Page 175 of The Hopelessly Bromantic Duet
17
SECRET REAL DATE
Jude
I’m taking a chance that TJ’s never been to Pomander Walk, but it’s a good gamble. As I wait on Sunday afternoon at the iron gate in the middle of West Ninety-Fifth Street in Manhattan, I finger the key in my pocket. Someagents are backstabbers, and some are fairy godmothers. Holly is undoubtedly the latter.
A few minutes later, the familiar silhouette of my former roomie comes into view. He strides down the street, all long legs, broad shoulders, and trimmed beard, and he’s wearing a Henley, a surprising choice for the king of the hipster button-downs.
No jacket though. Pretty sure he’s part polar bear. When he’s a few feet away, I call out, “You have Arctic genes—admit it.”
When he reaches me, he tugs on the lapels of my navy peacoat. “And you have Abercrombie & Fitch genes.”
I arch a brow. “Not sure that’s a compliment.”
He scoffs. “Um, hello? Have you seen their models? It’s a compliment,” he says, then he tucks his thumbs into his jeans pockets and looks at me like he’s waiting for me to make the next move. Well, Ididask him out. I suppose I should go first.
But I’m waiting for a sign from him. What if Thursday night was just sex?
TJ inches closer. “If two men kiss on the street and no one is around to see it, did they even kiss?”
“Maybe it’s better if no one sees it,” I say in invitation.
Taking my chin in his hand, he leans in, brushes his lips against mine, and kisses me. It’s a PG kiss, but it makes me feel R-rated things for him.
It makes my fucking heart flutter too. He doesn’t stop for several floaty seconds. It’s long enough for me to inhale a familiar, sexy scent.
When he breaks the kiss, I feel dazed. A little intoxicated too.
“Is that the same aftershave you wore in London?”
“The same bottle? No. Same brand? Maybe,” he says with a twinkle in his eye.
“You dick,” I say.
“Always,” he says, then looks up and down the street. “No one saw us, Jude.”
I run a hand down his arm. “Good. I like it that way today.”
“Me too,” he says.
Then I point at his chest. “Why are you not wearing ducks or chipmunks or alligators? What happened to my hipster?”
He tugs on his dark Henley. “Standard romance hero wardrobe. They pretty much always wear Henleys.”
“Are you playing the role of a hero today?”
Laughing, he shakes his head. “No, but you said the place might be inspiring, so I figured I should dress the part.”
“I definitely understand the appeal of a good costume,” I say, then point to the gate. “Please say you’ve never been to Pomander Walk.”
“I’ll do you one better. I don’t even know what Pomander Walk is.”
“Yes!” I clap a hand on his shoulder and walk to the gate, taking out the key. “Holly lives here. My agent.”
“We’re going to see your agent?”
I scoff. “No. I’m going to show you a hidden gem of New York. But it’s private and she has a key...”