Page 140 of The Hopelessly Bromantic Duet
His charm is evident in the way he talks to reporters. It’s in his eyes, the attention he devotes to people, like the blonde who holds a phone near his mouth.
Lately, I feel charmless. Like everyone is going to notice I don’t belong with him.
That’ll be the story the celebrity bloggers ferret out.The broody writer and the magnetic actor are a mismatched pair, they’ll say.They can’t possibly be together.
I’ve got to pull this off, though. If word gets out I faked a romance, my readers will eat me alive. I may not share a ton of personal details with my readers but being private is one thing—lying is something else entirely. But at least it’s for a good cause—the cause of my next book.
When I reach the hostess stand, I give her my name. Before she can say a word, a hand comes down on my shoulder.
“Whoa. Is this TJ Hardman in the flesh?” It’s the voice from satellite radio.
“That’s me,” I say, turning around and flashing a fake smile at Hazel’s new enemy, which makes him my enemy too. Stories need antagonists, and maybe he’ll inspire me to write. Perhaps my heroes will unite behind a common enemy. He’s big and broad, built like a linebacker, with a do-it-yourself kind of buzzcut.Be a man and all.Cut your own hair.
“I’m Malcolm Mann. Stoked to meet you, Teej,” he says, and when he shortens my initials, it feels like the dental hygienist scraping my teeth.
“Nice to meet you too, Malcolm. But it’s just TJ. Not Teej,” I say.
“My bad. But you’ll forgive me, right?” Hiswe’re all goodgrin tells me he’s not used to hearing no.
“It’s no big deal. I’m just letting you know.”
“Good, becauseyouare a big deal. And I am a big fan of yours,” he says, then offers a meaty paw.
You’re not a big fan, dude. You’re sucking up to me—because there is no way you like my books.When I write women, they have things like agency and chutzpah, and when I write queer men, they fuck other men.
“That’s great. Happy to hear that,” I say, shaking his hand and, hey, maybe I am good at faking it. I can practice with Malcolm before I see Jude.
“I’d love to catch up with you later. Let’s grab a drink,” he says.
“Sure,” I say, sincekeep your friends close and your friend’s enemies closer. Hazel will appreciate any recon I can do.
“Sweet. Also, nice haircut,” he calls out as I walk away.
What the hell? Is he tracking my hairstyles? “Thanks,” I mutter as I head inside.
I make my way toward Jude, who flashes me a boyfriend-y smile that tugs on my chest. It does things to my dick too. I remind them both that Jude’s smile is an act.
When I reach him, he gestures to the blonde with the glasses. “Piper, have you met TJ Hardman?”
She extends a hand. “Piper Grace. I’m a blogger withEstablishing Shotin London, though I’m based here,” she says in a crisp British accent. “Great to meet you, TJ.”
“You as well,” I say, shaking her hand, then standing next to Jude.
But wait. Do I hold his hand? Wrap an arm around his waist? Stand shoulder to shoulder with him? What would I do if this were real?
My mind draws a dangerous blank, so my mouth takes over. “My boyfriend and I are thrilled to be here,” I say, hoping that helps, but nope. The second I speak, I want to extract my foot from my mouth because that’s not what you say at a restaurant opening.
That’s not what anyone says. And they especially don’t say it like they’re rehearsing a line in a middle-school play.
“Good to hear,” Piper says, with a hungry look in her blue eyes that I recognize from when I used to be a reporter.
She’s sniffing out a story.
Shit. I need to serve her a better exposé thanTJ and Jude are awkward together. Especially since a goth dude with a Nikon is snapping shots of us. Piper’s photographer, I presume.
I go with the arm move, curling my palm over Jude’s shoulder. “We’ve just heard such great things about Food and its focus on simple dishes. We were saying that last night. Right, honey?” I ask, adopting a new pet name as I shove my shoe down my esophagus.
I’m deep throating my Vans tonight.