Page 225 of The Hopelessly Bromantic Duet

I stare at the screen for so long the letters inTop-Notch Boyfriendstart to blur. But in them, I find the beginning of the answer.

No.

I didn’t say enough to Jude. That’s why I’m unsettled. I have so much more to say to him.

I want it to be Friday afternoonnow,so I can see him and tell him everything in person.

With a glance at the title on my screen—the words become crystal clear—I know exactly how to start. It’s late in London, but I call a store and order delivery to Jude’s hotel.

33

AN OPEN BOOK

Jude

I have a free day before the press junket, so after I grab a bite with my brother, I pay a visit to a special thrift shop, pinning all my sartorial hopes on this store.

Inside Angie’s Vintage Duds, I spot my favorite shopkeeper behind the register. Helen gasps when she sees me, drops the scarves she is folding, flies around the counter and over to me, arms outstretched.

“After all these years, I knew you’d come back to me.”

I hug her, laughing as her purple hair swishes past my cheeks. “I’ve been gone less than a year.”

“I measure time like a dog. In Helen years, it’s been forever,” she says, then lets go, only to hold my face and pinch my cheeks. “Are you well? Eating enough? You’re quite trim and toned, but be sure to eat some scones now and then, love.”

“Scones hate me.”

“Scones love everyone,” she says, smiling warmly. “I’ve been making plans for my Oscar watch party. Have you got yourspeech done yet? It’s in two weeks. You need to be ready for when you get that statue.”

I won’t listen to her and tempt fate. “I haven’t written a speech because I won’t win.”

“Nonsense. You have my vote.” She swings her gaze around the store. “Now, are you looking for something for your fabulous man?”

I love that she figured me out just like that. “I am,” I say, and it’s such a relief to be out of the public eye and in the haven of Angie’s. I’m not stressed one bit about my image with Helen. “If you have a shirt his size with fox illustrations, I’ll pretty much love you forever.”

She bops me on the nose. “You already love me forever, but as it happens, I do have a shirt just like that.” She beckons me to a rack by the dressing room. “Come along.”

“You’re a goddess, Helen.”

“The goddess of scrummy clothes for scrummy men.” She stops at a rack, flicks through shirt after endless variety of shirt, then grabs a yellow one emblazoned with tiny cartoon foxes, tails held high.

I can’t even handle its hipster perfection.TJ will lose his mind. “I’m in love. I’ll take it,” I say.

“Good. Now, tell me everything,” she says as we return to the counter and chat.

I catch her up on the details of my life—from moving to New York to reconnecting with TJ to our trip to Vegas. “And then he made this private Instagram account for us.” I grab my mobile and show her our pics. “Want me to send you the link?”

“Obviously. I’ll be checking it every day. I consider myself your matchmaker,” she says, then blows on her fingernails. “And I’ll be taking credit at your wedding.”

I jerk back, hold up a stop-sign hand. “No one is talking marriage.”

She laughs sagely. “Not yet, but someday. He’s the one for you and you’re the one for him... as I’m sure you let him know every day.”

I gulp, chagrined.

Heisthe one for me. But I haven’t said those words in no uncertain terms. “I will tell him,” I say tentatively, bracing myself for the blowback.

Helen tugs on my earlobe. “Shame on you. You must tell him. Life is short. You eat the chocolate. Get the shirt. Tell the man he’s yours.”