Page 117 of The Hopelessly Bromantic Duet

“That’s what’s so mad about the whole thing. It’s like they didn’t get the memo about sexy accents,” she says, clearly disgusted as an agent should be. “The leads are both American. And supposedly, Christian Laird is attached to this project now. Which is ridiculous.”

The floor drops out from under me.

TJ took every single detail about my hopes and dreams and used them.

My heart hurts. Literally fucking aches. Why do I always fall for men who use me?

I draw a shaky breath. “So, that’s it?”

“That’s it for now, love. But chin up. Kenta and I will find something. That’s our job, and we’re not going to fail. We love you madly, so put this out of your head, go enjoy the sunshine that we never get back home, and we will carry on.”

“Thanks, Hols.”

“Let’s have lunch tomorrow, okay? We’ll strategize over kale and tofu and tea.”

“Sure,” I agree, and she hangs up.

I want to believe this is a misunderstanding. I want to believe it’s a coincidence. But every detail adds up toI got fooled again.

William let slip on Tuesday night that TJ came to LA for business.

TJ bought a one-way ticket.

TJ arranged his schedule for a meeting while I was at a shoot.

The worst part? He wooed the guy the night he came to my show and gave me those fucking blueberries. And then I blew him.

I stare daggers at the photo of him during intermission at my show, romancing my work right out from under me.And he didn’t say a word to me.

Just like Arlo didn’t say a word when he was wooing my agent and then stealing my role. Talk about déjà vu.

This is Arlo all over again. My boyfriend used me to get to someone else.

And the irony of it all? TJ’s not even my boyfriend.

The front door clicks open, and I seethe like a volcano.

“Hey, baby, I’m back,” TJ calls from the foyer. “Want to get kale for breakfast, and I can tell you something? I have a funny picture to show you.”

Ha. I have a damning picture to show him.

Slowly, I head out of the bedroom, my jaw tight. My eyes lock on him as he pushes the front door closed. His T-shirt clings to his chest, and I don’t fucking care.

I hold up my phone, and the volcano erupts. “Why the fuck did you really come to LA? Because it sure as hell seems like it wasn’t for me.”

40

YOUR DREAM GUY

TJ

Jude holds the phone like a cross-examiner holds damning evidence. His eyes are steel—no, guns—and they’re aimed right at me.

My neck prickles. I have no idea what he’s getting at, but when he shoves the phone near my face, I groan.

The shot of Walsh and me is a neon Vegas billboard advertising all the misunderstandings in the world.

“I can explain,” I say, and with those awful words, I sound like every cheating jackass in history.