Page 29 of The Hopelessly Bromantic Duet

“Now, any word on scientists and robots in love?”

I frown. “Are you trying to remind me of all the things in my life that suck? I haven’t heard from my agent about the gig, ergo I didn’t get the job. The American is off fucking other men every night, and I have horrible exes.”

She stretches an arm to ruffle my hair. “You are so dramatic.”

“This is news?”

“Also, you’re wrong,” she goes on. “You not hearing from Harry means there’s a chance you got the gig. If it were a no, you’d have heard as much.”

My heart soars again with wild hope. “I really want the job.”

“I know, love.”

But she doesn’t deny that the American might be shagging other men. And that bothers me—too much.

So much that I text him on my way to Cecil Court.

Jude:You were right. I’m addicted to The Goat’s Navel.

TJ:Called it!

Jude:But you have to admit, that name sounds like a pub.

TJ:A pub I’d want to go to.

Jude:Have I mentioned I work near a pub called The Duck’s Nipple?

TJ:That is a fantastic name. It’s so good I want to steal it and use it someday.

Jude:In an article?

TJ:Something like that. Gotta go. Source is calling.

As I pass the kid’s bookshop, I sigh, staring at the last message. There’s something he’s not telling me. I wish I knew what it was. I wish I knew why he wouldn’t tell me.

I feel a little stupid, though, for wanting to know.

And that bothers me too.

But when he walks into An Open Book a few hours later, that doesn’t bother me at all.

11

MYSTERIES CAN HAVE HOT SEX

TJ’s Travel Journal

London, Day Six

After turning in my sixth article—count ’em, six—on Thursday afternoon, I took off for another research trip. I’ve spent all my evenings so far on a mission. Checking out moody places in London.

Because I’ve decided at last. At fucking last!

Here goes, Travel Journal. You’re the first to know officially that... I’m going to write a whodunit. A race against the clock.

Whew. I said it, and I’m starting it tonight.

When I was a kid, I devoured Alistair Edwin’s tales of the international teenage spy Rhys Locke as he cracked the case wherever there were jewel heists. Locke was the coolest hero, all steel and nerves, and just out of school. But I won’t write a teenager—my hero will be in his twenties. Maybe there’ll be some sex. Mysteries can have hot sex, right? Mostly there will be clues, and whodunits, and all sorts of wild plot twists.