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)
Easy enough. As we move up in the line, I send William a text.
Hey, there, wand steamer. Jude and I were thinking of you, and I just wanted to say I hope you’re doing well. Next time you’re in New York, we should all hang sometime soon.
Five seconds later, he replies.
New York or anywhere! I’m in. And it’s really great to hear from you. P.S.—I finished Top-Notch Boyfriend. Can I just say I’m so stinking glad you didn’t write that thriller whodunit what have you with the rubbish title.
Laughing, I show the note to Jude. “He sounds . . . really good,” I say, encouraged.
“Yeah, he actually does.”
Jude doesn’t say anything about William reading my book. That’s progress too. Letting go of the thing that came between us.
Thirty minutes later, an egg sandwich and an Ethiopian coffee have restored my brainpower. Jude’s polished off just eggs, and they made him moan in pleasure. “I need a thousand napkins for that,” he says. “Which means, I didn’t even miss the bread.”
“My bud did not lie,” I say, then wince. But I’m lying to Nolan by omission.
Man, having a conscience sucks sometimes. On the flip side, being with Jude does not suck whatsoever.
After we bus our table, I gesture to the café’s sign. “Does that count as another secret real date?”
Jude wraps an arm around me, smiling as we leave. “Yes. So we need another picture.”
“Aww. Are we making a Shutterfly album?”
“For all our besties,” he says, then smacks a kiss onto my cheek.
Teasing Jude is way more fun than blasting my is-it-fake-or-is-it-real-news to friends and family. After all that honesty yesterday, I might burst if I scoop out another serving of my soul. I’ll deal with my brother later. Same for Nolan.
Now is my time, so in the concourse of the Vegas hotel, against the backdrop of Egg-asmic, I haul Jude close. Then I take out my phone, drape an arm around him, and snap the pic.
When I show it to Jude, he hums as he studies it, then points to my face on the screen. “Look at you. You’re all Mister Casual.”
I tense. “Is that bad?”
“No. It’s good. I get to see more sides of you on our secret dates. I like it,” he says.
Yeah, I just want a slice of nice and easy today. No secrets served up, no insides excavated. “Glad you approve of the sides of me, and the photo, sweetheart,” I say, tossing his pet name back at him.
“You don’t like my pet name, baby?”
If he only knew how much I love all his shows of affection. I plant a loud kiss on his cheek. “It’s all right,” I say drily.
Out of the corner of my eye, something catches my attention. A short, pale blonde stands in front of a map shop just past the café, lowering her cell phone as she looks our way. She wears a pink blouse, a messenger bag slung across her chest, and a satisfied smile as she turns and walks away.
Feels like more than a random fan snapping a pic. “Do you know who that was?” I ask cautiously. “She felt . . . familiar.”
Jude shakes his head, frowning like he also thinks she’s familiar but can’t place her. “No. Sorry.”
We walk the other way, toward the casino. My neck grows hotter as if I’m being watched. I feel more off-kilter than I have with all the posed pics. “I should be used to it by now, this whole thing. You and me and the photogs,” I say, puzzling out the feeling.
But I’m not sure if my issue is the picture or that someone captured a private moment back there, a record of our secret date.
“TJ,” Jude says, carefully, taking his time. “It would be like this. I don’t want to sound like a conceited ass, but it would be like this. You know . . .”
If we keep doing this.
He doesn’t add those words, but that’s what he means.
It’s a warning. Be careful what you sign up for.
But I already gave up some privacy when my books started selling, and I lost a whole lot more of it when Flynn’s breakup video went viral. True, being with an Oscar-nominated actor is next level, but I’m not sure privacy is the big issue.
The issue is . . . me.
Are our secret dates just another version of my lie of omission?
“I know,” I say, but I won't elaborate since I don’t know the answer to this new quandary. Besides, when we reach the casino, my phone buzzes and his beeps.
We groan in tandem, Pavlovian dogs who know what’s coming.
“Daddy,” I mutter.
I grab my phone and click on Slade’s instructions. As I read, my stomach twists. It turns. I feel like my breakfast might come back up.
Grabbing Jude’s hand, I pull him next to a sleek, silver slot machine. He looks as awful as I feel. “This is a breakup script,” he chokes out.