Page 160 of The Hopelessly Bromantic Duet
That’s a surprising one-eighty, but a damn welcome one as TJ unexpectedly opens up to me. Though I hate that he’s so hard on himself, I’m touched that he’s sharing. “You’re not a failure. You’re brilliant, and you’re creative, and you’re just going through a rough patch.”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m broken.”
I squeeze his shoulder, trying to impart some confidence to him. “You’re not. I’ve been through times like that when nothing is happening. But you’re not broken. This is a business of ups and downs.”
“It’s a lot of down right now,” he says, blowing out a heavy breath.
“It’ll change. I’ve read your books. And besides, now I have to inspire you, as Slade said. Take you on swoony dates,” I say, trying to lift his spirits as I raise my hand and play with the ends of his hair.
He offers a small smile. “Thanks. It’s a little silly. The whole thing is.”
“Yes, it is. But we can do this. We convinced Trish. We fucking nailed that. And we are going to nail the dating thing,” I say, my face dipping closer to his. Andfuck it.I want to kiss him, and I’m pretty sure he wants me to.
Our lips brush, and my whole body feels every delicious second of it.
“Mmm,” he murmurs, and as we kiss chastely for the theater, an idea flashes before me, bright and brilliant.
When we separate, I say, “Why don’t we do what we did in London?”
“What do you mean?”
“We scoped out places for your book. The novel you were working on. Why don’t we do that and find some places in New York? Fun, off-the-beaten-path, or just pure date-y places.”
He takes a few seconds, maybe to process my offer. “I’d like that.” Then he grins. “A whole lot more than seeing a musical.”
“Oh, please. You’re going to love it.”
“Doubtful,” he says as the audience claps, and the overture begins.
I turn to the stage but remember my lobby run-in with the Man’s Man. I don’t want to forget my messenger role just in case it’s important to TJ someday. I lean in closer, cup my hand over his ear. “By the way, try not to get too excited. But Malcolm is here. He told me to tell you he DM’d you. Isn’t that thrilling?”
TJ shudders in over-the-top glee. “I can’t wait.”
I laugh. “Can I please tag along when you meet him for drinks? It would be fantastic character work if I ever have to play a douchey dude.”
“Anything for research,” he says, then we turn our attention to the stage.
Two and a half hours later, we give the cast a standing ovation then make our way out of the theater. “And you loved it, right? You totally loved it?”
He scoffs. “I would say I tolerated it.”
I tease him about hating musicals until we emerge on the street. Taxis line up, and theatergoers head for restaurants or home. It’s the moment of truth.
This is where we fucked up the other night. This is where we need to nail it.
Crowds are everywhere. Bloggers, reporters, tourists, theatergoers, and anyone with a phone—which is everyone—can snap our photo.
I turn to my fake date. “Your place or mine?”
When our eyes lock, heat flares between us. “Yours. I’ll get a Lyft.”
As he orders the car, my mind races ahead fifteen minutes. I have no idea what will happen when he walks through the door of my home, but I know what I want.
While he’s on his phone, he drapes his arm around my shoulder, and we head to Seventh Avenue for the pickup. It’ll take forever for any vehicle to turn onto Forty-Fourth Street on a show night. We barely make it past Sardi’s when a gorgeous—by all empirical standards—man overtakes us, then stops one foot away and does a double-take.
“Hey—” The square-jawed Adonis of a movie star swings his gaze from TJ to me. “Wait. You two?”
TJ frowns for a second, and something like guilt flickers in his eyes. “Yeah. We are,” he says, squeezing my shoulder.