* * *

  TJ: Maybe :)

  * * *

  It’s not a promise, but at least there’s an emoticon. That’s something.

  17

  Secret Real Date

  Jude

  * * *

  I’m taking a chance that TJ’s never been to Pomander Walk, but it’s a good gamble. As I wait on Sunday afternoon at the iron gate in the middle of West Ninety-Fifth Street in Manhattan, I finger the key in my pocket. Some agents are backstabbers, and some are fairy godmothers. Holly is undoubtedly the latter.

  A few minutes later, the familiar silhouette of my former roomie comes into view. He strides down the street, all long legs, broad shoulders, and trimmed beard, and he’s wearing a Henley, a surprising choice for the king of the hipster button-downs.

  No jacket though. Pretty sure he’s part polar bear. When he’s a few feet away, I call out, “You have Arctic genes—admit it.”

  When he reaches me, he tugs on the lapels of my navy peacoat. “And you have Abercrombie & Fitch genes.”

  I arch a brow. “Not sure that’s a compliment.”

  He scoffs. “Um, hello? Have you seen their models? It’s a compliment,” he says, then he tucks his thumbs into his jeans pockets and looks at me like he’s waiting for me to make the next move. Well, I did ask him out. I suppose I should go first.

  But I’m waiting for a sign from him. What if Thursday night was just sex?

  TJ inches closer. “If two men kiss on the street and no one is around to see it, did they even kiss?”

  “Maybe it’s better if no one sees it,” I say in invitation.

  Taking my chin in his hand, he leans in, brushes his lips against mine, and kisses me. It’s a PG kiss, but it makes me feel R-rated things for him.

  It makes my fucking heart flutter too. He doesn’t stop for several floaty seconds. It’s long enough for me to inhale a familiar, sexy scent.

  When he breaks the kiss, I feel dazed. A little intoxicated too.

  “Is that the same aftershave you wore in London?”

  “The same bottle? No. Same brand? Maybe,” he says with a twinkle in his eye.

  “You dick,” I say.

  “Always,” he says, then looks up and down the street. “No one saw us, Jude.”

  I run a hand down his arm. “Good. I like it that way today.”

  “Me too,” he says.

  Then I point at his chest. “Why are you not wearing ducks or chipmunks or alligators? What happened to my hipster?”

  He tugs on his dark Henley. “Standard romance hero wardrobe. They pretty much always wear Henleys.”

  “Are you playing the role of a hero today?”

  Laughing, he shakes his head. “No, but you said the place might be inspiring, so I figured I should dress the part.”

  “I definitely understand the appeal of a good costume,” I say, then point to the gate. “Please say you’ve never been to Pomander Walk.”

  “I’ll do you one better. I don’t even know what Pomander Walk is.”

  “Yes!” I clap a hand on his shoulder and walk to the gate, taking out the key. “Holly lives here. My agent.”

  “We’re going to see your agent?”

  I scoff. “No. I’m going to show you a hidden gem of New York. But it’s private and she has a key . . .”

  “So you planned this,” he says, sounding delighted.

  I roll my eyes. “Don’t let it go to your head, stud.”

  “Oh, don’t worry. I won’t.”

  I unlock the gate, trot up the steps, then gesture like a game show host as I show off a true secret in the city.

  “Wow,” he says, voice full of wonder as he surveys this block of New York that’s like a byway in the city, as Hidden Gems calls it. The private residential walk is lined with brick and flanked by Tudor homes with ivy climbing up the fronts, planters in the windows, and colorful accents on the doors. It’s a picturesque sliver, an escape into a quaint village that feels unreal, as if it couldn’t possibly exist in a messy, gritty city.

  “I had no idea this was here,” TJ says, gazing almost reverently at the cute European-style homes. “It looks like London.”

  I’m bursting with the pride of a well-done surprise. “Doesn’t it? I thought of you when I first came here.”

  “You did? When was that?”

  “About a month ago, Holly invited me for a dinner party with some of her English friends. And all I could think was TJ would love it.”

  He shoots me a smile, and I read between the lines—that was when we hated each other, yet you still thought of me.

  I smile back, saying yes, yes, I did.

  “I do love it, Jude. It’s . . . a bit like Cecil Court,” he says.

  “Right? That’s what I thought too.” I tip my head toward the private walk, inviting him in.

  It won’t take long to see Pomander Walk, but we wander along, checking out the facades. It’s like a movie set. When he’s toured it a few times, he deals me a skeptical look. “You’re really taking this seriously? This whole book babysitter role?”

  Is that all he thinks this is? Me ensuring he holds up his end of the fake boyfriend bargain?

  “Yes,” I tell him. “But it’s not because it’s part of our marching orders. I mean, it is. Of course I want this fake romance to work. I want to have a long and busy career. I want to be a working actor. But I also truly want you to write,” I say, trying to keep the frustration out of my tone. I want him to get it once and for all—I care.

