Here Comes My Man (Hopelessly Bromantic Duet 2)

A PIG AT MARKET

Jude

On Wednesday night, I’m in a tux, holding a martini, and I’m acting. Acting like I’m not counting down the seconds until I can escape from The Ritz Carlton on Place Vendôme.

The ballroom is a who’s who of the awards circuit. Over by the stage is Sebastian Lowe, nommed for his devastating turn as a drug lord suffering from panic attacks. By the swan ice sculpture stands an elegant Carrie Winslow, who sharply played a suburban wife tempted by a lurid affair. I’m dying to tell them both how much I adore their work. I’ve devoured all of Sebastian’s films and obsessed over Carrie’s character work.

But I’m handcuffed, here in the corner of the glittering room. Slade taps his chin, quietly debating who to introduce me to next.

“Carrie is the next Meryl, but she’s a no-go since she has a you know what problem,” he whispers, then mimes swallowing a pill.

That seems a bit cold. “And that means I can’t talk to her?”

“Yes, it does. Same for Sebastian. He just split from his wife. They’ll think he’s after you.”

Wait. What? “Why would they think that?”

“He’s closeted,” Slade whispers. “It’s the worst kept secret.”

“Okay. But that doesn’t mean he’d be into me,” I say, pointing out what I hope is obvious. Orientation does not beget attraction.

Slade rolls his eyes. “I know that. But what I know and what the press will decide from a photo are two vastly different things.”

If TJ were here, he and I could float through this crowd together, chatting with whoever we wanted. But since I’m solo, Slade’s calculating everyone’s social capital.

I get it, but I feel like a pig on market day. I swirl my martini, awaiting instructions and counting off another minute.

Slade hums approvingly. “Oh, looky-look. Did I just see Ellie Snow over there?”

I perk up at the mention of my Unfinished Business co-star, who plays Gwen to my Jamie. I crane my neck to see she’s been cornered by a mustached man who looks like a manager hunting for new clients. She has “save me” written all over her face.

This is a job for Actor Man.

“Go, go, go,” Slade says, shooing me.

He doesn’t need to tell me twice. I weave through the taffeta and tuxedoed crowd, quickly arriving beside my co-star. “Ellie, do you have a second to discuss the scene where you accidentally picked up my dog from the doggie daycare since you were so frazzled?”

Her big brown eyes light up with gratitude. “Yes, I have so many ideas for that moment. We must discuss them right now,” she says, and I ferry her away to a quieter section of the ballroom.

“You saved me,” she says, holding my arm tight.

“I’m thinking of searching for a secret doorway. A trick wall. Anything remotely resembling an escape hatch. Care to join me?”

“I’m all in,” she says, then lowers her voice to a furtive whisper. “I’m not even sure who I’m allowed to talk to.”

“Me either! Apparently, everyone is on the verboten list, except you. Actually, you probably shouldn’t talk to me. I’ve been radioactive,” I say.

She rolls her eyes. “I’ll take my chances. Plus, I figure you’re stuck with me. Or should I say . . . stuck with Zoe?”

I blink. “Wait. Who’s Zoe?”

“Oh, our showrunner changed my character’s name from Gwen to Zoe. She said Zoe was better for the quirky girl next door.”

I smile widely—the first real smile I’ve felt all night. “My boyfriend will love that. He has a thing for names telegraphing a character’s trait,” I explain.

Ellie giggles then points at me. “Oh my God, you have it so bad for him.”

I dip my face, heat rushing to my cheeks. “I do,” I admit, then raise my eyes and own it. “And I miss him like mad.” It feels good to speak the truth, plain and simple, at an event where I can’t share much at all.

“When we’re back in New York, let’s all get together. Have a drink. Invent character names for everyone we see coming into the bar, and backstories too,” Ellie suggests, bouncing in her Louboutins.

“I’m going to RSVP on his behalf right now. He’d love it.”

She squeezes back. “It’s a date.”

As we chat more, something catches my eye on the other side of the entrance to the ballroom.

Ginger hair. A sharp nose. A familiar profile. Someone is peering around the French doors as if longing to be invited in.

Then he’s gone as quickly as he appeared.

Maybe I imagined the man I haven’t seen in ages. But he sticks in my mind for the rest of the evening. Perhaps, because I’m not sure what to make of him.

* * *

Once I leave The Ritz, I shake off Slade at his hotel then head to mine. Walking alone by the river, I loosen my bow tie and check my phone. There’s no update from the West Coast, so I turn to an audiobook of a celebrity memoir, grabbing earbuds from my pocket and putting the evening in the rearview mirror.

But someone brays down the street behind me. “Jude Fox? I was hoping that was you.”

I recognize that voice. So that was Harry at the hotel. I can’t pretend I didn’t hear him, so I turn around. My former ginger-haired agent is trotting. Wait. Nope. Make that running . . . to catch up with me.

That’s honestly a little ballsy. Maybe a touch stalkery.

But I’m also terribly curious why he’s calling out to me. Does he want to apologize after all this time?

Would I laugh if he did?

I don’t need an apology. I’m so over him and Arlo, but I am intrigued.

Harry pulls up, out of breath. “How the hell are you, mate?”

Is he calling me “mate” and coming in for a hug? I lift a hand in a subtle wave, dodging an embrace. “Hello, Harry. How are you?”

He shoves a hand through his hair, trying but failing to smooth his locks. “Grand. Brilliant. Chuffed to see you,” he says with a smile that reeks of an oily salesman. “I would love to talk to you about representation again. We were on such a smashing roll for a bit. Remember The Artificial Girlfriend and Our Secret Courtship? It was quite a run, and I know we could do it again.”

Is he joking?

I laugh humorlessly.

He smiles simperingly.

Ohhh.

He’s serious.

He truly thinks I might work with him again.

Wow. That’s taking ballsy to a whole new level. Ballsy and shameless, as he attempts to hitch a coattail ride.

And just like that, I do know what to make of him.

Little.

He’s just someone I used to work with, nothing more. I don’t need people like him in my life. People who hurt me. Harry doesn’t deserve another second of my time or thoughts. “No. I’m not interested in signing with you. Goodnight.”

I pop in my earbuds and walk on, replaying that moment to share it all with TJ when I call him from the hotel. Then the Ellie bit. And Slade’s ridiculous rules. I want to tell TJ everything and then make plans to go people-watching with Ellie and him in New York. I want him to be a part of my new world there, just as he’s invited me into his big and wonderful one, with all his friends.

I bound up the steps to my hotel room, mobile in hand, ready to hit his name the second the door shuts behind me. But it rings and rings.

When I reach his voicemail, I’m more disappointed than I’ve ever been to hear a recording.

I hang up, lonely. So damn lonely. I miss him more than I could ever expect. I should get used to being apart from him. My job is nomadic. But it’s like I left something behind that I desperately need.

Him.

I flop onto my bed, take a selfie, then pop the image of a rumpled, tired, half-undressed me in a draft, typing the words. If you were here, you’d rip this shirt off me, right?

But that’s not what I want to say to him.

I delete the sexy note and begin again. Wish you were here.

That’s closer, but it still only scratches the surface.