Page 149 of The Hopelessly Bromantic Duet

He scoffs. “Please. As if I’d have a car in the city.”

I smile as I unbutton the top button. “Understandable. I hate cars,” I admit.

“Same. One of my life goals is to never need to own one. Or to drive one,” he adds.

“Driving is so overrated,” I say, my fingers midway down the shirt now. Jude steals a peek at my chest, half exposed, then triesto look away. But as he swings his gaze around the room, he returns to me over and over as I undo more buttons.

Once I shrug off the shirt, Jude breathes out hard then reaches for it. “I’ll take a chauffeur over driving myself any day,” he says, voice a little rough.

“That tracks, since you did once say your greatest dream was to have a valet.”

Jude clutches the fabric. “Good memory.”

“For some things.”Like, say, everything involving you.

“The washer/dryer is down the hall.” His tone shifts away from sensual, zooming back to cordial. “Want to see?”

“Yes,” I say and follow him down the hall, “since I like porn.”

He jerks his head around, one brow lifted in question.

“New York real estate porn, that is,” I add.

Jude tosses his head back and laughs. “This is triple-X variety then.” Halfway down the hall, he opens a door with a creak of the hinges. “And here is the money shot. I’ve got tissues in case you need them straightaway.”

“Ohhhh God,” I groan salaciously as I stare at the stacked appliances. “I just came in my pants.”

Jude cracks up. “You should use that in your book.”

First Slade, now Jude with the suggestions. Am I funnier today than I was yesterday? If I am, I’d like to channel it for good—the good of my deadline. “Perhaps I will, since laundry in the home is its own foreplay,” I say as he tosses the shirt into the dryer.

He turns the dial, then leans against the machine, adopting a too-dirty look. “And I’m running this bad boy on...high heat.”

“Now I can really picture the scene perfectly,” I say.

“See? I’m very inspiring.” The way Jude stares at me then fights not to stare again kicks up heat in my chest.

That’s a good sensation—a familiar one. Sometimes, when I write the banter and the slow, sweet ache of tension, I feel thissame kind of longing as I type. Like I do right now as Jude Fox gives me all sorts of slow-burn vibes while he undresses me with his eyes.

Yup, this is my hero’s recurring dirty daydream, for sure.

Will he act on it is the question.

But wait.

Stop. Just fucking stop.

I can’t even consider acting on anything.

Jude is dangerous. Jude is the guy who stole my creativity. Just because he likes me shirtless doesn’t change the score between us. He accused me of something I didn’t do. He flung my private words back at me.

And I walked away from him and froze him out.

Ergo, we are all the way broken up.

I try to focus on something else. Anything else. The creaky door. “Do you want me to fix your door? It’s a little loose,” I say, trying to shake the gravel from my voice.

“I don’t have any tools.”