Page 220 of The Hopelessly Bromantic Duet
“Are you stealing me away?” Jude asks like nothing would make him happier.
“I want to,” I say, taking hold of his face. The clock is ticking. Slade is waiting. My flight is probably boarding in minutes. My stomach cartwheels, but I don’t waste any more time. “Will you be my boyfriend? For real?”
The question is ten months overdue.
Hell, it’s eight years in the making.
“Yes,” he says, and tingles rush down my chest. “But I have to tell you something.”
Whatever he has to say, I want to hear it. “What is it?”
“I feel like I already am,” he says, and then he kisses me like we could spend all day in bed wrapped up in each other.
It’s not a bad idea, but my agent will kill me if I miss my flight.
Jude lets go, then points to the tinted window. “When they want to know what you asked me, I’m going to say you wanted to know if we could get a cat.”
I crack up. “We can get a cat.”
With a tender kiss on my cheek, he pushes open the door and leaves.
I watch him walk through the crowd until the car pulls away. I try not to miss him, but this weekend feels like a distant memory far too soon.
31
A PIG AT MARKET
Jude
On Wednesday night, I’m in a tux, holding a martini, and I’m acting. Acting like I’mnotcounting down the seconds until I can escape from The Ritz Carlton on Place Vendôme.
The ballroom is a who’s who of the awards circuit. Over by the stage is Sebastian Lowe, nommed for his devastating turn as a drug lord suffering from panic attacks. By the swan ice sculpture stands an elegant Carrie Winslow, who sharply played a suburban wife tempted by a lurid affair. I’m dying to tell them both how much I adore their work. I’ve devoured all of Sebastian’s films and obsessed over Carrie’s character work.
But I’m handcuffed, here in the corner of the glittering room. Slade taps his chin, quietly debating who to introduce me to next.
“Carrie is the next Meryl, but she’s a no-go since she has ayou know whatproblem,” he whispers, then mimes swallowing a pill.
That seems a bit cold. “And that means I can’t talk to her?”
“Yes, it does. Same for Sebastian. He just split from his wife. They’ll think he’s after you.”
Wait. What? “Why would they think that?”
“He’s closeted,” Slade whispers. “It’s the worst kept secret.”
“Okay. But that doesn’t mean he’d be into me,” I say, pointing out what I hope is obvious. Orientation does not beget attraction.
Slade rolls his eyes. “Iknowthat.But what I know and what the press will decide from a photo are two vastly different things.”
If TJ were here, he and I could float through this crowd together, chatting with whoever we wanted. But since I’m solo, Slade’s calculating everyone’s social capital.
I get it, but I feel like a pig on market day. I swirl my martini, awaiting instructions and counting off another minute.
Slade hums approvingly. “Oh, looky-look. Did I just see Ellie Snow over there?”
I perk up at the mention of myUnfinished Businessco-star, who plays Gwen to my Jamie. I crane my neck to see she’s been cornered by a mustached man who looks like a manager hunting for new clients. She has “save me” written all over her face.
This is a job for Actor Man.