Page 159 of The Hopelessly Bromantic Duet
“He was nervous. But I knew he’d get it.”
I smile, a little embarrassed. “He was very, very encouraging.”
“That’s not all, Trish,” TJ says, and I freeze for a second, unsure where he’s going. Then, he turns to me and finishes, “Remember what I said about you getting an Oscar someday?”
Damn, that’s sweet and sexy. I lift a finger, wag it. “Don’t jinx me.”
He returns to Trish, who’s waiting with avid eyes with a laugh. “Allow me. I told him, and this is pretty much an exact quote,When you get your Oscar, be sure to thank me for running the lines that got you your breakout gig.”
I smile for the twentieth time tonight, a little glowy everywhere.
“You did say that.”
Trish beams. “What a wonderful story. Roomies reunited.”
“Hey, that could be the name of your book, TJ. Or wait—maybeThe Roommate Arrangement. How about that?”
He gives me a crooked grin. “You’re naming my books now, Jude?”
“Seems I am,” I say, bumping my shoulder to his.
“Just one more question,” Trish says. We’ve made it this far, so I mentally cross my fingers that she isn’t about to curveball me with anIs William really just a friend?
She turns to my date instead. “TJ, is it too soon to expect that Jude might inspire your next big book?”
He blinks as if he’s caught unprepared. Then he parts his lips to speak, but no sound comes. He looks lost.
I jump in. “A man can hope. Thanks again, Trish.” I want to ask him what’s wrong, but a few more bloggers ask for photos, so we smile and pose and answer a few simple questions.
Are you looking forward to the musical?
-Absolutely.
What do you think of your Oscar prospects?
-It’s an honor to be nominated.
How are you enjoying New York?
-It’s wonderful, especially since my boyfriend’s here.
When we’re done, I guide TJ away from the spotlight of reporters and away from Slade and the handsome man by his side, presumably his date. I tug TJ into a corner of the theater, near a bar. “Sorry Trish asked you that.”
He shakes his head like he’s trying to shake off a mood. “It’s okay. It’s not a big deal.”
But his smile is unconvincing. “Are you sure?”
“I’m positive,” he says firmly, then nods to the seats. “Should we sit?”
We do, and I’m left with that all-too-familiar feeling that he’s keeping secrets. Just when I let myself believe he might feel something for me, I’m reminded of why we’re bad for each other.
We are friction. We scrape, and we grate. That’s the problem. When we’ve been good, we’ve been very good.
Trouble is, we don’t always talk to each other. We don’t break down walls very well.
But we’ve got to sell this fake romance, so I focus on the job and the parts we’re playing.As the house lights flicker, I take his hand, squeeze it, and kiss his cheek once more. “You look good tonight.” That’s true, but it’s also easy to say.
He turns to me, his expression serious, his eyes vulnerable. “Lately, I don’t like it when people ask where my ideas come from,” he says softly, just for me. “It makes me feel like a failure. Like I have no imagination. I already feel that way.”