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)
Harry pulls up, out of breath. “How the hell are you, mate?”
Is he calling me “mate” and coming in for a hug? I lift a hand in a subtle wave, dodging an embrace. “Hello, Harry. How are you?”
He shoves a hand through his hair, trying but failing to smooth his locks. “Grand. Brilliant. Chuffed to see you,” he says with a smile that reeks of an oily salesman. “I would love to talk to you about representation again. We were on such a smashing roll for a bit. Remember The Artificial Girlfriend and Our Secret Courtship? It was quite a run, and I know we could do it again.”
Is he joking?
I laugh humorlessly.
He smiles simperingly.
Ohhh.
He’s serious.
He truly thinks I might work with him again.
Wow. That’s taking ballsy to a whole new level. Ballsy and shameless, as he attempts to hitch a coattail ride.
And just like that, I do know what to make of him.
Little.
He’s just someone I used to work with, nothing more. I don’t need people like him in my life. People who hurt me. Harry doesn’t deserve another second of my time or thoughts. “No. I’m not interested in signing with you. Goodnight.”
I pop in my earbuds and walk on, replaying that moment to share it all with TJ when I call him from the hotel. Then the Ellie bit. And Slade’s ridiculous rules. I want to tell TJ everything and then make plans to go people-watching with Ellie and him in New York. I want him to be a part of my new world there, just as he’s invited me into his big and wonderful one, with all his friends.
I bound up the steps to my hotel room, mobile in hand, ready to hit his name the second the door shuts behind me. But it rings and rings.
When I reach his voicemail, I’m more disappointed than I’ve ever been to hear a recording.
I hang up, lonely. So damn lonely. I miss him more than I could ever expect. I should get used to being apart from him. My job is nomadic. But it’s like I left something behind that I desperately need.
Him.
I flop onto my bed, take a selfie, then pop the image of a rumpled, tired, half-undressed me in a draft, typing the words. If you were here, you’d rip this shirt off me, right?
But that’s not what I want to say to him.
I delete the sexy note and begin again. Wish you were here.
That’s closer, but it still only scratches the surface.
32
DEFINITELY LIAM
TJ
On Thursday morning, I walk along the promenade in Santa Monica and duck into a coffee shop.
I’ve got a final meeting with Webflix in an hour to go over my revisions. I’m this close to cracking the code on the script. But I’m still unsettled about something.
I order a coffee, and while the barista measures the beans, I stare out the window of the shop, contemplating my fictional heroes. Is the unease about them?
The script problem was, frankly, easy to diagnose. The adaptation veered too far from the book. In my revision, I went back to the basics of the story itself—the dialogue on the pages of the novel.
Still, a couple of details about the heroes nag at me. Have I done enough with them in the adaptation?
I’m close, but not quite there.
Sort of like . . . my situation with Jude.
Theoretically, I should feel better about my romantic life after we made it official between us Sunday morning in Las Vegas. Plus, we’ve been texting all week. I click on our texts, re-reading some of them, like his: Wish you were here.
Then my reply, sent a few hours later: I wish I could be in London with you too. I hear the shower curtain shopping dates are stellar there. But blanket shopping is on the list for New York.
He replied this morning. You can never have enough blankets, color, coffee, books. Or sex.
The texts bring a smile to my face and a spring to my step and cock, but the trouble is I don’t feel as settled or certain as I’d hoped.
“Here’s your Ethiopian drip,” the barista says, sliding me the mug. I thank him.
Coffee in hand, I head outside, grab a table, and pop open my laptop.
But before I dive back in, I noodle on my zigzagging thoughts today. Is asking Jude to be my boyfriend enough?
No, you dipshit.
The answer smacks me on the back of the head like a big brother.
Boyfriendship is just the start. We have so much more to figure out—like what to do when the agency wants us to part ways.
But we can sort that out in New York this weekend. I’ll see Jude tomorrow, and we can start then.
As I take a drink of my fuel, I slide into the role of The Handyman, Script Doctor style.