Page 110 of The Hopelessly Bromantic Duet
As TJ buttons his duck shirt—could there be a better sign, universe?—I mouththis is all your fault.
With a cocky smile, he just shrugs. “Sure is, Mister Fox.”
“Shut it, Mister Hardman. Just shut it,” I say with a laugh.
Five minutes later, he helps me carry vases of flowers from my agents, the show’s producers, and my parents and friends.
Once we’re outside the theater, his brow knits. “Do you want to take these to...”
“My Airbnb.” I stayed near the theater for the first few weeks but switched to a cute little cottage on Venice Beach on Friday. “And I want to take you too. For more than tonight,” I say, since why beat around the bush?
There’s that twinkle in his eyes, that grin he tries to mask. Why does he hide his feelings? Or hide them badly, I should say. Doesn’t he know I can eventually see through him?
As we walk, he clears his throat. “A few minutes ago, you askedDo I really have to leave tomorrow?”
“I did.”
The twinkle multiplies as we walk past the fountains, glittering in the dark. “To answer your question, Jude... I bought a one-way ticket.”
This is officially the best night ever. “Someone was hopeful,” I say, as he’s proved my point—eventually, he says what’s in his heart.
“I was,” he says, and it’s the admission I wanted last night at the bar, but I suppose it’s an admission I had to earn. Maybe one webothhad to earn over the last twenty-four hours.
As we head toward the Lyft I ordered, he tells me he has to return to New York on Thursday for a book signing the day after.
“Good. Stay till then,” I tell him. “I got this place on the beach since I figured I’d rather be there for these meetings and whatnot. I have a commercial shoot in Malibu on Wednesday, but it’s only half the day.”
“No problem. I’ll write then. I can write anywhere, while you’re in your meetings and whatnot,” he says, always practical.
And I like that practical side. I want him to write while I handle business. I want our lives to mesh somehow. This week feels like the start, even though I know there are so many more hurdles—New York, London, the fucking ocean.
But one thing at a time.
An hour later, after we’ve stopped at his hotel to grab his things, we’re in my one-bedroom Airbnb cottage on the beach. It’s all white wood, with a wraparound deck and a view of the Pacific. In short—heaven. We set the flowers on the kitchen island, surf crashing softly in the distance. TJ leans against the counter, tipping his forehead to the daisies. “I guess you do like flowers.”
“Yes, because I’m not a monster who hates flowers and musicals.”
“Musicals suck, but I like flowers too, you dick.” TJ grabs both my hands, yanks me flush against him, then rumbles something soft and sweet against my throat, a long, lowmmm. He rubs his beard against my neck, whispering in my ear, “Are we doing this, finally?”
That fizzy sensation I had when I learnedPillow Talkwas going to the US? It pales in comparison to what I feel now. “We are.”
If I ever need to play a character who’s falling in love, this moment is what I will draw from, and I will fucking nail it.
On Monday morning, I get out of bed and follow the smell of coffee. TJ’s drinking a cup on the beach house deck, staring at the surf from the white wooden railing.
Or wait. Is he staring at aTop Gunscene?
I stride out onto the deck. “You fucking pervert. Are you watching those shirtless guys play beach volleyball?”
He shoots me the kind of deadpan stare only he can deliver. “Yes, Jude. I’m staring at other men when I’m with you.” He nods to the phone in his hand and the notes app on the screen. “I was thinking about a scene on the beach for my next book. I was trying to figure out a volleyball meet-cute.”
“Ah, so you came here to work,” I tease. It’s so fun to poke him.
“You figured me out. I flew to Los Angeles for work. I finagled this invite so I could stand on the deck of a beach house and brood over a clever way to start the book I’m dangerously close to falling behind on.”
That’s surprising. TJ always seems to have his shit together. Moving behind him, I run a hand through his hair. “Just write about a fetching Englishman who charms the pants off a hot, broody, bearded volleyball player.”
“You’re so helpful. I even know who to suggest to star in it when it’s made into a flick.”