Total pages in book: 244
Estimated words: 236705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1184(@200wpm)___ 947(@250wpm)___ 789(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 236705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1184(@200wpm)___ 947(@250wpm)___ 789(@300wpm)
Both the curious parts of me and the jealous ones are dying to ask if they went to Amsterdam together, but I’m not sure I can handle any possible answer, so I tap the New York book. “Have you checked out the hidden gems in New York yet?”
Jude shakes his head, his expression a little sheepish. “It’s been crazy since I moved here. I’ve been so busy. A little bit of work travel, since I was in London doing a play, then movie stuff, and now the TV show . . .” He stops and chuckles at himself. “Whoa. I kind of sound like I think I’m the shit.”
I smile. “Nah. You deserve it, Jude. All the success. Also, I did kind of predict it,” I say, proud of his accomplishments. He’s been striving for so long, wanting and then wanting more. Trying hard and then harder. He deserves all the good things.
“You did predict it, and I’m grateful,” he says, with a touch of wistfulness in his tone that almost makes me think we’re both missing what we were to each other—we were supportive. We were encouraging. “Speaking of, why the hell do people say the shit when something is good?”
“I’m pretty sure that comes from drugs, like this is the good shit.”
“Again, why do people say that?”
I laugh. “That’s the English language for you. We turn bad words into good words. This song is sick; this movie is dope; he plays a mean pinball.”
“I do. I am the sickest at pinball.” He grimaces. “Nope. Can’t do it. Can’t say it. Anyway, New York is great. I’d love to see more of it someday. That’s why I got that book.”
“I could . . .” I don’t finish. I don’t want to offer to show him around since I can’t handle his no, so I return my gaze to his collection. But it ends on the travel books. I’m disappointed and realize I’d been hoping he’d have his copy of The Importance of Being Earnest on display.
The one with the two men in top hats.
But I should stop wanting things with Jude, like Amsterdam, wordplay, and inside jokes and doing stuff with him, like seeing his place and showing him around New York and encouraging his hopes and dreams.
Really, I should stop craving the possibilities. I turn around. “Nice place. Very you.”
Jude’s smile is soft. “Thanks. I’ll be shooting here for a few months, so I tried to give it a personal touch. But it’s just a rental,” he says, like he has to explain his pad, even though his place is great. “Yours probably feels more like home.”
There’s a note of curiosity in his voice, almost like he’s wondering what my apartment looks like. Wishful thinking on my part, but I can’t shake the feeling. Or the hope.
“I bought my apartment last year when Top-Notch Boyfriend came out. That was probably foolish, considering . . .” I don’t want to linger on that book with him for so many reasons. I pluck at my sushi shirt. “Slade might get pissed if we take too long.”
“Right, right,” Jude says, snapping his attention back to the moment. Maybe he was lost in unfulfilled wishes too. He wiggles his fingers at my black shirt. The tea stain’s not visible, but it is wet.
“You want me to take it off?” I ask, hoping he has ulterior motives, but that’s wishful thinking.
Foolish thinking too.
“Generally, clothes dry better that way,” he says, then he whispers, “Not to brag but I have a washer/dryer. And it is the absolute shit.”
My jaw comes unhinged. “I stand corrected. You are definitely the luckiest guy in the world.”
With a radiant smile, he blows on his fingernails. “I know.”
“That’s hotter than having your own parking spot,” I say.
He scoffs. “Please. As if I’d have a car in the city.”
I smile as I unbutton the top button. “Understandable. I hate cars,” I admit.
“Same. One of my life goals is to never need to own one. Or to drive one,” he adds.
“Driving is so overrated,” I say, my fingers midway down the shirt now. Jude steals a peek at my chest, half exposed, then tries to look away. But as he swings his gaze around the room, he returns to me over and over as I undo more buttons.
Once I shrug off the shirt, Jude breathes out hard then reaches for it. “I’ll take a chauffeur over driving myself any day,” he says, voice a little rough.
“That tracks, since you did once say your greatest dream was to have a valet.”
Jude clutches the fabric. “Good memory.”
“For some things.” Like, say, everything involving you.
“The washer/dryer is down the hall.” His tone shifts away from sensual, zooming back to cordial. “Want to see?”
“Yes,” I say and follow him down the hall, “since I like porn.”