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)
Is he asking if we can pull off the pretend boyfriend ruse in front of his friends?
Except, my gut says that’s not the question. Even though it terrifies me, I go out on a limb. “Do you want them to know the score? The real score?”
TJ pulls his shoulders back, nodding with conviction. “I don’t want it to feel like we’re faking it for them. I want them to know who you are to me.”
Holy shit.
I was dead wrong. And I’m so fucking happy, my heart thunders. This is what happens with us—we try to be sensible and slow, but we go too fast. And I don’t care because fast feels so damn good when he says things like that.
“So, let’s have another real secret date. This time with your friends. We can all get dinner somewhere,” I say to him.
His lips curve up. “Yeah?”
“Yes. I can’t wait to meet them,” I say.
I’ve never seen such a sexy smile on TJ outside of the bedroom, such a satisfied grin. I want to keep it there. As we turn onto the Strip, the hotels electrifying the night, he deals me another scorching kiss in the back of a car. If only I could find a way to speed up time and get to our suite straightaway.
When the car pulls into the portico of the opulent black-and-white hotel, I’m this close to getting my wish. The doorman grandly sweeps open the door, the line at the VIP check-in is blissfully short, and the clerk is the picture of efficiency.
It’s a bang-up night so far. We make our way to the elevators, and this hotel is already putting me in the mood. “I’m picturing a king-size bed, a TJ Hardman-approved sex playlist, and a glass of champagne,” I say, then whisper seductively, “It’s low in carbs.”
“Then you should drink it off my dick. I’m equally low-carb,” he says, adding a dirty smile.
“One cocktail, coming right up,” I say with a throaty purr when my phone buzzes and his beeps.
That can only mean . . .
“Slade is probably sending us his rules of the road,” I say.
We stop, whip out our mobiles. A group text reads: Hope you enjoyed flying in comfort! I’ll be sending your instructions in the morning. A couple of interviews and then a fantastic AF plan for the final week.
Talk about a mood shift. If there’s anything to send two guys into a quick funk, it’s the last two words of this note. Final week sits heavily in my gut.
“That’s . . . foreboding,” I say.
With a wince, TJ nods. Then, like he’s erasing the note, he flashes me a bright smile. “But we don’t have to deal with his orders tonight.”
We resume our path through the casino to the elevators, when I hear someone call out to us.
“Yo.”
Malcolm Mann is here.
22
ALLYSHIP AND MANNERS
Jude
I cringe at Malcolm’s greeting. Yo is the worst word in the English language—worse even than moist and pucker.
TJ and I stop near a blackjack table, and the beefy man catches up to us.
“Hey,” TJ says to him.
“Is this luck or what?” Malcolm booms, the cha-ching of slot machine payouts ringing behind him, classy jazz music playing overhead.
TJ slaps on a smile. “I guess it is my lucky night. How are you?”
“I am most excellent. I should have known you two would be here in Vegas,” Malcolm says, pointing to us.
“Why’s that?” TJ asks, brow knit.
“Well, you don’t post jack-shit on your social about your private life, TJ, but I’m a bit of a Sam Spade. I figured with Stone’s concert being the it event, I might see you here. Same team and all.”
“Yeah, we queer men love Stone,” TJ says, and I can hear the eye-roll in his voice.
“Hey, us straights do too,” Malcolm says, patting his barrel-like chest. “The love is universal.” Then he turns to me and holds his arms out wide. “Bring it in.”
Oh. We embrace, us queers and straights? I give him the quickest of hugs, then he steps back and shakes a finger at TJ. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were avoiding me.”
TJ offers an apologetic smile. “I got a little lost in the writing cave this last week. You know how it goes now.”
“Don’t I ever, buddy,” Malcolm says as if he and TJ were cut from the same cloth when TJ is fine silk, and Malcolm is scratchy polyester. “When the writing is flowing, it’s like a frigging faucet, right?”
“A geyser. Can’t turn it off for anything,” TJ says, and it’s sexy the way he’s handling this douche with aplomb.
“I hear ya.” Malcolm waves toward the nearby card tables. “But maybe we can have that drink right now. Play some poker. Talk shop. I’ve been dying to pick your brain about the whole biz.”
TJ glances at his carry-on luggage, then mine. “I wish,” he says, sounding legit disappointed. “We just got here.”