Page 158 of The Hopelessly Bromantic Duet
I cut through the crowds, saying hi here and there to a few industry people. I spot that guy from Food who TJ introduced me to earlier in the week—the Man’s Man. He’s built like a slab of beef. He tips his chin toward me. “Hey, Jude,” he says. “Whoa. Like The Beatles song.”
Never heard that before. “Indeed, like The Beatles song, Malcolm.”
“Good to see you again.” He offers his fist in some sort of frat-bro bump. Can I pretend I don’t see that? Not with all the paps around. But the last thing I want is someone taking a shot of me fist-bumping a frat bro, so I pat his shoulder in greeting instead.
“Hope you enjoy the show, Malcolm. Lovely to see you again,” I say.
“Tell your dude I DM’d him,” Malcolm calls out.
I flash a red-carpet grin. “Absolutely.”
I push him out of my mind, returning to the delight of TJ’s jealousy. When I find my date, he’s just beyond the doors, swiping the screen on his phone. My smile is unbeatable. So is my libido as I rake my gaze over the man from head to toe. He looks sharp in stylish black trousers and a shirt with—Are those psychedelic mushroom drawings on it?
The man has style, and it’s because of me. The memory of thrifting in London is such a feel-good drug.
I cut through the crowds, walking past a few photographers on the hunt for celeb shots, and stride right over to my date. When he notices me, he tucks his phone into his pocket. I stop a few inches away. Before he can say a word, I cup his face.
Fuck cheek kisses. I want his sexy mouth, so I take it, lingering for a few risqué seconds on his lips.
He trembles, then whispers,Wow.
“Hope you don’t mind that I went off-script,” I murmur.
His strong arm wraps around my waist. “Your ad-lib is on point.”
When I pull away, he does as we planned, dropping a kiss to my cheek and...click.
There’s a camera. There’s a flash of light. There’s Slade in the corner of the lobby, approvingly smiling as he chats with the morning news host from the infamous chicken dude interview.
Slade mentioned he might grab tickets, so I’m not surprised to see him. Plus, as the press guy for a talent agency, no one would think he was here to babysit two clients faking a romance. He looks like he belongs.
And perhaps, for the first time since we met again, TJ and I look like we belong together too.
Trish beelines for us, clasping a mic, her blonde bob as unmoving as the hair on a Lego woman. I flash back to the viral video, picturing the moment when TJ’s ex refused to hold his hand on camera.
I grab his hand. His brown-eyed gaze sails to our threaded fingers. Is he thinking about that other interview? Cataloging the differences?
I hope so.
Trish arrives and sticks out a hand. “Hi there, TJ. I’m Trish from the morning news, and we’ve talked in the past.”
“Of course. Good to see you again,” he says, so smooth and on it.
She shifts to me, introducing herself. “And I’ve adored you sinceAfternoon DelightandOur Secret Courtship. And, get ready for this—I even saw you inThe Artificial Girlfriendway back when.”
Whoa. That’s hardcore. “Hardly anyone mentions that show,” I say, truly surprised.
TJ nudges my side. The pride on his face is picture-perfect. “Told you you were great in that.”
Trish thrusts the mic in his face. “So, you sawThe Artificial Girlfriendtoo?”
“I did,” TJ says warmly. “Little-known fact. I helped Jude rehearse for that series.”
Trish looks confused. “How did you do that?”
TJ squeezes my hand, giving me an affectionate glance before returning his focus to Trish. “We were roomies for three weeks in London. Eight years ago,” he says, and the memories—dear God, the fucking amazing memories—of those twenty-one days hit me like the sun rising in the morning.
“He helped me run lines for that audition,” I say.