The Hopelessly Bromantic Duet Read Online Lauren Blakely

Categories Genre: Contemporary, M-M Romance Tags Authors:
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Total pages in book: 244
Estimated words: 236705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1184(@200wpm)___ 947(@250wpm)___ 789(@300wpm)
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Make me hot and bothered and thrilled to have him in my life.

In my head.

And, as we go to town on each other’s bodies, I’m pretty sure he’s in my heart too.

But soon, he’ll be gone for good.

All I can do is enjoy every second of these last few wonderful nights.

Pleasure cascades down my spine, coils in my belly. My legs shake, and I let him fall from my mouth, grunting out, “Coming . . .”

I’m seeing stars, trembling all over, and I want to give TJ the same thing. I’m right back on his dick before the aftershocks have finished.

I’m on it, loving it, sucking, and wishing this could happen next week, next month, maybe even next year.

But he’ll be gone in less than two days.

Some stories just play out that way.

24

THE CASE OF THE DISAPPEARING PAGES

Jude

I’m not counting down.

There’s no point.

Life goes on. But it’s Thursday evening, and TJ’s flight departs tomorrow. And even though I’m secretly hoping it’s delayed another day and that we get a reprieve, I’m also realistic enough to know that it won’t happen.

I rearranged my schedule at An Open Book, taking shifts on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday so I could spend this last night with him.

We go to The Magpie, settle in with a beer, and just like that first night, we talk. Even with the looming departure, the connection between us is still strong. TJ cares about my dreams and I care about his too.

“Robots and scientists . . . Does it have a name yet?” TJ asks.

“It has a working title. I don’t love it though. Machine Love.”

“Yeah, that’s a little cringe-y. But I say this as someone who has a cringe-y working title for his book.”

“You still won’t tell me what that is?”

“It’s bad, Jude. It needs a good name. Just like Machine Love does.”

“I know. Hopefully, the writer will change it,” I say. “But you know how writer types can be. So pig-headed.”

“Writers are the worst. Well, after actors,” he says. “You still love the show, though?”

“I do. We started shooting today, and it was . . . everything. You know what I mean? It makes me feel alive. Energized. It makes me feel like I’ve found myself.”

“The artistic impulse,” he says, getting me completely. “You have to create.”

“I do. You do.” I gesture to the man across from me. The man who’s become a friend, a lover, and the human I’ll miss more than I imagined I could miss a person. And this shared passion is such a big part of our connection that I almost want to ask if we could stay in touch. If we could be the actor and the writer who have an international friendship. That could happen, surely.

But should it happen?

Sitting here with him, sharing freely at last—this doesn’t feel entirely like friendship. It feels like fire, and heartbreak, like the start of a new obsession. It feels like something I could get lost in.

But I can’t, so I focus on the practical part of the future. “Will you finish your novel in New York?”

“I better.” Then he laughs. “I mean, how cliche would that be if I leave London with an unfinished novel and an unfinished . . .?”

He doesn’t complete the thought.

An unfinished romance.

I slide a hand across the table, link our fingers together. “Don’t forget the romance in your book, TJ.”

“I won’t,” he whispers, dipping his head.

“I mean it. I bet you’d be really good at it. At writing that,” I say, squeezing hard.

He squeezes back. “I bet you’d be really good at playing it.”

My heart thumps harder in my chest, and it hurts. But it feels good at the same time. “I want to read your book.”

He licks his lips, takes a very TJ-like beat, then blows out a breath. “Do you want to read what I have so far?”

Fireworks burst inside me. “Fuck yes.”

We fly out of there.

To say he’s a nervous wreck is an understatement. TJ’s fingers slip and slide as he flicks open his laptop. His breath comes hard through his nostrils.

He clicks on the keyboard and curses. “Shit. Wrong file,” he mutters.

Next to him on the couch, I drop a kiss on his scratchy cheek. “You don’t have to show me.”

In slow-motion, he turns his gaze to me. “I know I don’t. But I want to, even though it’s not easy for me.”

“I know it’s not easy for you,” I say, though I have no idea why he struggles like this. Maybe it’s a writer’s dilemma. Maybe he can only live in the interior. As an actor, perhaps I have no choice but to live in the exterior.

Or maybe there’s more to it for him. Maybe it’s rooted in something long ago. Either way, I’m grateful for all the times he has opened up.

He returns to fighting with his computer while I return to kissing his neck.


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