Here Comes My Man (Hopelessly Bromantic Duet 2)

RED CARPET SMOOTHNESS, AT YOUR SERVICE

TJ

As I walk up to the restaurant in the East Village, I search the crowd for my date. A long line snakes around the front of Food. A black-and-white sign hangs above the restaurant in Times New Roman font. The restaurant is like a bored teenager with its plain doorway, decor, and name—it just can’t even. If it didn’t have a crowd, you’d miss it. Which, I suspect, is the point. Food is so aggressively ordinary you have to know what’s trendy to know you should eat here. Only the cool kids, please.

The line is maybe fifty people deep, and many are peering through the restaurant's glass windows, trying to spot celebrities inside. Maybe Jude is late too. Then he won’t know I’m fifteen minutes late. But when I reach the doorway, I look past the Man’s Man and spot my man—albeit pretend—in the far corner of the bar. Jude is chatting with a reporter.

My stomach flips.

That’s annoying—my body’s reaction to him. But I blame it on his charm. It radiates off the Brit like sunshine.

His charm is evident in the way he talks to reporters. It’s in his eyes, the attention he devotes to people, like the blonde who holds a phone near his mouth.

Lately, I feel charmless. Like everyone is going to notice I don’t belong with him.

That’ll be the story the celebrity bloggers ferret out. The broody writer and the magnetic actor are a mismatched pair, they’ll say.They can’t possibly be together.

I’ve got to pull this off, though. If word gets out I faked a romance, my readers will eat me alive. I may not share a ton of personal details with my readers but being private is one thing—lying is something else entirely. But at least it’s for a good cause—the cause of my next book.

When I reach the hostess stand, I give her my name. Before she can say a word, a hand comes down on my shoulder.

“Whoa. Is this TJ Hardman in the flesh?” It’s the voice from satellite radio.

“That’s me,” I say, turning around and flashing a fake smile at Hazel’s new enemy, which makes him my enemy too. Stories need antagonists, and maybe he’ll inspire me to write. Perhaps my heroes will unite behind a common enemy. He’s big and broad, built like a linebacker, with a do-it-yourself kind of buzzcut. Be a man and all. Cut your own hair.

“I’m Malcolm Mann. Stoked to meet you, Teej,” he says, and when he shortens my initials, it feels like the dental hygienist scraping my teeth.

“Nice to meet you too, Malcolm. But it’s just TJ. Not Teej,” I say.

“My bad. But you’ll forgive me, right?” His we’re all good grin tells me he’s not used to hearing no.

“It’s no big deal. I’m just letting you know.”

“Good, because you are a big deal. And I am a big fan of yours,” he says, then offers a meaty paw.

You’re not a big fan, dude. You’re sucking up to me—because there is no way you like my books.When I write women, they have things like agency and chutzpah, and when I write queer men, they fuck other men.

“That’s great. Happy to hear that,” I say, shaking his hand and, hey, maybe I am good at faking it. I can practice with Malcolm before I see Jude.

“I’d love to catch up with you later. Let’s grab a drink,” he says.

“Sure,” I say, since keep your friends close and your friend’s enemies closer. Hazel will appreciate any recon I can do.

“Sweet. Also, nice haircut,” he calls out as I walk away.

What the hell? Is he tracking my hairstyles? “Thanks,” I mutter as I head inside.

I make my way toward Jude, who flashes me a boyfriend-y smile that tugs on my chest. It does things to my dick too. I remind them both that Jude’s smile is an act.

When I reach him, he gestures to the blonde with the glasses. “Piper, have you met TJ Hardman?”

She extends a hand. “Piper Grace. I’m a blogger with Establishing Shot in London, though I’m based here,” she says in a crisp British accent. “Great to meet you, TJ.”

“You as well,” I say, shaking her hand, then standing next to Jude.

But wait. Do I hold his hand? Wrap an arm around his waist? Stand shoulder to shoulder with him? What would I do if this were real?

My mind draws a dangerous blank, so my mouth takes over. “My boyfriend and I are thrilled to be here,” I say, hoping that helps, but nope. The second I speak, I want to extract my foot from my mouth because that’s not what you say at a restaurant opening.

