Page 10 of The Hopelessly Bromantic Duet
“What sort of things?” he asks, a little breathy.
Ah, fuck it. He’s probably only in town for a short while. Might as well enjoy this while it lasts. “Things like... tomorrow.”
That wins me the start of a smile, then the slight turn of his face toward me. “What are you presuming about tomorrow?”
“That I’ll see you again,” I tell him. “When you’re not falling asleep. When you’re not yawning into your fucking beer.”
With a laugh, he rolls his eyes then leans back in the booth. “I’m only alittletired,” he says, so much gravel in his voice now.
“That’s why I gave her my card. That’s why I said we were set. So we can have this one drink to your first night in town. And something more tomorrow.”
He nods a few times, clearly liking my plan. If he only knew all the dirty plans I have for him tomorrow. “I’ll drink to something more,” he says, and we lift glasses and clink.
“Cheers,” I say, then drink and lick my lips. “So, what brings you to London? Give me the two-minute version since I’m going to put you in an Uber soon.”
“I’m writing an exposé on bookshops,” he says, deadpan.
“So, this is all a ruse to get me to reveal the hidden secrets of the shelves?”
“Seems to be working too. I already uncovered critical details, like how much you adore helping customers and which edition ofThe Importance of Being Earnestis your favorite.”
I try to remember when I told him but draw a blank. “I didn’t tell you the one you bought was my favorite.”
“You didn’t have to tell me. I figured it out from your clues,” he says, and this man would make a good detective because he’s spot on.
“Perhaps all this Sherlock Holmes work of yours brought you to London then?”
He takes another drink and casually sets down the glass. “Or maybe I’m a Wilde scholar here in London to research the man.”
“But we’re all Wilde scholars, aren’t we?”
“Excellent point,” he says, then his tone shifts like he’s letting down his guard. “When I was in high school and first learned he was gay, I checked out all Oscar Wilde’s works from the library. Devoured them. I’ve read this one several times.” He taps the top hat cover. “Maybe I felt I should have an affinity. Do you know what I mean?”
“I do—on both counts. And probably that’s why I was the most excited I’ve ever been when I was cast as Jack Worthing in uni.” I pause to replay in my head what I just said. “I hope I didn’t sound like a braggart then. I was truly thrilled.”
“Not at all. I can completely understand that excitement.” This is our first stripped-down moment, free of flirting or trying to impress the other. It’s nice, and I like it, but I don’t want it to last too long. I don’t want too much closeness in my life, and I doubt TJ does either, judging by how quickly he returns to the banter.
“And is that your way of telling me you have a second career?” he asks. “That you’re an actor?”
“Yes. Clever, isn’t it? How I dropped that in?”
“Very much so. So, the bookstore thing, then?”
“I moonlight there. Bills and all,” I say, offhand. I don’t want to reveal the full extent of my acting dreams. Don’t want to let on that I spend my days auditioning for hoover adverts and bit parts on web shows and every single fringe theater production that might be right for me. That I’m chasing a wildly unlikely dream of making it big in film and on stage. He’d probably laugh. “And I’m guessing you’re a writer?”
A surprised laugh bursts from the man next to me. “It’s as obvious as me being tired?”
“Pretty obvious, TJ.” I don’t go into how I caught on. It’d be evident I’m paying too much attention to every detail of him—like how he sometimes takes his time with his words like he’s writing them out in his head first. Rather than say that, I tease, “Your whole look kind of screams writer.”
Okay, I can’t help it.
His jaw drops, and he gestures to himself. “Am I disheveled, unshowered, and dressed in sweats? No. Not to cast aspersions on other writers, mind you.”
I lean closer and whisper, “I won’t tell all the other writers in the world that you mock their wardrobes.”
“Thank you so very much. Anyway, you’re right. I am a writer—well, I’m a business reporter—and my news organization sent me here to cover the financial markets.”
“Ah, stocks, bonds, money, money, money,” I say.