New York morning.

* * *

I do my best to set those thoughts aside as I meet Hazel to write. I power through a couple of scenes, and then I post a pic of the fox mug on Insta with the caption: The Magical Energy Imps in this cup of coffee are directly responsible for the scene on the dryer. You’re welcome.

The replies from readers land in a barrage of I can’t wait to read it and Bring it on, King TJ.

Their words fuel another round of writing.

By the time the clock hits two, I’ve logged another chapter, and Hazel has finished the meet-cute in her new book, the spin-off of her big hit, Sweet Spot. We read each other’s pages, offering little suggestions here and there. “And don’t forget to introduce Dane Donovan soon,” I add, reminding her about the character Malcolm inspired. “I’m planning a friend-group scene, and Dane, AKA The Big Douche, is about to show up.”

She bangs her fist on the table. “I will never forget my mortal enemy. And you want to know why? In the last week, Malcolm has been liking all my tweets and LOLing on all my Instagram posts, but guess what? I checked out his Goodreads shelves. And last year, he one-starred Sweet Spot and left a review with nothing but an eye-rolling emoji.”

I burn. “Fuck him. He broke the golden rule.”

“Thou shalt never disparage another author online,” she says.

We smack palms in solidarity then return to the scenes. When we’re done, we reward ourselves with a toffee cookie we share, breaking off bites. As we go, we decide we should write a TV show, and that we’re going to call it Meet-Cute Again, and it’ll be an ensemble comedy with queer and straight romance, and we will cast it with our favorite actors and actresses.

“We’re brilliant,” Hazel declares.

“Geniuses,” I add.

“Webflix should hire us right now,” she adds.

“Meet-Cute Again is going to be the new binge-worthy show.” Holy hell, it feels good to banter about writing with my work wife. “This is good. You and me, shooting the breeze.”

“We always shoot the breeze.”

“I know, but I want you to know it means a lot to me,” I say, trying on this patent honesty thing for size. I’ve never lied to Hazel per se, but I also could stand to be more open.

With a lift of her brow, she glances left, then right, then whispers, “Are we living in the movie Face/Off? Did you steal my friend TJ’s face and slap it on?”

I snort-laugh. “We’re not in the John Travolta/Nicholas Cage flick, but point taken. I’m usually a dick.”

“I mean, if the shoe fits,” she says, teasing. “Seriously, though, this is nice. You being all expressive and such with your feelings.”

“I’m testing a new MO—being open. How’s it working for ya?”

“Weird but good. Which is how I’d describe you. That’s me being open with my feelings and giving you a compliment,” she says.

“Weird is good, babes,” I tell her.

“Thanks.” She reaches for the mug and picks it up. “Do you think the fox is intentional?”

Amy has to know about Jude and me. Even if I’ve never posted pics of us on my Insta, FoxMan is all over the socials. “How could it not be intentional? It’s a little too coincidental, otherwise.”

Scanning the shop, she lowers her voice. “So is she also saying I know that Jude Fox is the secret you hide at the bottom of a tasty beverage?”

Whoa. Deep thoughts. “You’re not serious, are you? Do you think my editor knows the full story?”

Hazel shrugs as if to say, stranger things have happened. “Could she?”

If Amy knows the truth, would she care? Probably not. She’s not all up in her writers’ business.

Unless . . . readers would care.

Shit.

I slam my computer closed, stuff it into my messenger bag along with the creature cup, and point to the door. “We have to meet Jason and Luke for pinball. Let’s go,” I say. My Hawks buddy is in town visiting Nolan, and Luke lives here.

“Sure. But we’re not late. Why are we leaving in such a rush?”

Once we’re out on the street, I drape an arm around Hazel and, after a moment’s debate, confess my new fear. “What if my readers find out I faked a romance? What the hell will happen?”

