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)
“I have one question for you,” he says, holding up a copy of The Size Principle.
“Yes?”
“Did you pick the model for this cover?”
I roll my eyes. “No. The publisher did. And they’re redoing it.”
“Why? Do they hate abs? Men like abs. Women like abs. I’m giving up carbs for abs. How can anyone hate them?”
I shrug. “Illustrated is the thing now.”
“I’m going to be blunt here. Illustrated abs aren’t as sexy as real ones,” he says, then sets down the book.
I seize my chance. “Can we please go to the memoirs?”
“Are you afraid someone is going to see you and ask you to sign a copy?”
That’s not the issue whatsoever. I brought him here for him, not to ogle my covers nor to talk about me. “Yes, Jude. I’m afraid of random bookstore sightings,” I deadpan, then I loop an arm around his waist and tug him away from the romance section toward the back of the store.
“Why don’t you want to see your books? Don’t tell me you’re so over it.”
I turn the question around on him. “Why do you want to see my books?”
He counters in a flash. “Are you excited to come to my play tonight?”
“Yes. An insane amount,” I say as we reach the tell-alls.
“That’s why I like looking at your books,” he says, and I might float.
That’s the problem. When he says those things, my heart goes crazy. I need to get it under control.
I move behind him, drop my chin on his shoulder, and nod toward the hardbacks. “I got a list of the most salacious celebrity memoirs from my friend Hazel. She said the juiciest is the Keith Richards. Have you listened to it yet?”
“Why did you get a list?”
“Answer the question, Jude.”
“No, I haven’t heard it.”
“Good,” I say, then dart out a hand and grab a copy. “I’m getting one for me.”
“Selfish fucker,” he says.
I laugh. “Just come with me.”
“Isn’t that what I did this morning?”
“And it’s what you’ll do tonight after the show.”
“I better.”
“I better too. You better. We better,” I add.
“Wow. You sure can conjugate.”
I crack up. Nothing, nothing at all, has ever felt like this—talking with Jude, teasing with Jude, being with Jude.
I bring him close, bite his earlobe. “You know I can, baby. We already conjugated this morning.”
He leans back against me. “Speaking of dirty words, I’ve got something I’ve been meaning to show you for, oh, say, about five years.”
I arch a brow in curiosity.
Jude just flicks his hand toward the register. “Buy your book, selfish fucker, then it’s show and tell time.”
I buy the Richards memoir for me, then when we leave the store, I grab my phone, click on an app, and send Jude a gift.
A minute later, his phone beeps.
Jude looks at the screen, then at me. “You just bought me an audiobook?”
“Well, I know you like to listen to celebrity memoirs rather than read them,” I say, and my cheeks heat, like I’m revealing something personal.
Even though it’s about him.
But this is personal, and he knows it. He knows, now. I asked Hazel for gift ideas for him. He knows, too, I’ve never bought him a gift before. This is a first.
Jude steps closer, brushes his lips to mine, and says softly, “You didn’t have to get me something.”
I feel woozy. “I know. I wanted to.”
“Thank you,” he says, then he takes my hand, and we walk along the promenade till we reach a coffee shop I can’t stop staring at. Or sniffing. I lift my nose and inhale.
Jude takes the Richards book from me, then gestures to the shop. “Go. Get a coffee. And give the barista the third degree like you did with William when you met him.”
I arch a brow. “Did he tell you that?”
“Friends. We’re friends. Like you two.”
Still, a tiny snake of jealousy slithers through me as I head into the shop. Not sure why. Maybe it’s because William had access to Jude when I didn’t. Does William even know how lucky he is? But that’s a dumb thing to be jealous about. Still, as I order the drinks, I noodle on these strange feelings of envy. Except, is it envy? Maybe it’s worry—the worry that the people I tell my secrets to aren’t so safe after all. Maybe they’ll eventually spill them to the people I keep them from.
Or maybe I’m a paranoid writer, always seeing ten thousand ways something can go wrong. Since that’s what I do for my characters. Throw rocks at them, especially when things start to seem easy.
I shove the worries away.
With the cups in hand, I tip the guy at the counter, head outside, and sit with Jude, sliding the Earl Grey to him.
Jude thanks me, then grabs his phone. “And now, as I said, I have a little something for you.”
My dumb heart flips before he even gives whatever it is to me. “Yeah?” I ask, probably sounding all dopey to him.