Page 39 of The Hopelessly Bromantic Duet

Make that ten times crazier.

“Yeah, me too,” I whisper, our eyes locked.

We don’t move. We’ve reached a crossroads. Will I kick the flirting up another few degrees, yank him into the dressing room with me?

Or will he?

I do nothing, the standoff extending, the heat between us flaring until a customer wanders into the store, breaking the spell.

I grab the shirts from Jude, shut the door to the dressing room, and shove my back against the wood like I’m fighting off enemies outside of it.

The enemy is my own willpower, weak right now.

I breathe out, hard.

Holy shit. I was this close to dragging him in here, slamming him against the wall, and punishing him with a kiss to prove I could make his bones melt.

Because I could. I know I could. Because I want Jude Graham more than I’ve ever wanted any man. And I would kiss him and touch him and fuck him in a way that made him feel like the most wanted man ever.

And it would electrify him.

Like he electrifies me.

But the thing is—Jude does so much more than simply turn me on.

Thanks to his energy, excitement, and enthusiasm, this has been the best day I’ve had in ages.

That’s why I won’t tell him I’m writing a novel. I’d be exposing a piece of my vulnerable heart to him. Jude’s already hellbent on figuring me out. He delights in it. He’s been trying to get me to share writerly things with him today. Maybe even to admit what I did this morning at the coffee shop, why I read Agatha Christie, how I want to steal “The Duck’s Nipple” to use it in my book.

But telling Jude my dreams is dangerous. It could lead to closeness.

He already knows my habits, what I eat, when I exercise, and yeah, what I sound like when I come in the shower.

He knows my taste in books, music, and home decor. He knows I had no style and that I like the kind he just found for me.

I’m sure he knows, too, that this is both lust and so much more than that for me.

If I let him into my head, I would become completely infatuated.

I prefer slightly infatuated, like I am now.

But Jude deserves something.

After I buy the shirts and we leave, I silently practice what I want to say. Something I once thought he’d have to get out of me with his tongue.

“Jude,” I say, my tone serious once we’re walking down the street.

He stops in his tracks. “Yes?”

I exhale and choose sincerity over style. “It’s Terry Jerry.”

15

WHAT’S IN A NAME?

TJ

Gotta give him credit—Jude hasn’t erupted into peals of laughter yet.