Page 37 of The Hopelessly Bromantic Duet
Jude says hello to Benji and Clive inside the shop, then guides me to a rack of shirts. As he flicks through each one, he says, “I love thrifting. It’s right up there with chocolate biscuits and a good book.”
“I can tell you like it. Why, though?”
Jude swings his gaze to me, his blue eyes sparkling. “Thrifting is like a treasure hunt—finding just the right outfit. Something that doesn’t look like it came from—” He stops, snaps his fingers. “What’s that store in the States everyone loves?”
“Target,” I answer.
“Exactly. When you thrift,” he says, stopping at a black shirt with tiny skulls on it, “you can not only find bargains. You can also find something unique.”
He yanks the black shirt from the rack then holds it against my chest. “Like this. I see you with a certain style. It starts with short sleeves. Something nice and tight in the chest. You ought to show off this body, but in a way that’s not showy. That’s simply... clever.”
I love literally everything he just said. When Jude turns his spotlight on me, I’m helpless.
“Do you want me to try it on?” I ask.
“Yes. Fuck yes.”
I get a breather in the dressing room, a minute or two to shake off the swoon as I try on the shirt.
I step out of the dressing room to a cheering squad.
Jude leads the brigade, but Clive and Benji are by his side, clapping too. “Hot stuff,” the guy in glasses says.
The one with the shaved head wolf-whistles. “You lookfine.”
I dip my head, a little embarrassed.
“No, no, no, no, no,” Jude says as he strides over to me while the two husbands return to the counter.
“No, as in, you don’t like it?” I ask, unsure.
“No, as in don’t be embarrassed, TJ.Thisis your style. This is you,” he says.
Jude steps a few inches closer, adjusts my collar, then brushes his fingers along my shoulders, taking a lot longer than necessary to smooth out the fabric. “And I could see you wearingit while you’re strolling around London, stopping at a park bench, reading Agatha Christie,” he says.
Wait. What?
That’s oddly specific. I try to figure out what he means, but I can’t Inspector Poirot my way through this because I’m still sparking from his touch.
Instead, I say, “I’ll take it.”
After a quick tube ride and a detour for his favorite crisps that are “right up there with thrifting, biscuits, and a book,” we swing over to a shop in Kensington. Jude hunts through the racks until he finds a short-sleeved green button-down with tiny eggplants all over it. He cackles in delight as he holds it up for me to inspect.
“Really?”
Jude rolls his eyes. “You’re out of the closet. You can totally wear eggplants.”
“That is not the issue.”
“It’s not too gay if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Dude, that’s not what I’m asking.”
“Dude,” he mimics. “Then what are you asking?”
“I meantreally,as in, you really like it?” I ask softly, genuinely.
Jude parts his lips like he’s about to speak, then he seems to think better of it, pausing for a few beats. “It’s perfect for a writer. It’s cheeky and a little sarcastic. Like you.”