Page 69 of The Hopelessly Bromantic Duet
Butshouldit happen?
Sitting here with him, sharing freely at last—this doesn’t feel entirely like friendship. It feels like fire, and heartbreak, like the start of a new obsession. It feels like something I could get lost in.
But I can’t, so I focus on the practical part of the future. “Will you finish your novel in New York?”
“I better.” Then he laughs. “I mean, how cliche would that be if I leave London with an unfinished novel and an unfinished...?”
He doesn’t complete the thought.
An unfinished romance.
I slide a hand across the table, link our fingers together. “Don’t forget the romance in your book, TJ.”
“I won’t,” he whispers, dipping his head.
“I mean it. I bet you’d be really good at it. At writing that,” I say, squeezing hard.
He squeezes back. “I bet you’d be really good at playing it.”
My heart thumps harder in my chest, and it hurts. But it feels good at the same time. “I want to read your book.”
He licks his lips, takes a very TJ-like beat, then blows out a breath. “Do you want to read what I have so far?”
Fireworks burst inside me. “Fuck yes.”
We fly out of there.
To say he’s a nervous wreck is an understatement. TJ’s fingers slip and slide as he flicks open his laptop. His breath comes hard through his nostrils.
He clicks on the keyboard and curses. “Shit. Wrong file,” he mutters.
Next to him on the couch, I drop a kiss on his scratchy cheek. “You don’t have to show me.”
In slow-motion, he turns his gaze to me. “I know I don’t. But I want to, even though it’s not easy for me.”
“I know it’s not easy for you,” I say, though I have no idea why he struggles like this. Maybe it’s a writer’s dilemma. Maybe he canonlylive in the interior. As an actor, perhaps I have no choice but to live in the exterior.
Or maybe there’s more to it for him. Maybe it’s rooted in something long ago. Either way, I’m grateful for all the times he has opened up.
He returns to fighting with his computer while I return to kissing his neck.
TJ groans softly, stretching his neck, inviting more kisses. “Maybe we should just spend the whole night having sex instead,” he murmurs.
“If you want, that can be arranged,” I say, closing my eyes as I nip on his earlobe.
Another moan. Another sigh. “I do, but I also really want to do this.”
He takes a deep breath, hands me the laptop, and stands. “Listen, I’m going to go for a walk. I’ll drive you nuts if I stay here. And I’ll just pace like a caged lion, so I’ll get a coffee.”
“It’s eight at night.”
He grins wickedly. “Coffee O’Clock caters to hyper-caffeinated Americans at all hours.”
“Go, go, go,” I say, shooing him away.
A pang of missing lodges in my chest once he’s gone. I shift my focus to the laptop, and the story opens in front of me.
Except, this is a piece about... bond trading.