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)
I arch a brow. “Not sure that’s a compliment.”
He scoffs. “Um, hello? Have you seen their models? It’s a compliment,” he says, then he tucks his thumbs into his jeans pockets and looks at me like he’s waiting for me to make the next move. Well, I did ask him out. I suppose I should go first.
But I’m waiting for a sign from him. What if Thursday night was just sex?
TJ inches closer. “If two men kiss on the street and no one is around to see it, did they even kiss?”
“Maybe it’s better if no one sees it,” I say in invitation.
Taking my chin in his hand, he leans in, brushes his lips against mine, and kisses me. It’s a PG kiss, but it makes me feel R-rated things for him.
It makes my fucking heart flutter too. He doesn’t stop for several floaty seconds. It’s long enough for me to inhale a familiar, sexy scent.
When he breaks the kiss, I feel dazed. A little intoxicated too.
“Is that the same aftershave you wore in London?”
“The same bottle? No. Same brand? Maybe,” he says with a twinkle in his eye.
“You dick,” I say.
“Always,” he says, then looks up and down the street. “No one saw us, Jude.”
I run a hand down his arm. “Good. I like it that way today.”
“Me too,” he says.
Then I point at his chest. “Why are you not wearing ducks or chipmunks or alligators? What happened to my hipster?”
He tugs on his dark Henley. “Standard romance hero wardrobe. They pretty much always wear Henleys.”
“Are you playing the role of a hero today?”
Laughing, he shakes his head. “No, but you said the place might be inspiring, so I figured I should dress the part.”
“I definitely understand the appeal of a good costume,” I say, then point to the gate. “Please say you’ve never been to Pomander Walk.”
“I’ll do you one better. I don’t even know what Pomander Walk is.”
“Yes!” I clap a hand on his shoulder and walk to the gate, taking out the key. “Holly lives here. My agent.”
“We’re going to see your agent?”
I scoff. “No. I’m going to show you a hidden gem of New York. But it’s private and she has a key . . .”
“So you planned this,” he says, sounding delighted.
I roll my eyes. “Don’t let it go to your head, stud.”
“Oh, don’t worry. I won’t.”
I unlock the gate, trot up the steps, then gesture like a game show host as I show off a true secret in the city.
“Wow,” he says, voice full of wonder as he surveys this block of New York that’s like a byway in the city, as Hidden Gems calls it. The private residential walk is lined with brick and flanked by Tudor homes with ivy climbing up the fronts, planters in the windows, and colorful accents on the doors. It’s a picturesque sliver, an escape into a quaint village that feels unreal, as if it couldn’t possibly exist in a messy, gritty city.
“I had no idea this was here,” TJ says, gazing almost reverently at the cute European-style homes. “It looks like London.”
I’m bursting with the pride of a well-done surprise. “Doesn’t it? I thought of you when I first came here.”
“You did? When was that?”
“About a month ago, Holly invited me for a dinner party with some of her English friends. And all I could think was TJ would love it.”
He shoots me a smile, and I read between the lines—that was when we hated each other, yet you still thought of me.
I smile back, saying yes, yes, I did.
“I do love it, Jude. It’s . . . a bit like Cecil Court,” he says.
“Right? That’s what I thought too.” I tip my head toward the private walk, inviting him in.
It won’t take long to see Pomander Walk, but we wander along, checking out the facades. It’s like a movie set. When he’s toured it a few times, he deals me a skeptical look. “You’re really taking this seriously? This whole book babysitter role?”
Is that all he thinks this is? Me ensuring he holds up his end of the fake boyfriend bargain?
“Yes,” I tell him. “But it’s not because it’s part of our marching orders. I mean, it is. Of course I want this fake romance to work. I want to have a long and busy career. I want to be a working actor. But I also truly want you to write,” I say, trying to keep the frustration out of my tone. I want him to get it once and for all—I care.
He steps closer, his eyes soft. “I didn’t mean it in a bad way. But maybe it came across like I was questioning you.”
“A little.”
He breathes out like he’s letting go of something. “It’s more that . . . well, you seem to take a particular delight in showing me around. In encouraging me to write. I was simply trying to understand that part of you.”