Page 156 of The Hopelessly Bromantic Duet
Because of the jittery, unpredictable way I feel around my ex—like a popcorn popper, about to explode. “You’re right,” I say as I roll up the cuffs. “We’re faking our romance, so who cares?”
She arches a brow as she slinks forward and straightens my shirt. “You care.”
“Hardly.” I tuck the shirt in, trying to hold my ground. Like, I’m not counting down the minutes till I see my ex. Like, I’m not replaying our kiss over and over. Like, I don’t care one bit.
She steps back, her eyes touring my wardrobe: black trousers, the robin’s egg shirt, short black trendy boots. “Damn, I did well. TJ is going to be a hot mess tonight.”
I can’t hold back my grin. “That’s very, very good.”
Her face saysbusted, and I honestly don’t mind. “Like I said, you care,” Olivia says. “And I was right, which pleases me to no end. Now, tell me, why do you want him to be affected by you?”
I don’t need to ponder her question as we leave my room. One day after that fierce, angry kiss in the back of a limo, I’ve got the answer. “Because he still does it for me,” I admit.
And that’s very good for our fake boyfriend theater and very bad for my heart.
When we exit the subway and head into the zoo of Times Square, Olivia tells me she’s going to run ahead because Amelia has demanded she come backstage.
“Did she use those exact words?Come backstage?”
“Yes, but she added pretty please.”
“Did you meet your soul mate in Amelia Stone or what?”
“Manners get me in the mood every time,” she says.
“Which would explain why you’re taking off for the theater right now,” I say.
She waves then flies through the crowd, determined to get some, it seems. I don’t rush, though, because I’m not going to show up sweaty and disheveled for the cameras. Or for TJ. But as I weave through the Eighth Avenue foot traffic, I text him that I’m on my way.
Jude: Almost there. I’ve been running lines in my head all day for when I see you. We don’t want to fuck this one up for Daddy. How’s this for a greeting? “Hey there.”
TJ: Brilliant. But who’s giving the cheek and who’s giving the kiss? Details, or Daddy will have a fit.
Jude: If you’re as late as you were at the restaurant, I’ll have to kiss your cheek when you finally saunter in.
TJ: That was a trick question. One, I can be trained, ergo I’m here already at the St. James. Two, you’re the star. Therefore, you offer the cheek, and I kiss it.
I do like his logic. It’s sort of sweet, as if he wants to play the role of the man behind the scenes. As I turn onto Forty-Fourth Street, the shimmering marquee of the St. James beckoning against the March sky, I write back.
Jude: Are you being cheeky?
TJ: LOL!
Jude: Stop the presses. You use Internet abbreviations?
TJ: Take the compliment, Jude.
Jude: Taken. :) I’ll be there in five.
TJ: I’ll be waiting.
My chest flutters at those three words. They’re a little romantic, a little poignant.
Or maybe he’s simply playing his part.
Ugh. I wish I knew what was fake and what was real with him. But I know this—I’d do well to avoid another obsession with him, so I should stop analyzing.
As I near the theater, my phone rings. William’s name flashes on the screen, and I debate whether to pick it up.