Page 35 of The Hopelessly Bromantic Duet

“A little of both,” I say, feeling lighter. It’s good to talk about the book with someone. Some of my wound-up tension slinks away.

“Be sure to let me know when it’s out, and don’t be afraid to put a barista named William in your story.”

“It’s a deal. And hey, let me know when your band is playing. I love to check out new music.”

“Take our flyer,” he says, then reaches under the counter and hands me a postcard with the info for a Lettuce Pray show.

“Excellent.” I slap it against my palm then slide it into my bag. Then I grab the espresso and a table, pop open my laptop, and execute my first mission.

I snap photos of each page in the travel journal, send them to myself, delete them from my phone, then upload them into a Word doc.

With that done, I dive into the scene at Aldwych station.

An hour and a half later, I’ve poured out some spine-tingling words, so I reason it’s time to work toward my next badge.

The shopping merit one.

I’m a little tingly thinking about spending the day with Jude, but nervous too. I haven’t seen him since I stopped by the store on Thursday. That’s been deliberate. We werethis closeto kissing like crazy.

If we’d started, I’m not sure I would have had the will to stop. And then what? We’d wind up in bed? A few days or a few weeks later, we’d run out of steam.

I’d want more, and he’d want less, and I’d be the sucker who fell for the world’s dreamiest guy and somehow, foolishly, thought it’d work.

Fuck that.

I’m a smart guy. I get how the world operates. Flings don’t last, and relationships peter out. Beautiful, charming, utterly captivating men like Jude Graham are used to getting whatever they want when it comes to romance and then moving on.

No way could I stay in the flat afterward, so I’d be left to skulk around London, hunting for a new pad and explaining awkwardly to 24News thatYeah, I can’t live with the hot guy I banged because I developed all the feels for him.

Pass.

At least today, when we shop, we’ll be surrounded by people—a natural barrier to prevent me from acting on this unchecked lust.

I tell William goodbye on my way out of Coffee O’Clock, and then a block later, it’s sayonara to the journal pages as I tear out the ones I wrote on and toss them into a dumpster behind a curry restaurant.

“Goodbye, disappearing pages,” I say, then tuck the journal, now a little thinner, in my bag.

I’ll keep the gift from my brother as a memento, but not as a record of my heart.

Back at our flat, I drop my messenger bag on the couch. Jude strides into the kitchen, dragging a towel over his hair. He’sdressed in jeans and an aqua T-shirt that Eggplant Helen would surely approve of—nice and tight. It hugs his chest and snuggles his arms.

I believe the word for it isscrummy.

He tosses the towel on the back of a kitchen chair. “Good morning, TJ. Let me guess. You already went for a run, broke your personal best on the bench press, showered, shaved, and wrote a treatise on green energy.”

I shrug, running a hand across my stubbly chin. “I didn’t shave.”

His eyes flicker, following my hand. “Keep that up,” he says, and I make a mental note that he has a beard fetish. He puts the kettle on, then says, offhand, “So, you got a lot done while you were out of the flat?”

“I was at the coffee shop for a while.”

How cliche would it sound if I said I was working on my book there? The most cliche.

But being a stereotype isn’t my only reason for keeping my book a secret.

Spinning around, Jude lifts a brow in curiosity. “You were?”

“Well, treatises and all. Coffee shops are perfect spots for those,” I say drily.