Page 217 of The Hopelessly Bromantic Duet

“I don’t either,” I say, shoulders up, head held high.

When we return to our room, I expect to fall into bed. It’s late, and tomorrow we have an early flight to Paris for the next leg of ourfake boyfriendtour.

But TJ pats the couch. “I want to show you something.”

Curious, I take the spot next to him as he clicks over to Instagram. But he doesn’t show me his public feed with the newest photo he posted. “I’ve been working on this new handle. It’s a private one. There’s not much on it. But I thought this could be fun to share with family and close friends,” he says, excited, maybe nervous too as he looks to gauge my reaction.

I peer closely at the name.The real story of AshHam,AKA, TJ and Jude.

There are four photos on it.

Pomander Walk.

The breakfast café.

A shot of us thrifting.

And a group photo from tonight.

I can’t wait to add more pictures. “Our real dates,” I say, as I take in the photos and the story they tell.

The start of us, all over again.

Gently, I take the phone from his hand, set it on the table, then meet his eyes. I can see our future in them. “Do it. Share it. Post it,” I say.

“You like it?” he asks as if pinning all his hope on that one question.

“I love it.” I’m so close to saying what’s inside my heart and mind, but everything’s happening so quickly, and we’re not even done with the dog and pony show.

To keep from saying too much, I kiss him instead. As my lips sweep his, I hold back other words.

You. Me. Us.

But I can’t risk rushing ahead and losing him all over again.

When my alarm bleats in the morning, I stretch and rub my eyes. Time to get moving, grab a bite, head to the airport.

When I peer around the suite, I see TJ’s already up and showered, tossing clothes into his suitcase with his phone pressed to his ear. “Right. Sure. I understand.”

I tense everywhere. Those words don’t sound promising. And why the hell is he packing like he’s taking off on a rocket in two minutes? Sure, we leave soon, but we have plenty of time to zip suitcases.

Unless he’s leaving . . . without me?

I jump out of bed. I’ve seen this show before. Last time it ended with him walking away from me.

“In fifteen minutes?” he asks as if it pains him. There’s a pause as he stuffs a shirt into the bag. “If that’s the only way.” Another beat as I hunt for my briefs and pull them on, nearly tripping as I go too fast. But I don’t want to be naked if bad news wallops me. “Just send me the details.”

When TJ hangs up, he turns around, dragging a hand roughly through his still-wet hair. He looks thoroughly rattled. I feel that way too.

“That was my agent,” he says hollowly. “Webflix wants me to go to Los Angeles. In an hour. Oh, and Slade’s downstairs.”

30

THE COCKBLOCKER AND THE HANDYMAN

TJ

I’m still processing Mason’s call. But the long and short is—Rikki was right.