Page 162 of The Hopelessly Bromantic Duet

As we head upstairs, I practice the words in my head to ask calmly, the opposite of how I was in Venice.

But once we’re inside my home, I set my phone on the counter, and it blinks with a text from William.

The words flash on my screen for both of us to see.

Thanks again for talking earlier.

TJ arches a brow and gives me a scathing look. This is the problem with friction. It’s good in the bedroom, but it’s bad out of it.

And it turns out when we’re bad, we’re quite horrid.

13

TWENTY QUESTIONS ABOUT OTHER MEN

TJ

I really should keep my cool.

After that kiss in the limo yesterday, after the theater, after the plans I had to get to know him again tonight, Ihaveto chill out.

I do my best to ignore that blinking note. But that might require some liquor. Tearing my gaze away from the evidence of other men on his phone, I scan his living room, hunting for a liquor cart. A decanter. A bottle of anything other than wine.

“Got anything strong here?” I ask since I’m going to need 500-proof to get through the next hour with the man I can’t get over.

Wait.

How long do I have to stay here to throw reporters off the scent of this deception?

Jude loosens the top button on his shirt. “Does tequila count? If not, I have whiskey. Plenty of wine, but that’s not goingto meet your requirements,” he says, pointing to a liquor tray at the edge of the kitchen counter.

I stalk into the kitchen, grab the Jose Cuervo. “Shot glasses?”

His shoes click on the hardwood. He opens a cupboard, grabs two glasses, and sets them on the counter with a loud clink. “Shockingly, I need one too,” he says, his voice tight—a clear reminder he’s not in the mood for more of my issues.

It’s a reminder, too, that I need to keep my shit together. I’ve got to get a handle on this jealousy. But then, jealousy is only the start of my out-of-control emotions when it comes to Jude. I pour two shots. “How long do you think we need to wait it out?”

“Dunno. It’s not like there’s paparazzi on the street,” he says, waving airily at the window like this is all so easy for him when it’s impossibly hard for me. “But someone could see if you go, I suppose. Desmond or Piper or one of Trish’s scouts or someone else.”

“Exactly,” I say, then thrust the glass toward him.

Neither one of us bothers with a toast. We drink. That is all.

Jude lets out a harsh breath like the tequila burns his throat. Good. I hope it did. Burned me too, like this whole night, which is eating me alive. I can’t believe I let myself think the two of us were getting close again.

Like Helen once said—a man like Jude isn’t single for long. I lost him; William got him. Case closed.

But if so, what was with the pep talk in the theater? He was so sweet. So Jude, my roommate. So Jude, the guy who’s cheeky and real and makes me want to write love stories.

Though Jude, the friend, would be supportive too.

So what the hell are we doing? Are wejust friends?

I have to push through. I have to ask. But maybe one more shot first. I grab the bottle, pour another. He shoves his glass at me. I pour one for him too.

He slams his down, hits the glass hard on the counter. “TJ?” His voice is tense with checked restraint.

I serve his name back the same way. “Jude?”