Page 147 of The Hopelessly Bromantic Duet
And I do, wearing my black button-down with tiny sushi illustrations on the front pocket. The sleeves are nice and tight, and the shirt fits like a glove.
Let Jude enjoy the view. All this could have been his if he’d trusted me ten months ago. I could give him this tea today for real. Hell, I could kiss him like he’s been mine for the last year. I could romance him all over the city and make him feel like a prince.
If he’d trusted me, we could have stayed together. And then maybe I’d have finished my eleventh book. I could have penned a sentence beyondI’ve been having a recurring dirty daydream.
Jude’s the reason I haven’t written a decent word about love or longing in ages. He took that part of me, and I want it back.
I stab the buzzer again, letting it bray for ten long seconds. When Jude bounds down the steps of the walkup, looking like a magazine shoot in a forest-green Henley, it pisses me off that I’m still so attracted to him.
I bang my fist against the wooden door.
He makes a shushing move with his finger, then waves at the stairwell.
When he jerks the door open, he sears me with a stare. “Hello, honey. So good to see you.”
I thrust the cup at him. “I got you a tea,” I mutter as he exits the building and the door slams behind him.
“Thanks,” he says, then takes a drink?—
And flinches, spitting tea all over the steps and crushing the cup in his hand, splashing Earl Grey down my chest.
It’s hot as hell, and I jump back right as he shouts, “It’s fucking five hundred degrees!”
No kidding. Wincing, I tug at my scalding, wet shirt. “Try six hundred.”
“I burned my tongue off.” He stares at the splash across my chest. His eyes widen with guilt. “Oh, fuck me, TJ. Did that hurt you? I’m terribly sorry.”
He sounds so contrite. It’s borderline adorable, especially since it’s so very British. It takes away the remains of the burn. “It’s possible I’m skinless now,” I say, even though I’m not hurt. The tea was just surprisingly hot, not deadly or damaging.
As he gawks at my shirt, I give in to the humor of the situation.
“What’s so funny?” he asks.
“Your reaction,” I snicker. “It’s a little over-the-top.”
“Well, you’re more than a little wet,” he says, indignant.
A glance down at my shirt tells me I’m alotwet. “This’ll irritate Slade too. He’ll probably be likeno fake boyfriends in my care have ever spilled tea on a shirt before.”
Jude screws up the corner of his lips, his mind whirring. “You should change.”
“Nah, I’ll be fine. Slade will be more pissed if I have to go home to get a new shirt. I’m from Seattle. We’re used to being wet.”
Jude scoffs. “Don’t be silly. Come inside. I have something for you.”
“A shirt?”
“Sort of,” he says, grabbing his phone. “I’ll text Daddy.”
I laugh harder. “Better you than me. Do you have any idea how displeased Pops is with us today? And I’m trying to figure out why.”
“Me too. Something clearly went tits up—I just don’t have a clue what that is,” Jude says as he taps out a message, then unlocks the door to his building.
As we head up the stairs, I point out the obvious. “You know we’re not the same size. I can’t wear your clothes.”
“I’m well aware.” It comes out a little flirty as if Jude still enjoys the few inches I have on him in breadth and height.
I wish I didn’t like the flirt in his voice.