Page 123 of The Hopelessly Bromantic Duet

Why are ideas so hard?

Ah, I’ve got it. I know where to go.

I cut across the park, making a beeline for Bethesda Terrace. That picturesque spot has romance written all over it. I bet there are a thousand proposals there each year. I’ll watch a few till I crack the case of the missing inspiration I need for the book that’s massively overdue to my publisher.

I’m almost at the terrace when a food truck comes into view, and I do a double-take.

Wait. A Wing and a Prayer is peddling its rotisserie birds in Central Park? I slow my pace as I study the fire-engine red vehicle. I didn’t know that Flynn—the guy I datedbeforeJude reached into my chest, grabbed my pathetic heart, and yanked it out to feed vultures—had opened a food truck for his chicken café.

But one hundred feet away, parked along the road in Central Park, is the architect of the public’s perception of my poor romantic sitch. I haven’t seen him since he broke up with me on TV a year ago—the guy who just wanted someone to love him for his chicken.

Flynn turns away from the ordering window to peck the cheek of the other cook.

Wow.

I stop in my tracks. And yes! Holy fuck, yes!

Inspiration just sauntered in like a badass pimp in a faux fur leopard-spotted jacket. I give a perfunctory wave to Flynn. In his chef’s apron, streaked with chicken barbecue sauce, he blinks, then waves back a few seconds later. The guy next to him does the same. They look sheepish. Like they think I’m bothered by seeing them together, being all flirty and lovey.

Please. They’re not Jude. They’re merely story fodder.

I fly home on fleet feet to Chelsea, bound up four flights of stairs, flip open my laptop, and crack my knuckles.

It is on.

After the ten long, painful, idea-free months since I left California, words now flow out of my head and onto the page. I don’t even need a coffee shop to write. Nope. I’ve been transformed. I can write at home.

Goodbye, trash can full of proverbial crumpled-up pieces of paper.

Hello, brilliant idea for my next novel.

And the best part? This new story has nothing to do with Jude.

A few days and countless cups of home-brewed coffee later, I’ve got almost ten chapters. After a quick re-read on ye olde laptop, I send this puppy to my agent.

Five minutes later, Mason replies with a hallelujah and tells me to swing by in an hour since he’ll have read it by then.

I pump a fist then push away from the couch to take a shower. Even when inspiration strikes, I’d never leave the house smelling, well, the way people think writers smell.

My goal in life is to smell like a magazine ad looks, and I accomplish that in twenty minutes, though I could use a haircut soon. I text my barber buddy to schedule one as I get dressed quickly, tugging on jeans and grabbing a short-sleeve button-down I snagged at a thrift shop.

But I stop before I put on the shirt, taking a good, long look at it. Why do I still have this? I thought I got rid of this one with the fox illustrations. Yet another thing that makes me remember Jude.

Don’t need any assistance on that front, brain.

Like it’s constructed from biohazard waste, I stuff it into a canvas bag to donate stat.

Bye-bye, anything with foxes.

I return to my closet to hunt for a shirt that doesn’t make me think of the guy whose face is everywhere these days.

Including in my head.

Far. Too. Often.

Ah, perfect. This purple shirt has tiny illustrations of vinyl records on it. I check my reflection. Much better. I head uptown on another unseasonably warm March morning in Manhattan—no jacket required. I push through the revolving glass door of CTM, eager for Mason’s feedback.

A minute later, I exit the elevator on the eleventh floor. From behind the reception desk, Rachel waves excitedly at me, her chunky bracelets jingling and jangling against themselves, revealing bits and pieces of the tattoos of vines that line her arms. “It’s been forever, TJ! Good to see you again. Mason said to just wave you in.”