Page 184 of The Hopelessly Bromantic Duet
First comes the bright tone of the trumpet—next the majestic rumble of the tuba. Then the crisp rattle of the snare drum.
Mason rounds his desk, waving an imaginary baton, conducting the marching band pumping through his computer.
“You wanted a parade,” he declares as I stare from the doorway, my jaw on the floor. In the pantheon of Mason praise, this is Everest.
“For real?”
He stretches across his desk with a flourish, hits a key, then cuts the sound. “For real, but don’t let it go to your head, kid.”
“You do an excellent job at downsizing my head daily.”
The dapper man takes a chair across from the couch, gesturing for me to grab a seat too.
I do, and I’m literally and figuratively on the edge of it. The possibility that the pages I sent him last night aren’t garbage is exhilarating. But just to make sure... “So? You like the first few chapters?”
“No, TJ. I just planned that entire Sousa reenactment on a Wednesday morning because I hated them,” he says with an aggrieved sigh, lifting his gaze heavenward. “What is it with today’s youth? They’re so needy. Back in my day?—”
“Oh, we’re talking about the Paleolithic era again. I do love your dinosaur tales. Continue.”
He ignores me, whipping off his black glasses and setting them on the sleek metal table. “It’s got everything I want in a sexy rom-com. The mix-up with the laundry when the laid-back hero gets the uptight one’s washed and folded clothes, but then they discover they wear the same Rafe Rodmans and that throws them both into a tizzy. Hello! Hot underwear can distract even the most disciplined man!”
“Especially if it’s yellow with fox illustrations on the waistband,” I offer with a grin.
“Who knew laundry could be so sexy?”
Me. I learned it last week with Jude. “Dude, dryers. Am I right?”
Mason waggles a finger at me. “And the blanket-shopping date. Where did you come up with that? That was brimming with sexual tension and flirting. Also, why are there blankets in literally every store?”
“Everywhere, blankets are multiplying. So obviously, blankets are banging,” I say, seconding my laid-back hero’s thesis. Also, these fictional guys I’m writing aren’t carbon copies of Jude and me—no one would ever accuse me of being laid-back, and Jude Fox is not uptight.
This is my imagination cranking.
But Jude certainly helps.
“And then that scalding-hot kiss in the back of the SUV while they drove around the city.” Mason brings his fingers to his lips in a chef’s kiss. “It was hate-kiss perfection. And I was like, ‘Tremaine, you sexy beast. Get over here right now, hubs.’”
That’s the highest of praise. “I’m like lube, Mason.”
“Top-shelf lube at that. Anyway, after I read the pages, I took the liberty of talking you up to Brooks & Bailey this morning,” he says.
Shit. I was kind of hoping to stay off my publisher’s radar until I was done. Like maybe they’ll collectively have professional amnesia that I’m a year late with my book.
“And?” I ask, my nerves tripping over themselves.
“Amy Summers sent this over. Think of it as a motivational gift.” He heads to his desk to grab an orange ceramic mug then thrusts it at me. Inside the mug is a fox—my editor loves mugs with animal head figures at the bottom. Creature cups, she calls them. I smile, then unwrap the piece of paper around the fox and read her note.
Dear TJ,
Reading your books is like drinking a vanilla latte and finding a cute ceramic fox at the bottom of the cup. I can’t wait to read your new romance and discover what delights await readers on the pages! Carry on and have all the coffee!
Xoxo Amy
“Aww. I’m gonna post it on Insta when I go to Doctor Insomnia’s Tea and Coffee Emporium later today. This is like the nice editor’s way of sayingdon’t fucking miss a deadline again,” I say, tucking the mug into my messenger bag.
“I see you haven’t lost your ability to read between the lines. Keep those skills sharp.”
“Always.”