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)
And I also have a burst eardrum from the PR guy shouting in glee. I rub my knuckles against my ear. “Ow.”
“Oh, hush. You can handle my excitement.” Slade thrusts his phone at us, clicking on the Instagram handle All The Tea. “They’re calling you . . . wait.” He jerks his phone back to his chest, clutches it close. “You want to guess?”
I take the bait. “I’ll go . . . Tude.”
Jude grabs his stomach, cracking up. Good. I wanted to make him laugh.
“Guess again,” Slade says.
“JudeJay,” Jude offers.
Slade makes a rolling gesture with his hand, his eyes flickering with glee. “Nope. Keep going.”
I rattle off options like a wordsmith getting his mojo back. “HardFox. FoxHard. ManFox,” I say, and Slade shakes his head with each one. Then Jude and I both blurt out, “FoxMan.”
Slade pumps a fist. “Yes! Is that a beautiful name or what? It makes me so very, very happy,” he says, indulging in a long, contented sigh. Damn, this man digs his job.
“So you picked us up to tell us that?” I ask, curious.
Slade scoffs. “No, I picked you up because this is next level, and it’s given me all sorts of ideas.”
But his devilish tone gives me all sorts of pause. “What kind of ideas?”
Slade looks at the two of us. “You like music, don’t you?”
Who doesn’t? “Love it,” I say.
“TJ introduced me to music in London,” Jude says matter-of-factly.
“The Goat’s Nipple,” I whisper.
Jude smiles.
Slade furrows his brow. “You didn’t know music before?”
Jude shakes his head. “I had awful taste. He gave me good taste,” Jude says, nostalgic, and so am I.
“Aww. That’s too cute. Can you share that with the press? That’d be fun for an interview.”
I look to Jude to gauge his reaction. His eyes say nah. So does my gut. Some things are only for the two of us. “I think we might keep that between us,” I say.
“Fair enough,” Slade says, then rubs his palms. “Anyway, I was gonna have you do a pool and darts hang out with the New York Leopards, but I want to go bigger. Put you guys out there more. Really embrace the FoxMan mojo. How do you feel about first-class travel?”
“Is there any other way to fly?” I ask.
“There is not.” My fake boyfriend offers me a hand for high-fiving.
Slade practically squeals. “See? That’s what I’m talking about. This whole FoxMan vibe is gold. And I’m going to sell this gold for a fat profit.” He explains he’s sending us on a little trip to visit three cities—Las Vegas, Paris, and London. And we leave on Thursday to attend a charity concert this weekend in the city of sin. “Think you can swing it? TJ, you can write as you travel, right?”
Of course I can.
But this idea is wildly dangerous. Talk about from the frying pan into the fire. Jude and I agreed this thing between us is difficult, so I’m sure that forcing the two of us to not only fake a romance for the cameras but to fake it while sharing a plane, train, automobile, and, oh, hotel room is like jumping from a stroller to a speedboat.
But I also doubt we have a choice. “Have laptop. Will write,” I say, answering the latter question, but not the former.
Can we pull off the fake boyfriend game without combusting? It’s anyone’s guess.
“Jude?” Slade asks. “Your schedule is clear, I trust? Especially since you’ve already got the London press junket on your schedule, and we’ll just squeeze in a day at a film festival in Paris. No hardship, I presume?”
“Absolutely. Everything sounds grand,” he answers eagerly, the rising star happy to please. But I can’t tell if he’s actually worried about the real risks of all this sardining or if he’s just excited we’re finally clicking for the cameras.
Slade looks at his watch. “All right. I’ll send you deets. Right now, I’m gonna jet. I have a date with a lovely lady. I’m going to have the driver drop me off at a trend-ay new sushi joint.”
My mind snags on one word he just said. “You have a date with a woman?”
Slade’s eyes bug out. “That surprises you?”
“I thought . . .” But I shut up. I shouldn’t make assumptions about his orientation.
“You thought I was gay because of the comment I made about the sexy guys on the Leopards and because of the hot piece of man I took to the theater?”
I feel a little foolish now for assuming. I should know better. “I did,” I say quietly.
“Not a bad guess, but guess again. I float down the pansexual river, and it’s glorious to ride,” he says as the car stops, then he scoots out of the backseat, patting the open door. “Feel free to take my wheels all the way to Jude’s place right now.”