I’ve considered this before. But I didn’t have the bandwidth to analyze it fully. Maybe because I was staring down the barrel of a gun in the form of a deadline. Now that I’m writing again, I have to consider shit like honesty and trust. Amy knowing about Operation Fake Romance feels like my worlds colliding, and I’d rather Planet Editor and Planet Agent stay in their own orbits. But I might not have that luxury anymore. I walk along Eighth Avenue, glance behind me, then peer in front of me as if a celebrity blogger might be nearby, angling to ferret me out.

“TJ,” she says, gentle but firm. “You’re freaking out.”

“I know!”

“I mean, you’re freaking out over a coffee cup. I was only messing around. I’m sorry I worried you. I was just playing it out, like we do with book scenes.”

Yes, we help each other invent ridiculous scenarios. I helped Hazel figure out how to get her characters in Sweet Spot into the New York Public Library after-hours for a midnight scavenger hunt. She helped me devise a problem with a zipper so the hero and heroine would be caught half-dressed backstage at an awards ceremony in The Size Principle.

But that’s fiction. This is my life.

“I know, but I’m screwed if readers find out.” I drag a hand through my hair, worry gripping every molecule.

“Breathe,” she says reassuringly. “One, how would they? Two, is it fake?”

The first question I can handle. “I don’t know how. The same way anyone finds out anything.” The second question, though, twists me up. I’ve told Hazel the basics, but confessing out loud, here on the street, knots my stomach. “No, it’s not fake, but it’s also not real.”

“TJ, you told me about Pomander Walk. That sounds pretty real. You told me about the night at his place after the show. That was real.”

Those intimate moments in the bedroom felt real too. So did our date. But Jude and I have a terrible track record. “What if it all goes to hell?”

“Your fake romance?”

“Or the real one.” That may be the first time I’ve said that fear aloud. I’m terrified of losing him again.

Something is happening between Jude and me. We are real, and I don’t want to make the same mistakes the second time around. Or the third time. I also don’t want to keep everything a secret.

“Last time,” I say as we near the pinball arcade, “I barely told anyone anything. And look what happened. I was juggling secrets left and right, and it all came crashing down.”

“So maybe this time, don’t keep it all a secret,” Hazel says as if it’s that simple.

I need simple right now. When we get to the arcade, I’m relieved I can’t talk about my strange romance anymore. I put aside my worries as we go in and find Jason at TheBig Lebowski pinball machine, with Luke, the backup quarterback from the New York Leopards, attacking the Guns N’ Roses one.

Their games end quickly because they both suck at pinball. Jason spins around, flashes me a grin. “If it isn’t the luckiest guy in all of New York,” he calls out.

I want to rib him back, but that would feel like another half-truth. Jason’s a good buddy of mine, and he doesn’t know the real story about Jude.

I am such a secret keeper that I belong in a secret society—the loveless hermit who protects everyone’s truths and never shares his heart. Bleurgh. That sounds miserable to me. This is why I don’t write high fantasy.

“How’s it going?” I ask the two football players, giving quick bro hugs as Hazel says hello too.

Golden boy Luke nudges Jason and answers my question. “Well, Jason just ran into his ex, so that was super awkward.”

“Like a ten on the awkward scale,” Jason adds, frowning.

“What happened?” Hazel asks. She’s a damn good mama hen to our friends.

Jason catches her up on the run-in with the guy who gave him an ultimatum a year ago and broke his heart in the process. Funny how I know all about his past heartbreaks, but I’ve told him nothing about mine.

As we go head-to-head in a pinball round of romance writers versus quarterbacks, I debate what to say to Jason about Jude and me.

Where to start.

And, most of all, if it’s my story to tell.

When we’re done, I have no more answers.

I’m more twisted than I was when I left Mason’s office. Jason claps my shoulder. “I guess I’ll see you in Vegas this weekend with your dude?”

I snap my gaze to him, surprised. “You’re going to Stone’s concert?”

“Hell, yeah. It benefits LGBTQ charities. That’s kind of my thing.”

“Mine too,” Luke puts in.

Right, right. Of course, they’re going. I should have thought of that sooner. Jason adds, “I head back to San Francisco for an event, thenI’ll be in Vegas Saturday afternoon. But let’s shoot for Saturday night after the concert, K? We can all hang.”

