Page 145 of The Hopelessly Bromantic Duet
He meets my eyes—his brim with gratitude. “Thank you. I hope you know how much that means to me.”
“I do know what it means to you,” I say.
He clears his throat, lifts his hand, and touches the hair above my ear. “I like your haircut not just as your fake boyfriend, but as me.”
Swoop goes my heart.
The event winds down with no more reminders from Slade to behave. My fake boyfriend and I leave and go our separate ways, Jude getting into a Lyft to the Village and me walking to Chelsea.
As I go, I open a text to Jude.We made it through our first event.I hit send before I could overthink it.
He replies quickly.We sure did. And now I have your number again.
I stare at the words with swirling emotions. I’m thrilled he responded quickly and gutted he deleted my number.
But another emotion elbows its way to the front of the line as I walk home. I’m shocked to learn the full impact of my choice from months ago. Jude was so hurt when I didn’t pick up that he erased my number.
Wow.
I thought I was protecting myself by shutting him out. I didn’t think about his side of it. I didn’t for a second contemplate how he’d feel.
If I’d known, maybe I’d have answered his call.
One more emotion follows me home. Regret. It clings to me the rest of the night.
The next morning, I’m still thinking of regret when I get out of bed and head straight to my laptop.
What if one of the heroes in my book is grappling with regretandlust at the same damn time?
I noodle on those twin emotions for a bit as I tap out a few words, then the buzzer in my apartment bleats loudly. I pick up the intercom, and the doorman greets me with a good morning, then adds, “Guy named Slade says it’s time for a ride.”
What the hell is that about? “Tell him I just got out of the shower so I’ll be out in ten.”
Exactly ten minutes and a fast as fuck shower later, I slide into the back seat of his stretch limo. Slade smiles, but he doesn’t look happy. “It seems you forgot some of the basic rules of fake dating.”
Just me? But even if I want to throw Jude under the bus, I don’t. “This may shock you, but this is the first time I’ve faked a romance. So you might want to enlighten this pretend-dating virgin.”
Approval sparks in his dark eyes. “I like that sass. And I believe I speak for Mason when I say this,” he cups his mouth to boom, “Put that shit in your book.”
I grimace, then grumble out a reply: “Thanks for the reminder that I need to write.”
“You do, and that was fodder. Get your phone out, dictate a note as you do, and save that line for book number eleven that’s so overdue it’s like an elephant gestating.”
Seriously?
But since I have no clout with my agency at the moment, I comply. When I set my phone down, I give Slade the universal look forwhat’s the deal? “What am I in trouble for now?”
“I’ll tell you after we pick up your dancing partner. I’m looking forward to ripping you two apart in tandem.” Slade lets out a satisfied sigh, rubbing his palms. “It gives me such professional joy, second only to firing someone.”
This guy is officially a gleeful asshole.
I rack my brain trying to figure out how Jude and I botched last night, other than not kissing cheeks. But I come up empty.
Slade knocks on the partition and calls out to the driver in a friendly tone, telling him to head to the next address.
Less than twelve hours after we parted ways, I’m going to see Jude again.
The thought both bothers and excites me.