Page 128 of The Hopelessly Bromantic Duet
“And why is fake datinghimgoing to shake it up?”
He stares at me like the answer is obvious. “You can’t spend all your time in the gym, kid. Or running in circles in Central Park. You need to get out there and mix it up. The dates you’ll go on will inspire you.”
If he only knew what Jude inspired—the biggest, boldest, brightest emotions I ever felt.
And one fiery ending where we burned our house down.
“I don’t think inspirational is the word I’d use,” I mutter.
“Your book is overdue. The way I see things is you can keepnotwriting your book, or you can go on some dates and find some spark again and write the book that everyone’s waiting for.” Mason takes a deep inhale, sounding wholly satisfied. “Which option sounds more appealing? Door number one or door number two?”
“I choose door number three. Getting my balls waxed by a first-timer at a shady clinic with one-star reviews,” I say, trying one more time to swim away.
Mason doesn’t blink. “And I imagine that’s how Brooks & Bailey feels every time you don’t deliver your book.” He gestures to his phone, waving airily at it—my stomach drops. I hate letting people down. “If you have a better suggestion, I’m all ears. If not, let me know what I should tell Holly.”
That Jude shouldn’t have accused me of using him.
That I have zero interest in fake dating a secret ex-lover, an ex-roomie, anex.
But the clock doesn’t stop ticking on my deadline. There are no more extensions. No more grace periods. This farce might be the only thing between me and failure.
I meet Mason’s stare head-on, swallow my pride. “Thursday at eight works for me. I’ll meet him at the St. James Theatre.”
That’ll give me all week to get a haircut, trim my beard, maybe even track down that aftershave that used to drive Jude wild. Make him fucking miss what he lost.
Mason grins, returns to his desk, and sits down. “Great. And I think you’ll find it more enjoyable than scrotal depilation. But hey, that’s ultimately for you to decide. And since we need to hash out some of the details before you make your dating debut, the CTM press department, Jude’s agent, and I have conveniently arranged for you to meet the movie star in fifteen minutes.”
So much for the haircut plans. Today has turned into the Monday-est of all Mondays.
3
JUST A FRIEND
Jude
When I was a teenager, I dreamed of phone calls from agents. I’d imagine my mobile ringing, then my agent saying in a clipped, crisp tone: “Jude, theJames Bondproducers want to cast you as the new 007. Can you head over to the studio straight away? Tux will be ready, and we’ve got a martini glass too.”
Now, at the ripe old age of thirty-one, I know that agent calls can leave me feeling anywhere fromfireworkstosmacked in the stomach with a wrecking ball.
Since I woke up an hour ago to another damning photo fromThe Hollywood Scoop, I’m already dressed in a pressed black button-up and trim jeans when Holly calls to talk about how we handle a wrecking ball.
“Hi, Holly,” I say, putting on a good show. “At least it wasn’t a sex tape, right?”
She chuckles. “That’s certainly one way to look at things, love. Can you meet me at my favorite café?”
“The one next to your office, with the lavender Earl Grey you adore?”
“You know me so well.”
“Which is why I’m already hailing a taxi.” I leave my apartment ready for damage control. I’ll do whatever Holly asks. The last thing I want is to lose her.
There are spin jobs, and then there are spin jobs.The Hollywood Scoop’sphoto of me kissing my supposed ex will require an industrial-sized washing machine and a few gallons of bleach.
When I reach the café, my goal is to convince Holly to keep me as a client. She single-handedly turned my career around after it stalled for two years, like a Peugeot stuck in the Blackwall Tunnel underneath the River Thames.
Holly knows the café’s owner, so we grab a table far in the back, away from prying eyes and ears. “I’m not even involved with him,” I say as I point to the risqué shot slapped across the home page ofThe Hollywood Scoop.“I can’t believe The Scoop says we’re an item.”
“Well, the photo does make it seem that way,” Holly diplomatically says as she settles at the table with her tea. “You left the Luxe Hotel with him.”