Page 103 of The Hopelessly Bromantic Duet

That’s the problem. When he says those things, my heart goes crazy. I need to get it under control.

I move behind him, drop my chin on his shoulder, and nod toward the hardbacks. “I got a list of the most salacious celebrity memoirs from my friend Hazel. She said the juiciest is the Keith Richards. Have you listened to it yet?”

“Why did you get a list?”

“Answer the question, Jude.”

“No, I haven’t heard it.”

“Good,” I say, then dart out a hand and grab a copy. “I’m getting one for me.”

“Selfish fucker,” he says.

I laugh. “Just come with me.”

“Isn’t that what I did this morning?”

“And it’s what you’ll do tonight after the show.”

“I better.”

“I better too. You better. We better,” I add.

“Wow. You sure can conjugate.”

I crack up. Nothing, nothing at all, has ever felt like this—talking with Jude, teasing with Jude, being with Jude.

I bring him close, bite his earlobe. “You know I can, baby. We already conjugated this morning.”

He leans back against me. “Speaking of dirty words, I’ve got something I’ve been meaning to show you for, oh, say, about five years.”

I arch a brow in curiosity.

Jude just flicks his hand toward the register. “Buy your book, selfish fucker, then it’s show and tell time.”

I buy the Richards memoir for me, then when we leave the store, I grab my phone, click on an app, and send Jude a gift.

A minute later, his phone beeps.

Jude looks at the screen, then at me. “You just bought me an audiobook?”

“Well, I know you like to listen to celebrity memoirs rather than read them,” I say, and my cheeks heat, like I’m revealing something personal.

Even though it’s about him.

But this is personal, and he knows it. He knows, now. I asked Hazel for gift ideas for him. He knows, too, I’ve never bought him a gift before. This is a first.

Jude steps closer, brushes his lips to mine, and says softly, “You didn’t have to get me something.”

I feel woozy. “I know. I wanted to.”

“Thank you,” he says, then he takes my hand, and we walk along the promenade till we reach a coffee shop I can’t stop staring at. Or sniffing. I lift my nose and inhale.

Jude takes the Richards book from me, then gestures to the shop. “Go. Get a coffee. And give the barista the third degree like you did with William when you met him.”

I arch a brow. “Did he tell you that?”

“Friends. We’re friends. Like you two.”