Page 24 of The Hopelessly Bromantic Duet

“Sure. I like stories a lot more than shopping for towels. How about you pick a set right now, and when we get home, we’ll run lines.”

“I have to pick right now?” He sounds mildly aghast.

“You can do it,” I encourage.

With a deep breath, he darts out a hand and picks a deep, dark blue towel. They aren’t at all what I’d have thought he’d choose—they aren’t perky. But I don’t ask his reasoning since this selection gets us out of the store.

Which also puts us one step closer to the danger zone.

9

THE TIME I SWALLOWED A FROG

TJ

We stop in a grocery store on the way home, going separate ways, a reminder that we’re not a couple shopping together.

Which is fine. Totally fine.

I wanted to meet a guy... to date.

I didn’t come to London to meet a guy I’d want to shop for food with. I’ve got no interest in shopping for food with anyone. I didn’t share anything but beer with my buddies back in New York. It was every man and woman for themselves.

And that’s how it’ll have to be with Jude.

When Jude and I are done, each man buying his own basket’s worth of basics, we stop for sandwiches at a grubby corner shop, paying separately.

The opposite of where we’d have gone on a date.

The opposite of how we behaved last night when he paid for me.

Everything is the opposite. Especially this—when we’re back at the flat, he hangs the bright yellow shower curtain, and I fix the sink.

We are just roomies doing chores.

Once we’ve put away the food and the towels, he emails me the pages, and we sit on opposite ends of the couch. “All right. Let’s do this, Mister Rising Star,” I say.

That earns me another smile. “From your mouth to God’s ears,” he says, then he clicks on his tablet.

His mouth tightens at the corners, his eyes turn down, dark, almost like he’s possessed. He transforms into someone else. It’s breathtaking to watch.

“But you’re not real. None of this is even real,” he says, utterly desperate.

“It’s not?” I say as the robot woman, reading the lines to him. I am not an actor, so I don’t try to play the part.

Jude, the scientist, sighs heavily. “Can’t be. It just can’t be.”

“But how do you know what’s real?” I ask.

“How do I know? Because real is this,” he says, clutching his chest, as the stage directions call. “Real is what’s happening here.”

We continue through the scene until... oh, shit.

I swallow roughly, sounding like a real robot as I give him the last line of my dialogue. “Tell me if you think this is real,” I say awkwardly, then I wait for him to speak.

Even though the robot is supposed to sashay over to her creator right fucking now. The script calls for a kiss.

Are we doingallthe stage directions? A wild hope moves through me—the wish for a stage kiss. Just to help him stay in character. So he can properly prep for his audition.