Page 33 of The Hopelessly Bromantic Duet

Jude:How sweet.

TJ:Well, I suspect I’ll need to conserve all my shopping energy to keep up with you this weekend.

I should stop, but I don’t. Flirting with TJ is the best time I’ve ever had.

Jude:I bet you’ll love shopping with me.

TJ:As much as you liked my plain white shirt?

Jude:So you noticed that . . .

TJ:Let’s just say it was as obvious as a duck’s nipple. Also, I told you some things are good in white.

Jude:You were right.

Later, when I return home, he’s not there. But the reader and bibliophile in me adds up the clues—the messenger bag with his laptop, the books, his unsaid things. I know what he’s up to.

A pang of frustration wedges in my rib cage. I wish he trusted me enough to tell me. I wish, too, I understoodwhyI so badly want him to admit his plans.

But rather than analyze, I decide I’ll do my damnedest to get it out of him on Saturday.

13

MERIT BADGES

TJ

Today I earned my first official badge. The “I survived a week living with Jude”one.

Yay me!

Fine, technically, it’s not a full week until tomorrow on Sunday, but these last six days feel like the longest test of resistance ever. So, there’s that.

Can I last another fifty-one weeks? Yes, yes, I can.

Also, I totally said that last part in a ridiculous fitness class instructor voice in my head.

Because that’s how I handle living with the swooniest guy I’ve ever known.

I finish the travel journal entry, shut the pocket-sized book, and slide it into the inside compartment of my messenger bag.

But, hold on.

I should know better than to keep an easily accessible record of feelings.

My next mission, should I choose to accept it?

Say goodbye to the pages in this journal.

I sling my messenger bag over my shoulder. It’s Saturday morning and I’ve got a date with coffee and chapter two. I can’t wait to dig into my book today.

I’ve already worked out this morning and showered, and since Sleeping Beauty is still snoozing, our first shopping expedition won’t be till later.

I’m outta here.

I head to Coffee O’Clock, and when I push open the door, my new frenemy greets me. The inked barista in the leather apron holds out his arms wide. “Have no fear, Mister Coffee! The steam wands are thoroughly purged just for you.”

Laughing at myself—definitely at myself—I thank him. “I appreciate that, William,” I say, reading his name tag. “Now you know why the International Coffee Commission named me The Bane of Baristas’ Existence.”