Page 27 of The Hopelessly Bromantic Duet

Jude strides down the hall as the song ends, yawning, hair I’m aching to touch sticking up in all directions.

The hair’s not the only thing sticking up.

The bulge of his morning wood is like a target for my vision, and I can’t look away from the shape of him in those soft gray flannel pants.

I try valiantly, pulling my gaze up, up, and away.

And my brain fills with static because he’s shirtless and beautiful. Jude’s smaller than I am, leaner than I am. His golden skin is smooth and makes my mouth water. He’s toned in all the right ways, and I want to pounce on him, hold him down, and kiss every inch of him as he writhes and moans.

The entire image is too much. I’ll combust if I stay here any longer. Somehow, I manage to take out the earbuds, just to be polite. “Good luck with your audition,” I say, forcing my gaze away from him as I stuff my phone into my pocket.

“Good luck with your first day at work,” he says as I reach for the doorknob. “By the way, I was right about the shower curtain, wasn’t I?”

Right about what? Oh. Sure. He’s into color. “Yeah, it’s perky,” I say quickly, opening the door, ready to bolt.

“It sure is. But I also meant the right one could make the shower more enjoyable. Wouldn’t you say? At least, it was quite enjoyable for me. The sound of the shower and all,” he adds.

Busted.

I close my eyes, let the embarrassment run through me, then I steal a glance at Jude. He heads for the kettle, and as he goes, I can see the hint of a satisfied smile.

I leave.

One down. Three hundred and sixty-four to go.

10

I’M ADDICTED TO THE GOAT’S NAVEL

Jude

Olivia is enjoying my personal hell far too much. The wicked minx cackles as I give her the roomie update as we walk down the street on Thursday afternoon.

“You’re the worst,” I tell her as we pass The Duck’s Nipple, a pub that stocks some of the freshest new beers to hit the market. But it also reminds me of a band TJ sent me a note about this morning, saying,Check out this playlist. I challenge you not to become addicted when you listen.

Addicted to The Goat’s Navel? Is that a real name?I’d replied.

Don’t judge a band by its name.

How else would we judge?I wrote back.

Just listen, Jude.

I’ve listened to the band, but I haven’t replied yet. I don’t want to seem overeager.

As we turn the corner, Olivia flicks her red hair off her shoulder. “Tell me one more time—how hard is it to live with the guy you want to shag?”

I roll my eyes. “The hardest. There. Does that satisfy your inner demon?”

The she-devil gives a too-big grin. “I’m not sure this tale will ever grow old.”

“So glad I can entertain you,” I say as I point to a café. “But I can’t deny you. Let’s get a cuppa.”

“Always,” she says. Five minutes later, we’re parked outside the café, watching afternoon crowds flit down a busy street full of festive shops, including Out of the Closet, a thrift shop I like. I make a mental note to bring TJ there this weekend, perhaps—a fair trade for The Goat’s Navel, especially when I tell him the story of the shop’s name.

“So, tell me every dirty detail of this week,” Olivia demands as she dunks a chocolate biscuit in her tea. “What have the last few nights been like?”

Surprisingly easy. “I thought it would be terrible. But I’ve been at the bookshop every night, and he works all day. I didn’t even see him on Tuesday.”