Page 65 of The Hopelessly Bromantic Duet

I’m not daydreaming this time.

I’m freaking out.

On the one hand, this is great news. On the other, this is also awful.

There will be no more Jude after this week. There won’t be any more weeks to get through. There won’t be any merit badges to earn.

There won’t be a London romance.

And I won’t fall in love for the first time in my life.

Instead, I’ll be gone.

Maybe there’s one silver lining, though.

23

AN ANALYSIS OF PET NAMES

Jude

I stare at my phone during a break in rehearsal, like I can will a reply from TJ through sheer mind power.

Unfortunately, the trick doesn’t work, and it’s been three hours. He hasn’t responded to the text I sent this afternoon. Maybe I should have been more... definitive. More demonstrative?

But I’m not keen on relationships, and I’ve no fucking clue what’s next, so I figured a sexy,Thanks for last night, studwas a good jumping-off point.

Into what, though?

Into more epic, mind-bending, knee-weakening sex?

That was so much more than sex, you daft idiot.

“All right, everyone ready to tackle scenes five and six?” the director calls out, and I tear my gaze away from my phone, powering it off as I return to the studio. This is where my focus should be.

Not on my roommate.

I give robots and scientists my all for the next few hours, loving every second of rehearsal.

When seven rolls around, my phone takes pity on me. Right as I leave the rehearsal studio and hit the pavement, a message flashes across my screen.

TJ:Hey... any chance you’d want to get a beer at The Duck’s Nipple? We never made it to that place, and I figure we should.

That’s oddly... unspecific. Is this a post-sex discussion? A post-sex date? Beer with the roomie? I can’t tell, but saying we never made it to that place sounds like he’s ending us before we start.

But we can’t really start anything. And what would we start anyway? More sex? That feels insanely risky because last night was already so much more than sex.

Except, risks are in my nature. My job is the definition of risk. I want another night with him. And then more after that.

Call me greedy.

I write back immediately, and we make plans to meet in thirty minutes.

Twenty-nine minutes later, I turn off Rob Lowe and walk into the bar, nerves racing in my chest. Telling myself I’m in a play where I’m a fighter pilot—the epitome of cool.

Settle down, nerves. Just tell the man you want more.

I find TJ at a booth. He catches my attention with a quick wave. I stride over to him. Do we hug? Kiss? Shake hands?