That’s not what anyone says. And they especially don’t say it like they’re rehearsing a line in a middle-school play.

“Good to hear,” Piper says, with a hungry look in her blue eyes that I recognize from when I used to be a reporter.

She’s sniffing out a story.

Shit. I need to serve her a better exposé than TJ and Jude are awkward together. Especially since a goth dude with a Nikon is snapping shots of us. Piper’s photographer, I presume.

I go with the arm move, curling my palm over Jude’s shoulder. “We’ve just heard such great things about Food and its focus on simple dishes. We were saying that last night. Right, honey?” I ask, adopting a new pet name as I shove my shoe down my esophagus.

I’m deep throating my Vans tonight.

Mayday. May-fucking-day.

Jude sets his palm on top of my hand, squeezes it. Hard, like sending-a-message hard. “We were, love,” he says, slick and charming. “We’re all about new cuisine.”

His tone says, let me handle this, but my pride disagrees with him. “We are,” I say, squaring my shoulders. “Restaurant openings are just the best. We have a blast going to them.”

That wasn’t so bad. Maybe I’m getting the hang of this.

Red carpet smoothness at your service.

Piper tips her head toward me, her brow knitting. “I thought this was your first restaurant opening. Jude said as much a few minutes ago.”

And . . . I spoke too soon.

“It is. But we’ve been wanting to go,” Jude cuts in amiably as he grips my hand harder. Possibly, he wants to break my knuckles now.

“So, you were talking about how much you want to go to one?” Piper asks, her reporter radar still beeping.

Jude jumps on the grenade. “Yes, because we’re so excited to go out and be together. Do all the things. You know how it goes.” His eyes swing to mine, and they say shut the fuck up.

But Piper thrusts her phone my way. “TJ, I’ve been dying to ask you a question about If Found, Please Return. What was your reaction when you saw your boyfriend on screen? I’m thinking, in particular, of the scene when he’s at the dining room table alone, talking to his wife, pretending she’s there . . . it absolutely gutted me.”

Finally, a question I can answer from the heart. “I saw it earlier this year. I’m glad the lady next to me at the theater offered me a tissue. I’m not ashamed to say I choked up.”

“Yes! I was a right mess. Totally sobbing,” Piper says, then she turns to Jude. “What did TJ say to you about your film? Did he tell you how chuffed he was?”

Jude clutches my hand in a vise-like grip. “Yes. He was beaming. And all I could think was I am the luckiest guy in the world to have such a supportive boyfriend.”

“Brilliant.” Then, she draws a deep breath, shoots an almost apologetic smile to Jude, and asks, “Have you been in touch with William with Lettuce Pray? We’ve heard that he might need to cancel some concerts.”

I grind my teeth as Jude gives a sympathetic smile. “He’s a good friend, but I’m not privy to his concert plans. You’d have to talk to him.”

Piper gestures to the photographer. “One more photo of the two of you?”

“Of course,” Jude says, then drags me hard against him.

The goateed guy snaps the shot, then Piper thanks us and leaves, weaving through the crowd.

Giving me a pointed look, Jude drops the volume. “Darling, let’s have a word in private.”

“Sure,” I say, dreading this talking-to. Yes, Jude, I suck at acting. Bet that surprises you.

He tugs me toward the men’s room, then pulls me inside and locks the door. It’s a single stall, black-tiled bathroom—because of course it is—and we’re alone.

He turns to me and locks eyes like we’re locking horns. “You were crying at my movie?” His question drips with skepticism.

I didn’t fucking lie, but I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much the performance affected me. “What’s wrong with that?”

“Do you think maybe you’re overselling us?”

“Like you weren’t?” I fire back, then imitate him. “Luckiest guy in the world? Who says that shit?”

He sneers. “All your heroes. That’s in your books.”

He won’t win this argument, though. “They say that at the end, man. When they’re all happy and shit, forever.”

“And isn’t that what we’re supposed to be? Happy and shit?” Jude asks, imitating me now.

