Page 30 of The Hopelessly Bromantic Duet
A scene here at Aldwych station, an abandoned tube station that looks haunted.
Another at the Hardy Tree in a cemetery, where I went last night. Maybe there will be a chase there. An apprehension.
And I definitely want a scene in a creepy church like the one I saw on Tuesday.
I should pick up some Agatha Christies to get in the right frame of mind.Murder on the Orient Expressmakes my brain pop every single time I re-read it.
And, well, if I’m going book shopping, it’d be rude to go anyplace but Jude’s store.
(Travel Journal, you weren’t fooled by that excuse, were you? Yeah, me neither.)
12
AND THE CLUES ALL SAY
Jude
TJ looks freshly... showered. The ends of his hair are wet. He’s wearing a plain white T-shirt. It’s tight enough that I can spy the faint outline of his nipples. Dear God, did he wear that on purpose?
Well, of course, he did, you daft idiot! He didn’t put on a shirt by fucking accident.
My roommate strides over to the counter. When he reaches me, I catch a faint whiff of aftershave. It’s woodsy and clean. He wasn’t wearing that on Saturday night when we went to The Magpie. Did he buy it here in London or was it in his suitcase that he retrieved on Sunday? And how much of a perv would I be if I nipped into our bathroom some night, uncapped it, and inhaled his scent?
The answer smashes into me like a wrecking ball—a big pathetic perv.
I straighten my shoulders. “Are you coming here to gloat about The Goat’s Nipples?”
His brow furrows. “You mean The Goat’s Navel?”
Shit. “Yes, that’s what I meant,” I say, trying to recover as if I’d merely dropped a line on stage. “The Duck’s Navel, of course.”
TJ grins slyly, his lips twitching. “It’s the duck with the nips, Jude. You said so yourself,” he says, waggling his phone. “You a little distracted, buddy?”
Did he come here to torture me with that shirt and that aftershave and that hair? When he squares his shoulders, making his chest look even sexier, I resort to a full-on rescue mission and save myself with a slice of the truth.
“Actually, yes. I keep checking my phone to see if Harry has gotten word on the audition.” That’s not a lie. I did check my mobile an hour ago.
TJ’s face turns sympathetic. “Nothing yet?”
“Not a peep.”
“Well, when you get the good news, we need to celebrate.”
“How?”
“You know, get a beer or something. Something...friendly,” he says.
“Was that irony?”
“Literally,” he says with a smile. God, he has such a great smile, all straight teeth, and an easy grin. It’s not a know-it-all grin like some men wield. It’s a genuine one.
“Anyway, are you... looking for a book?” That’s a logical question, even if I really want to askWhere do you go at night and what do you do?
“I am.” He drums his fingers on the counter, then glances back at the handful of other patrons in the shop. They’re busy sifting through shelves, but I keep my eye on them in case they need anything. “Ever heard of this writer named Agatha Christie?” TJ asks.
I feign ignorance. “Not ringing a bell. Did she pen those bonkbusters about Hollywood royalty?” I snap my fingers. “Holdon, that’s Caroline Vienna. Oh, I’ve got it! Did Agatha write those tales of the teenage spy?”
The gold flecks in his eyes brighten and flicker. “I loved the Rhys Locke books when I was younger. I devoured them all. Did I ever tell you I came to this bookstore when I was thirteen?”