Page 172 of The Hopelessly Bromantic Duet

I’m writing.

PART TWO

After That Night

Do Good Things Come in Threes?

16

WALK OF SHAME

Jude

Yawning, I pad down the hall, running a hand through my bedhead and blinking as I take in a picture that’s almost too good to be true—TJ at work.

Sex doesn’t solve everything, but it’s a good start. So’s the sight of TJ on my couch, hunched over, tapping away on his phone.

“Are you . . .” I pause since I don’t want to break the spell, “. . . writing?”

TJ doesn’t even look away from the tiny device. “Yup.”

A grin lights me up from head to toe. “That’s better than chocolate biscuits.”

TJ drags his gaze away from the screen to shoot me a quick smile, then he returns to his device, fingers flying.

“Well, my work is done,” I say, practically strutting into the kitchen to put on the kettle. As it heats up, I steal some more glances at the man I was once in love with. He’s enrapt, and I love seeing that. But as he types feverishly, his fingers curl into claws. I don’t love that.

“TJ,” I say sternly.

He doesn’t notice.

I say his name louder. “TJ.”

He lifts his face. “Yeah?”

“Go home,” I say in the same tone I used to tell him to fuck me.

A line creases his brow. “Okay?”

“Go home and write on a computer,” I clarify, pointing adamantly at the door. “Your fingers are going to be all cramped up like Renoir’s at the end of his life. He had to strap his paintbrushes to his arthritic fingers. Do you want that?”

“I don’t paint, but point taken.”

“You’ll be a mess. Whatever this inspiration is, take it, clutch it, and go write on your laptop. Or you can borrow mine if you want. But you shouldn’t write on your mobile that much.” Perhaps I’m a bit of a mother hen, but he deserves it—pig-headed writer.

After setting down the phone, he cracks his knuckles, wincing. “I should get a hand rub with Coco.”

My head spins. “That sounds filthy. Do I want one too?”

“She’s my buddy Easton’s grandma. A total hoot. Once every few weeks, she gets mani-pedis, and the other guys get pedis, and I get a hand rub.”

That’s a lot of insight into TJ to process in one sitting. “I’m going to need a photo next time, of you and your salon club.”

“Noted.” He stands, stretches his neck from side to side. “I should go.”

“You should, Renoir.”

A few minutes later, he’s dressed and at the door, and I’m perking up with an English Breakfast. I survey him in his mushroom shirt and tousled hair. “You look like you’re doing the walk of shame.”