“Yes, but it’s the beginning of our supposed story. We’re not at the luckiest guy in the world level yet. And when I saw your movie, we’d only just reconnected per Slade’s backstory.” I might not be a good actor, but I understand story arcs. “We’re supposed to be infatuated right now.”

“And infatuated people don’t say things like My boyfriend and I are thrilled to be here.”

Fuck him for calling me on bad dialogue.  Fuck him for being right. And fuck him once more for the pointed tone he’s taking. “Fine. What do they say since you’re the expert? What did you and William say to each other, for instance?”

Whoa. That slipped out. I didn’t plan to go there. But now that I’m here, I’m dying to know.

Jude’s stare could burn holes in steel. “I told you,” he hisses, his voice deadly. “He’s a friend. He’s only ever been a friend.”

I give an I don’t believe you shrug. “Those pictures, though.”

Jude rolls his eyes but says nothing, and it’s like he’s holding back all the vitriol in the world. Good. He should. He should learn not to say everything that comes into his head. “And there are pictures of us tonight, looking happy. I told you, TJ. Stop believing photos.”

“Fine,” I grunt. But it’s not fine. My heart aches at the mention of William. I haven’t been with anyone since I left Los Angeles. I can’t stand the thought that Jude would forget me so easily. “Just tell me how you want me to act.”

“Like we like each other,” he says. No shit, Sherlock.

“Easy for you to say,” I say, then I want to kick myself. For someone who was once great at keeping his feelings to himself, I’m having a helluva hard time shutting up tonight. Spinning around, I head to the sink, yank on the tap, then splash my face. I need to cool down. When I turn off the faucet, I grab a paper towel and dry off, then glance in the mirror.

I don’t look happy. I look like a broken man. But this pain won’t help me write my next sexy romantic comedy. It won’t get me through the evening either. So what if he moved on? I broke us off. I left him. I didn’t take his call. And I didn’t answer his text.

Of course, he moved on.

Let it go, man.

I turn around, hold out my hands to show they’re empty, like the rest of me. “Sorry, Jude. That was uncalled for. This whole thing isn’t easy for me. I’m doing my best.” I realize tonight will go smoother if I admit that much. “And I’m failing.”

Jude’s expression softens along with his voice. “Then let me lead. I can help us both get through this, okay?”

I nod. “I will. That whole thing with Piper wasn’t my best moment. I’m terrible at making shit up.”

His lips twitch in a skeptical grin. “You make things up for a living.”

I scoff. “On my computer. With a keyboard. With my head,” I say, tapping my temple. “I’m not an actor. I don’t ad-lib well about . . .”

Feelings.

He should know this. I was a mess that morning in his Airbnb when we tore our relationship to pieces.

“I do understand, but we have to try to like each other. I mean”—he gestures to my hair, a bit of mischief in his grin—“you tried to look good for me tonight.”

My cheeks redden.

“Oh, stop. I like your haircut,” he says, and his flirty tone weaves dangerous magic around me.

I don’t know what to feel about his effect on me. How wary I should be. How guarded. “Are you saying that as you or as my fake boyfriend?”

But my phone buzzes. His beeps. We both grab them like gunslingers in the Wild West.

Slade’s name flashes across my screen in a group text to Jude and me. Good evening! I’m sitting here at home enjoying some delicious gazpacho while scrolling through Food’s Insta feed and checking Piper’s socials, and I couldn’t help but wonder—did I miss the big entrance? Pretty sure I asked for a cheek kiss when you two lovebirds saw each other. If I missed the pic, please do forgive me. If I didn’t, then please remember how it’s done—Lips meet cheeks. Easy peasy, men.

My shoulders sag. “We were supposed to kiss when we saw each other,” I say to Jude.

His blue eyes dart down to my lips, and he stares shamelessly at my mouth. When he raises his face, his eyes lock with mine. “TJ Hardman, you and I know how to sell a kiss. Let’s fucking do this.”

We might not trust each other. He probably doesn’t even like me. But we’re in this together.

I take his confidence as my own and follow him out of the bathroom.

It’s showtime.