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)
“Mmm,” he murmurs, and as we kiss chastely for the theater, an idea flashes before me, bright and brilliant.
When we separate, I say, “Why don’t we do what we did in London?”
“What do you mean?”
“We scoped out places for your book. The novel you were working on. Why don’t we do that and find some places in New York? Fun, off-the-beaten-path, or just pure date-y places.”
He takes a few seconds, maybe to process my offer. “I’d like that.” Then he grins. “A whole lot more than seeing a musical.”
“Oh, please. You’re going to love it.”
“Doubtful,” he says as the audience claps, and the overture begins.
I turn to the stage but remember my lobby run-in with the Man’s Man. I don’t want to forget my messenger role just in case it’s important to TJ someday. I lean in closer, cup my hand over his ear. “By the way, try not to get too excited. But Malcolm is here. He told me to tell you he DM’d you. Isn’t that thrilling?”
TJ shudders in over-the-top glee. “I can’t wait.”
I laugh. “Can I please tag along when you meet him for drinks? It would be fantastic character work if I ever have to play a douchey dude.”
“Anything for research,” he says, then we turn our attention to the stage.
Two and a half hours later, we give the cast a standing ovation then make our way out of the theater. “And you loved it, right? You totally loved it?”
He scoffs. “I would say I tolerated it.”
I tease him about hating musicals until we emerge on the street. Taxis line up, and theatergoers head for restaurants or home. It’s the moment of truth.
This is where we fucked up the other night. This is where we need to nail it.
Crowds are everywhere. Bloggers, reporters, tourists, theatergoers, and anyone with a phone—which is everyone—can snap our photo.
I turn to my fake date. “Your place or mine?”
When our eyes lock, heat flares between us. “Yours. I’ll get a Lyft.”
As he orders the car, my mind races ahead fifteen minutes. I have no idea what will happen when he walks through the door of my home, but I know what I want.
While he’s on his phone, he drapes his arm around my shoulder, and we head to Seventh Avenue for the pickup. It’ll take forever for any vehicle to turn onto Forty-Fourth Street on a show night. We barely make it past Sardi’s when a gorgeous—by all empirical standards—man overtakes us, then stops one foot away and does a double-take.
“Hey—” The square-jawed Adonis of a movie star swings his gaze from TJ to me. “Wait. You two?”
TJ frowns for a second, and something like guilt flickers in his eyes. “Yeah. We are,” he says, squeezing my shoulder.
Almost like he’s giving a demonstration for a how-to video on touching your partner in public on a busy street. “Christian Laird, this is Jude Fox. Jude’s my guy,” TJ says, and he sounds legit enough for most people. But not me. I can hear a touch of awkwardness in his tone.
But once again, it’s showtime. “Nice to meet you, Christian. I’m a huge fan.” I extend a hand, but Christian waves it off, holding his arms open wide.
“You! You are fucking amazing, Jude,” the man says, then yanks me in for a hug.
Oh. Well. I wasn’t expecting that. “Thanks,” I say.
When we separate, Christian parks a big hand on my shoulder. “Your movie was incredible. And now you’re doing a TV show? Who do I have to beg to get a role on your new show?”
I laugh rather than respond. I practically begged to work with him nearly a year ago, so I’m not sure what to do with his praise now. But is that why I feel off? Or is it because I don’t have a bloody clue what role Christian now plays in TJ’s life? They’re clearly on a first-name basis, but TJ hasn’t once mentioned him to me in the last few days. Although I guess we’ve been so caught up in getting our lies right, we haven’t had time to dwell on much else—including the past.
Christian turns to TJ. “And what the hell? Are we ever, ever, going to start working on your project?”
TJ sighs but smiles as he gazes heavenward. “I wish I knew.”
“It’s ridic. I am dying to get to work on Jackson.” Then, Christian turns to me. “The illustrator character.”
“Right,” I say, though I don’t know anything about the characters in that book. Or even their names till now. TJ always told me to stay away from it. The warning worked for me—I had no interest in reading the story Flynn inspired.
“Anyway, I was calling it Top-Notch Detour when we worked out last week,” Christian says, gesturing to TJ.
What? They’re gym buddies? That’s kind of romantic because workout dates are a thing.