Page 89 of The Hopelessly Bromantic Duet

My shower still needs fixing. Know a handyman who can help?

Is there a meeting this weekend of The Oscar Wilde Society of Often and Well?

Hello, Great Dick.

Trouble is, they all sound like I’m trying too hard.

I’ll go for simple instead.Hey there. Thanks for coming. You look incredible.

There. That’s settled.

But once I head into the lobby bar, his dark eyes lock on me and the power of the past throws me off. All my instincts say to wrap him in a warm embrace and demand he enthrall me with every detail from his life over the last seven years.

As TJ strides over and I get a good, long look at the man I once lived with, my mind pings with hope, and my body lights up with possibility. My grin might be too big, and I kind of don’t care, especially when he wraps one strong arm around me, then pulls me close, his beard whisking against my cheek. “You were great inThe Artificial Girlfriend. I’ve been wanting to tell you for almost seven years, Jude.”

That’s his opening line? Talk about knowing the way straight to my heart. I want to sayThank you, I’m so fucking happy you saw it, and I was dying to reach out to you and ask you a million things.

But I keep my cool since I know something too—the path to his writer’s brain. “And you were right aboutMurder on the Orient Express. I’ve read it twice,” I say, since that feels like a fair trade. Starting where we left off in London with things we shared.

He separates his chest from mine but doesn’t let go of my arm. His lips twitch in a grin. “So you read it again, even though you knew who did it?”

“Exactly. As someone once told me,With every read, there’s something to discover about how to tell a story,” I say, though that’s not why I re-read that mystery. I read it again because I was missing him. The second time around, the story made me feel connected to him across an ocean. Every night, I puzzled over what details delighted him the most.

“I’m really glad you read it, Jude.” He chuckles softly, the gold flecks in his dreamy brown eyes flickering. “Jude Fox is the perfect stage name. I’m just jealous that I didn’t get to help pick it. It’s so good, I almost wish I could steal it for a hero in one of my books.”

“Oh? You haven’t written about the big-cocked Jude yet?” I ask playfully, though I know the answer, and it’s a no.

He shrugs, all inviting and flirty. “Maybe someday,” he says.

I like the sound of that someday. Better me than that twat of an ex who didn’t deserve to be immortalized on a bathroom wall. Fuck Flynn and his chicken.

“Well, let’s start with The Duck’s Nipple then. Did you ever get to use that?” I ask, though I know that answer too. It’s a pub the hero and his friends frequent in his third book. But I don’t want to let on yet that I’ve read most of his books. Don’t want to look too eager to impress.

“I did. It’s inThe Size Principle,” he says.

“Then you could write off all those beers we had long ago,” I tease. “Must have made the whole trip to London worthwhile.”

“Yes, that’s what made it worthwhile. The tax benefits,” he deadpans, then gestures to the bar. “Beer, champagne, Negroni?”

I tilt my head to study him since that’s quite specific. “Those are all my favorite drinks, but we only ever drank beer.”

His smile is full of satisfaction. “So, what’ll it be,Just Jude?”

“Well,Troy Jett, I’ll have a champagne.”

“Then I will too,” he says, and that kicks up a sense of déjà vu, like I’ve heard him say that before, but maybe it’s just the déjà vu of him and the nickname game.

After he orders the drinks, the bartender pours quickly, then hands him two glasses.

“I reserved the table in the corner,” TJ says.

I follow as he heads for a small, curved booth in a private spot.“So, how did you pick those three drinks? Did you read my diary?”

“I like research,” he says, drily.

“You always did. You liked to go around London, researching places. Did you research a certain person and his favorite drinks?” I ask, and I’m dying to know if he’s been following me.

“When you DM’d me, I scrolled through your feed, naturally,” he says, and maybe he hasn’t been following my career like I’ve followed his. Perhaps he only checked me out after I messaged him. That shouldn’t bother me. Really, it shouldn’t. “You posted a picture from your brother’s birthday last year. A shot of you toastingthe old fucker.Your words. In your hand was a bright red drink. When I saw the orange peel, I deduced it likely wasn’t a vodka raspberry but a Negroni. Was I right?”