Page 6 of The Hopelessly Bromantic Duet

“Naturally. You’re just here for the books,” he says, calling me on my patent lie.

“It’s a bookstore. Why else would I come?” I counter.

“There couldn’t beanyother reason,” he says. “But I’d be a terrible shop assistant if I didn’t help you find just the right Wilde.” He takes his time with his speech so that each word can send a wicked charge through me.

They all do.

“Except, I don’t even know your name,” he adds.

I glance around. The shop is empty, except for a couple of young women parked on comfy chairs in the corner, flipping through guidebooks, maybe. They’re wrapped up in their world. I hope they stay there for hours.

“I’m TJ,” I say.

A laugh bursts from Jude.

“My name is funny to you?” I ask.

“That’s so very American,” he says.

“What do you know? I am American,” I say. “And I know you don’t do the whole initial thing here. Does that mean you prefer to be Jude the Third?”

Another laugh. “If I’d told you I was Jude the Third, I doubt you would’ve come looking for—” He sounds like he’s about to sayme, but he amends it, quickly shifting to, “All the Wildes. Besides, I’m just Jude.”

But he’s not just Jude.

He’s notjustat all.

I keep that thought locked up tight. “And if I’d told you what TJ stands for, you’d know exactly why some Americans prefer initials,” I say.

His blue eyes sparkle with intrigue. “You have to tell me now, TJ.” My name sounds like a bedroom whisper on his lips.

“You’ll never get that out of me,” I say, matching his breathless tone.

He arches a brow. “Never? Never ever, you say?”

I could dine on his charm. I could eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner on his wit. I never want to leave this store. We can play word badminton till after dark. I’ll stop only when the lights go down, and we can do all the other things—the things I’m already picturing with that lush, red mouth of his.

“Never,” I repeat, then take a long, lingering moment. “Unless you have your ways.”

He hums, a rumbly sound low in his throat. Then he taps his chin. “Perhaps I could guess. Thomas James?”

I shake my head. “Not even close.”

“Theodore John.” He makes a rolling gesture. “I could go all night.”

“I hope so. And, perhaps, you should,” I say.

Over drinks. Over sex. Over breakfast.

But the shop bell tinkles.

Jude groans as a customer strolls in. “I have to go wait on a customer.”

And I have to make sure you and I go out tonight.

But before I can sayYou’ll find me here by the Oscar Wildes, Jude adds, “Don’t go anywhere, Thiago Jonas.”

“You’re not even warm,” I say as he walks past me, brushing his shoulder against mine.