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)
Settle down. TJ’s not fake dating you and real dating someone else. He’s not like that.
Still, the fact that I don’t know TJ’s relationship status with this A-list gay actor bothers me. A lot.
But I cover it up with a smile. “Yeah, it’s a rom-comedy of errors,” I say, grateful I read that Hollywood Scoop piece to get up to speed.
Christian laughs. “Sure is, but we’ll get there someday,” he says, all sweet and supportive as if they give each other pep talks all the time.
Maybe right after they get sweaty with each other.
“Yes, Top-Notch Backburner will have its time in the sun,” TJ says, and ouch. That last one stings me. That’s what happened to my project with Laird when Webflix bought Top-Notch Boyfriend.
But then, everything worked out for me, didn’t it? Webflix passing me over gave me the freedom to say yes to If Found, Please Return. If I’d been too busy with the project Webflix delayed, I would have missed the biggest role of my life.
“Anyway, wasn’t the musical fantastic?” Christian asks, gesturing to the theater. “Let’s all catch up sometime. Grab a drink or a bite to eat. Cool, TJ?”
“Yeah, definitely,” my date says.
Christian drops a kiss to TJ’s cheek. Jealousy flares in me. That’s my job. What the hell are they to each other? Am I wrong about TJ? Maybe they’re not dating now, but did they in the last ten months?
The actor leans in and brushes a kiss on my cheek. “So great meeting you, Jude,” he says, then points to both of us. “Drinks. Let’s make it happen.”
Christian takes off, and as I figure out what to say to TJ, he’s waggling his phone. “The driver just messaged. He’s waiting for us.”
We power walk to a waiting black SUV, then slide into the back. A million questions tap on my brain, but when the Lyft driver checks us out a few times in the rearview mirror, I groan privately. Now is not the time to ask anything.
I look at TJ and tip my forehead to the front seat. He nods in understanding then takes my hand again.
We’re quiet as the car shoots us to the Village, but my brain is noisy.
Is he holding my hand for the driver or himself? Did he date Christian Laird? Did he see anyone else in the last ten months? Mostly, how does he feel about me now?
I’m tired of not knowing. Ten months ago, I’d have let these questions fester. But look how that ended. Tonight, I need to ask him.
When we reach my building, I wonder something else. Why was he adamant we come here instead of his place?
As we head upstairs, I practice the words in my head to ask calmly, the opposite of how I was in Venice.
But once we’re inside my home, I set my phone on the counter, and it blinks with a text from William.
The words flash on my screen for both of us to see.
Thanks again for talking earlier.
TJ arches a brow and gives me a scathing look. This is the problem with friction. It’s good in the bedroom, but it’s bad out of it.
And it turns out when we’re bad, we’re quite horrid.
13
TWENTY QUESTIONS ABOUT OTHER MEN
TJ
I really should keep my cool.
After that kiss in the limo yesterday, after the theater, after the plans I had to get to know him again tonight, I have to chill out.
I do my best to ignore that blinking note. But that might require some liquor. Tearing my gaze away from the evidence of other men on his phone, I scan his living room, hunting for a liquor cart. A decanter. A bottle of anything other than wine.
“Got anything strong here?” I ask since I’m going to need 500-proof to get through the next hour with the man I can’t get over.
Wait.
How long do I have to stay here to throw reporters off the scent of this deception?
Jude loosens the top button on his shirt. “Does tequila count? If not, I have whiskey. Plenty of wine, but that’s not going to meet your requirements,” he says, pointing to a liquor tray at the edge of the kitchen counter.
I stalk into the kitchen, grab the Jose Cuervo. “Shot glasses?”
His shoes click on the hardwood. He opens a cupboard, grabs two glasses, and sets them on the counter with a loud clink. “Shockingly, I need one too,” he says, his voice tight—a clear reminder he’s not in the mood for more of my issues.
It’s a reminder, too, that I need to keep my shit together. I’ve got to get a handle on this jealousy. But then, jealousy is only the start of my out-of-control emotions when it comes to Jude. I pour two shots. “How long do you think we need to wait it out?”
“Dunno. It’s not like there’s paparazzi on the street,” he says, waving airily at the window like this is all so easy for him when it’s impossibly hard for me. “But someone could see if you go, I suppose. Desmond or Piper or one of Trish’s scouts or someone else.”