Here Comes My Man (Hopelessly Bromantic Duet 2)

THE REAL SCORE

Jude

I brace myself for I only want to be fake boyfriends.

I don’t want more.

It’s not you, it’s me.

TJ drags a hand through his hair as the car pulls away from the arrivals section. “I had this moment where I was spiraling,” he says as if he has to peel the words apart slowly.

“About what?”

“Me. Who I am. What I want.”

I think I’m going to be sick. “Like what?” It comes out as a croak.

“The things I share—the things I don’t share. Little things like that.” His tone is dry, but I don’t want deadpan TJ now. I want fiery TJ.

I stare down at my shoes, black motorcycle boots, the laces nice and tight. The details distract me from the ache in my chest.

“And then on the plane,” he continues, “I wrote this scene where the laid-back hero goes out with his friends to play ping-pong, and they kind of rib him, since they know the truth of how he feels.”

I look up, frowning. What does that even mean?

“And he tells them the score, even though he knows there are a ton of things keeping him and the other hero apart.”

Is this an allegory for us? “What are you getting at?” My voice cracks and breaks, and fuck, that’s not how I want to sound, but my panic is there for him to hear.

Alarm flashes in TJ’s eyes. “Oh shit. I was trying to tell you a story, and I think I took too long,” TJ says, chagrined. He runs a hand through my hair, and my heart rate starts to settle. “I was telling you about the scene I wrote because it made me think about what I want. I want to be like the hero I’m writing—open with his friends. The thing is, I hardly have been open. I never told anyone but Hazel about you and me.”

“Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

“It made sense at the time,” TJ says. “When I came back from London, I figured if I told a soul, I’d cave and reach out to you. I was trying to honor our Look Me Up deal. I didn’t breathe a word about you till years later. Hazel figured it out because I was talking about your TV show—Our Secret Courtship.”

“I had to delete your number so I wouldn’t give in and call you,” I admit.

He stares at me, then looks out the window at the city, as if watching lights and cars helps him understand people. “We both have our coping mechanisms. I keep things to myself. Protection, I suppose,” he says.

I take some comfort from him admitting his MO. “Olivia knows the true story. So does my brother—I told him recently about you. But why are you sharing this now?”

He turns back to me. His eyes are vulnerable as if he’s gearing up to say something hard—maybe the reason he told the story in the first place. “Some of my friends are going to be in Vegas. Jason, and Luke too. Luke is the second-string quarterback with the New York Leopards. They want to hang out with us,” he says.

Is he asking if we can pull off the pretend boyfriend ruse in front of his friends?

Except, my gut says that’s not the question. Even though it terrifies me, I go out on a limb. “Do you want them to know the score? The real score?”

TJ pulls his shoulders back, nodding with conviction. “I don’t want it to feel like we’re faking it for them. I want them to know who you are to me.”

Holy shit.

I was dead wrong. And I’m so fucking happy, my heart thunders. This is what happens with us—we try to be sensible and slow, but we go too fast. And I don’t care because fast feels so damn good when he says things like that.

“So, let’s have another real secret date. This time with your friends. We can all get dinner somewhere,” I say to him.

His lips curve up. “Yeah?”

“Yes. I can’t wait to meet them,” I say.

I’ve never seen such a sexy smile on TJ outside of the bedroom, such a satisfied grin. I want to keep it there. As we turn onto the Strip, the hotels electrifying the night, he deals me another scorching kiss in the back of a car. If only I could find a way to speed up time and get to our suite straightaway.

When the car pulls into the portico of the opulent black-and-white hotel, I’m this close to getting my wish. The doorman grandly sweeps open the door, the line at the VIP check-in is blissfully short, and the clerk is the picture of efficiency.

It’s a bang-up night so far. We make our way to the elevators, and this hotel is already putting me in the mood. “I’m picturing a king-size bed, a TJ Hardman-approved sex playlist, and a glass of champagne,” I say, then whisper seductively, “It’s low in carbs.”

“Then you should drink it off my dick. I’m equally low-carb,” he says, adding a dirty smile.

“One cocktail, coming right up,” I say with a throaty purr when my phone buzzes and his beeps.

That can only mean . . .

“Slade is probably sending us his rules of the road,” I say.

We stop, whip out our mobiles. A group text reads: Hope you enjoyed flying in comfort! I’ll be sending your instructions in the morning. A couple of interviews and then a fantastic AF plan for the final week.

Talk about a mood shift. If there’s anything to send two guys into a quick funk, it’s the last two words of this note. Final week sits heavily in my gut.

“That’s . . . foreboding,” I say.

With a wince, TJ nods. Then, like he’s erasing the note, he flashes me a bright smile. “But we don’t have to deal with his orders tonight.”

We resume our path through the casino to the elevators, when I hear someone call out to us.

“Yo.”

Malcolm Mann is here.