Another twist of my gut. Another squeeze of my heart. “Of course. Yeah. I’ll, um, see you there.”

I’ll need to learn how to escape from this secret-keeping cave in Middle Earth soon.

* * *

That night, I sink onto my couch and bury my head in my story. But the nagging feeling doesn’t fade. What do I say to Jude about meeting with my friends in Vegas? How do I handle hanging with him and my buds? Do I act like he’s my real boyfriend? Or my real fake one? My head spins in confusion.

I think back to the day I left London, nearly eight years ago. That first weekend when I was home in the States, I decided I would tell no one about Jude. I stuck to my promise for years until Hazel saw through me. She’s still the only one with access to the Jude vault.

I’m not ashamed of who I am. I’m not embarrassed about who I love. I’m out and proud and have been since I was a teenager.

But I’m also cautious of people. Because of the things they do. The secrets they keep.

In middle school, I had to learn to protect myself because of my name. A few years later, when I stumbled across the dirty truth about my parents’ divorce, I chose to protect the rest of my family. I didn’t tell a soul the real reason they were splitting up.

Self-preservation is a pattern, and I’m not sure how to undo it or if I can.

I close my laptop and leave it on the coffee table. Flopping down on my big sectional, I practice words to say to my brother, friends, and family.

Words I’ve never said to Chance. Or Jason, Nolan, Easton, Jo, or Owen. Not to Mom or Dad. Or Mason. Not in any form. Not once.

Did I ever tell you about the time I fell in love in London?

Or maybe . . .

Hey, remember when I said romance and I were on a timeout? Funny story. It’s not because I was dumped on national TV by the Chicken King. It’s because of this guy who came back into my life and stole my heart again.

But I left when things got tough. Now I’m fake dating him.

And falling for him all over again.

That’s a lot.

That’s the motherlode, and I don’t know how to mine it. Instead, I lift open the top to my ottoman and pick up a copy of my favorite play from inside. Maybe somewhere in the pages of this Victorian satire, I’ll find the right words.

Or maybe this book will just remind me of my big fucking problem. I bought this new copy of The Importance of Being Earnest when I was packing to go to Los Angeles last year, but I never gave it to Jude. I wasn’t sure what to expect from our weekend, so I didn’t bring him this gift.

I meant to, but I backed out.

Typical.

This book is all my roadblocks packed into one single object.

I, TJ Hardman, didn’t give this book to Jude, tell him about my Webflix deal, or share my deepest feelings with him.

Flipping open the pages, I land on one of Wilde’s truest lines.

The very essence of romance is uncertainty.

* * *

The next day, after I finish packing for our flight this afternoon, I scroll through Instagram replies from the coffee cup shot. Reading the excitement is the only thing that doesn’t make me feel topsy-turvy.

At least, it doesn’t until I spot a new comment from The Man’s Man on my post.

Dude, so glad you’re writing again! Can’t wait to grab that drink and talk shop. Let me know when.

Shit. I forgot about drinks. Maybe I have a mental block about that guy. But I said I’d go. Plus, there’s that advice about keeping your friends close and your enemies closer.

I reply: Let’s get together soon. Next week?

Planning drinks with that guy makes me feel dirty, so I focus on things that make me happy—Jude, writing, friends.

Trouble is, some of the things that make me happy also make me feel uncertain.

Or one thing. Namely, Jude.

By the early afternoon, my head is brimming with questions. Jude is on his way, and my biggest question revolves around him.

Can I be the guy Jude needs this time around?

The guy who gives him the book he bought, the man who tells him about his deals, the one who shares his heart?

I don’t know. But I’m tired of the way these questions own me.

Fuck the secrets.

I call Jude in his Lyft. The second he answers, I speak: “Ask the driver to wait two minutes. I want to show you something. I’m in 4A. The doorman will let you in.” With that invitation, I begin to pry open . . . theyears.

Jude wastes no time. “I’m there,” he says, leaping at the chance.

Wilde sure was right about romance, but it’s time to face the uncertainty and let Jude into my home.