Page 25 of The Hopelessly Bromantic Duet

Want thrums through me, hot and greedy, but terrifying too. If I look up from my phone and see the same desire whipping through him, I’ll lunge, kiss Jude recklessly.

I’d break after only one night in a long year ahead.

I have to stay strong. Iwillstay strong.

But when I raise my face, he’s not looking at me. He’s lost in thought. “Hmm. It’s not clear if they want me to do the kiss,” he says, studying the pages intently.

“It’s not?” I sound like I swallowed a frog.

“Well, see, I don’t know if they’ve cast the actress. Or if I’ll just be reading lines with the casting director.”

“Do you usually kiss in an audition?” A current of jealousy rips through me.

Which is dumb. Who cares?

“No. So it’s odd they’d leave it in the sides,” he says, and his methodical approach should be a relief. He wasn’t even thinking about kissing me. He was simply analyzing the words.

“Maybe they just wantyouto know what comes next? They want you to have the feel of the end of the scene. So you know what you’re building toward. Maybe that’s why they left it in—so you can play the scene as you move toward that.”

“Oh!” Jude’s face lights up. “Yes. Duh. That’s so obvious now that you say it, but yes, of course. You’re quite astute.”

“It’s written in the script.” I’m not taking the credit here.

“Itiswritten. But you looked beyond the scene. You interpreted the intentions of the casting director, and you don’t even know them.” He leans forward, his eyes dancing. “That’s the writer in you.”

“Maybe,” I say, trying to make light of it. I don’t know how to take his remark.

“It’s a compliment, TJ,” he adds for clarity. “Truly.”

“Thank you,” I say, and I don’t want to talk more about this. He doesn’t know if I’m a good writer. Besides my work articles, I’ve only written in that travel journal, and he can never see that.

Ever.

Not even when I’m six feet underground.

Jude takes a deep breath. “So, how did I do?”

I’m not a casting director. I don’t know that I can give him the answer he’s seeking. All I can do is speak from the heart. “I believed you.”

“Really?” It sounds like nothing could make him happier than those three words.

“I really did.”

“That’s all I can ask for.” His eyes—it’s like they’re flickering just for me. It’s heady the way he looks at me, but it’s also tempting.

I’ve got to get out of his spotlight. It’s too much. This moment is too close to what I want—art and creativity—hitting my heart in a way that makes me feel... seen.

I’m not sure I want him to see me. It’s a relief to turn the light on him instead. “Tell me more about the show,” I say.

As Jude shares the details, I listen intently—because I’m interested and because I’m a little bit selfish.

This could be useful. Maybe someday I’ll write about an actor.

Yes, that’s the trick!

The next year with Jude will be research.

That’s how I’ll classify this, and that will help me navigate three hundred sixty-five nights sharing less than a thousand square feet with him.