Page 122 of The Hopelessly Bromantic Duet

HERE COMES MY MAN

LAUREN BLAKELY WRITING AS L. BLAKELY

PART ONE

Ten Months After Los Angeles

And then we meet again . . .

PROLOGUE

LOST AND FOUND: DESPERATELY SEEKING MY MISSING MOJO

TJ

I have a dirty little secret.

Everyone thinks they know why my pen ran dry. The answer seems obvious if you catalog the public events I was at the center of—and people do that frequently.

He’s the guy who was dumped on national TV by the chicken dude. No wonder TJ Hardman’s in a funk. I mean, could you write an epic love story if that happened to you?

The evidence does seem to add up. Exactly one year ago, my face went viral as theouch, that’s gotta hurtguy when the dude who ran a chicken café said “see you later” to me on a New York morning show.

But the day my keyboard went silent was a couple of months later, when I got on a plane in Los Angeles and flew away from the swooniest guy I’ve ever known.

I haven’t dispelled the rumors, though, because the public story suits me. It hurts less than the private tale that exposes my deepest hopes and dreams. My dreams of Jude. Dreams that died when I packed my suitcase and left him, returning to New York.

So, what’s my dirty little secret?

I’m both the public guy who got dumped on TV, and I’m the private guy who walked away from America’s newest heartthrob. I see Jude’s face on the sides of buses, on tops of taxi cabs, on my TV, on my phone, on my social media. He’s everywhere, with a smile that charms millions—but it charmed me first.

That man is also lodged somewhere deep in my heart and soul.

He’s the reason I’m stuck. Somehow, though, I’ve got to figure out how to write my way out of this heartache. But some stories often surprise even the writer, and Jude’s return to my life is the plot twist I didn’t see coming.

1

THINGS THAT SUCK

TJ

A lot of things suck, like bad coffee, seventies music, and regret.

But live and learn. Move the fuck on.

Blasting my newest anti-romance playlist, I run through Central Park on a Wednesday afternoon. It’s one of the rare spots in New York free of any posters, billboards, or commercials featuring Jude Fox’s face promoting his new movie.

Away from his chiseled features, smoldering eyes, and see-inside-my-soul stare, maybe I can find a great meet-cute concept for my next book.

Like over there on the Great Lawn, where dudes toss frisbees to each other. Maybe one guy accidentally whacks another with a flying disc. Perhaps in the jaw.

Bam—instant meet-cute.

But instant ER-visit? Not cute.

What about the carousel—horses are cool, and so are amusement park rides.

But sexual tension on a kiddie merry-go-round is not cool. It’s pretty fucking creepy.