Page 139 of The Hopelessly Bromantic Duet
“Yup. The self-help guru who’s allbe a man,” Hazel says, imitating the rough-and-tumble voice of the guy with the satellite radio show, non-fiction books, and speaking gigs.
“And what did he do to piss you off?” I ask.
“He’s coming for us, TJ! He announced today he’s writing a romance novel, and this is his tagline.” She waves her phone about. Her jaw tics as she bites out the words she reads from his feed. “Straight-up romance with a man’s touch.”
I cringe. “Oh no, he didn’t.”
Aspen breathes hard through his nostrils. “I need a moment before I touch my scissors, honey.”
Hazel smiles, understanding. “You take all the time in the world. But can we please talk about how awful he is?”
“Oh, we better,” Aspen says as he sets his hands on her shoulders as if he’s steadying himself.
“The idea that romance needs aman’s touchis insulting,” Hazel begins. “I’m not a man and I’m perfectly capable of writing romance from the point of view of both a man and a woman.”
Her legions of fans would testify to her abilities. “Preach. You know I love your books,” I say.
“Me too,” Aspen adds.
“Thank you. Also,” Hazel continues, then points to me, “what kind of what-the-fuckery is thisstraight-up romanceline?”
I raise a hand, a little offended. Or maybe a lot. “Gee, do you think he’s saying queer men and women can’t write straight romance? It’s hard to tell what he means with the wordupin there afterstraight.”
Hazel sets a hand on her chest and smiles obsequiously. “Thank goodness romance finally has a straight manly man to do things right and fix all the mistakes the women and queer men have been making.” Then her green eyes twinkle with mischief. “You know this leaves us with no choice, right?”
Aspen likes to think he can read minds, but I can almost always read Hazel’s. “You want to write a douche with an alliterative name into your next book to have your sweet revenge?”
“Obviously. And you should too, TJ. Let’s make him the same guy. Can we do that? Pretty please.”
“Ooh, crossing worlds. I love it,” Aspen says as he runs his hands through her hair. “Let’s get you a shampoo, honey. And we’ll talk more about what we’re going to call this character.”
When they return a few minutes later, Hazel’s decided his name will be Dane Donovan and he’ll appear in both our books as a villain, obviously. “Will that help you write, TJ?” she asks, sounding hopeful.
I’ve been looking for an opportunity to sow the rumor of my romance. It’s going public in about an hour, so this is the best opening I’m going to get. “If not, then my date tonight with Jude Fox will,” I say with as much cheer as I can muster, though it’s unpleasant to spin lies.
Especially when Aspen’s jaw comes unhinged again. “You’re seeing Jude Fox, as in,the Fox? The hottest, sexiest, most bangable man on screen?”
A part of me wishes myyescould be an honest answer. A bigger part of me wishes I didn’t have to lie to a friend.
Good thing I’ve already told Hazel the truth. I called her yesterday after that painful CTM debriefing. So when we leave the salon a little later, both freshly styled, she hugs me and whispers, “Good luck tonight.”
“I’ll need it,” I say.
Especially since I’m due at the restaurant in twenty minutes, but I’m at least a half hour away. When I arrive, I’m late, and Malcolm Mann is here too.
7
RED CARPET SMOOTHNESS, AT YOUR SERVICE
TJ
As I walk up to the restaurant in the East Village, I search the crowd for my date. A long line snakes around the front of Food. A black-and-white sign hangs above the restaurant in Times New Roman font. The restaurant is like a bored teenager with its plain doorway, decor, and name—it just can’t even. If it didn’t have a crowd, you’d miss it. Which, I suspect, is the point. Food is so aggressively ordinary you have to know what’s trendy to know you should eat here. Only the cool kids, please.
The line is maybe fifty people deep, and many are peering through the restaurant's glass windows, trying to spot celebrities inside. Maybe Jude is late too. Then he won’t know I’m fifteen minutes late. But when I reach the doorway, I look past the Man’s Man and spotmyman—albeit pretend—in the far corner of the bar. Jude is chatting with a reporter.
My stomach flips.
That’s annoying—my body’s reaction to him. But I blame it on his charm. It radiates off the Brit like sunshine.