Page 152 of The Hopelessly Bromantic Duet

“Are we supposed to scan for cameras before we smooch?” Jude asks.

“Yes!” Slade shouts. “I’m not having you pretend to be lovers in private. You’re putting on a show. Tap dance, razzle-dazzle. Find the lens, then give that smolder to the crowd. If two men kiss in a forest and no one is around to see it, did they even kiss?”

Jude hauls in a breath, his eyes fiery. “We kissed on the cheek in the middle of the restaurant. Right after you texted, and it wasa great kiss. It was a fucking amazing kiss. I was not thinking of anyone else,” Jude bites out and, wow, he sounds livid.

But why? He’s over us. He’s overme.

I’ve only seen him this angry once before, and that was the day we split.

10

THE PROOF IS IN THE LIMO

Jude

Seriously.

That kiss last night was incendiary. TJ barely touched me in the restaurant, and I was up in flames.

Like I was when he took off his shirt a few minutes ago.

What the hell is wrong with Desmond? If there’s one thing TJ and I have always done well, it’s touch.

But Slade doesn’t seem to think so. “How would I know it was great?” the PR guy counters like a cross-examiner.

I can’t believe this ruse isn’t working. How are we failing so horribly at pretending we’re into each other? It makes no sense.

“I’ll show you,” I hiss, then jerk my gaze to the guy next to me. The sexy, beardy, brooding man who’s no longer falling for me. Who’s, actively, by the hour, getting over me more and more.

I hate that he’s over us.

Just fucking hate it.

I grab his jaw and plant one on his cheek. Lingering right above all that scratchy stubble. God, he feels good. He smellsgood. That aftershave... that woodsy scent. Is it the same one he wore in London?

Hope dares to race through me.

I break the kiss, hold my hands out wide. “I probably even have beard burn,” I say.

But Slade doesn’t buy it. He drags a hand down his face. “Get him a fake boyfriend, they said. How about having him volunteer at a nursing home, I said. Why don’t they listen to me?” Slade lifts his gaze. “Jude, you look like you’re performing. Just be natural.”

What?

He’s wrong. He’s so fucking wrong. “That was natural,” I protest.

“TJ, you look like you’re thinking of someone else,” Slade says, and I wither. My God, TJ is done with me if Slade can tell he’s not into it. “Act like you like his cheek kisses. It can’t be hard. Think of the last guy you really liked if you can’t fake it for Jude, OK?”

Stab me in the broken heart, Slade.

Now, TJ will kiss me and think of Flynn, the Chicken King. Something I could have prevented if I’d calmly listened to him in Los Angeles about the Webflix deal. And I should have told TJ years ago that I stumbled across a few lines in his journal. At the very least, I should never have flung those lines back in his face in Venice. I sealed my romantic fate that day.

No wonder he didn’t pick up the phone when I called him.

Regret is my new middle name.

“Listen,” Slade continues. “You’re going to attend the opening night ofAdventures of The Last Single Guy in New Yorktomorrow. There will be a red carpet, bloggers, and photographers. I need you to be believable.” Slade checks his watch. “I have a meeting withTrish’s Morning Show. She’ll be atthe theater too, and I’ll be sure to remind her that William isjust a friend.”

“Heisjust a friend,” I say with a huff.