  He steps closer, his eyes soft. “I didn’t mean it in a bad way. But maybe it came across like I was questioning you.”

  “A little.”

  He breathes out like he’s letting go of something. “It’s more that . . . well, you seem to take a particular delight in showing me around. In encouraging me to write. I was simply trying to understand that part of you.”

  “My motivation?” I laugh and wag a finger. “Always thinking like a writer.”

  He dips his head, and when he raises it, he shrugs. “Busted.”

  But if he wants my motivation, he’ll get it. “I wanted you to see it because . . . you’re happiest when you’re writing.”

  “That’s mostly true,” TJ says, his gaze lingering on me for a long, long second that makes my heart hammer. Am I part of that mostly? It’s an intense thought. Maybe for both of us. He breaks the stare and looks around. “And this is great. It reminds me of London. It makes me think that maybe there needs to be some London in the story.”

  “London is always a good idea,” I say.

  “Can I take a picture?”

  “Of course,” I reply as he takes his phone from his pocket. I step out of the way.

  Shaking his head, he grabs my arm, yanks me against him. “Selfie?”

  This is the first picture we’ve taken together—no photogs, no reporters, or Instagrammers. Just us. I hope it remains only ours.

  I line up next to him, and he drapes an arm around me, then clicks. When he shows me the shot, I catch things I’ve felt but couldn’t see—the possession in his touch, the way his hand curls over my shoulder.

  And I like it.

  “It’s a good one,” I say.

  He tucks his mobile away, and then we’re quiet. He’s seen what he needs to see on Pomander Walk. It’s time to go. But there are things I need to say, and they’re best said when no one’s around. “TJ, can we sit and talk for a minute?”

  Fear flickers across his brown eyes, then he swallows. “Sure.”

  He sounds like he’s walking to his execution. I hope he won’t feel that way in a minute.

  At the end of the private block is a green slatted bench. We go there and sit, European homes on each side of us, but we’re far away from people in the homes or out of them.

  “What do you want to talk about?” he asks, sounding tense.

  I hate that he worries so much. That he seems to think I’m going to break his heart.

  But this isn’t easy for me either. I’m still a little ashamed of how I behaved ten months ago. “When I called you after LA?” I ask, careful not to say after you left. I don’t want to blame him since I struck the match. TJ just walked away from the fire.

  “When I didn’t call or text you back,” he says, sounding guilty.

  “I wanted to say I was sorry. I was an idiot. I overreacted,” I say, and holy fuck. It’s hard to admit you botched a new love as horribly as I did.

  But it’s necessary.

  “It’s okay,” he says. “You said you were sorry the other night. I’m sorry too.”

  But that isn’t enough. I rest my hand on his thigh, squeezing it. His shoulders relax. I need to reassure him, and touch does the trick with TJ, so I keep my hand firmly in place on his thigh. “I spiraled,” I say. “I accused you, and it was ridiculous. I freaked out over the Webflix thing, and I want you to know it wasn’t because of you. It was because of me and my issues.” The nitty-gritty of how and why my past relationships messed me up doesn’t belong in an apology, but I need to take responsibility, and I want him to know this one’s on me. “I didn’t feel as successful as you. I thought you wouldn’t want someone who wasn’t in the same place career-wise. I didn’t think I was good enough for you. And I felt like I wasn’t just falling behind. I was years behind.”

  His eyes flood with sadness. “Jude, you have to know none of that matters to me. Ever. Remember, I liked you before I knew you were an actor. I was into you the second I met you. Then I got to know you, and I was gone, hook, line, and sinker. And that was before you were ever cast in anything. I just liked you. I’ve always liked you.”

  I want to wrap those reassuring words around me like a warm scarf. But I can’t let him let me off the hook too easily. “I wish I’d been able to truly see all that at the time. That’s why I feel so stupid. I was horrid. I fucked up royally.”

  He laughs softly. “It wasn’t my best moment either.”

  “No. You don’t get to take the blame,” I say firmly. “You tried to explain, and it all made sense in retrospect.”

  He sighs heavily. “But I did contribute to the situation. I thought keeping the deal info from you was protecting you. I was doing what I did in London. Doling out little details about myself whenever I felt like it. Deciding when to share and when to keep secrets. And that blew up in my face spectacularly. I don’t open up easily. That’s something I’m trying to change.”

  That’s all I’ve wanted—to know him. “I’ve noticed, and I like it.”

  “Good. I came to LA for you. When I said this isn’t what I came for, I meant I didn’t come to fight. I came to be with you. Only for you. I was so fucking excited when you looked me up,” he says in a barren voice that hooks into my heart.

  “You were?” I’m unable to hide a giddy smile.

  “You have no idea,” he whispers.

  “I was so happy to see you. It was insane, TJ, the way I felt when you walked into that lobby bar. My whole body lit up. My heart went a little crazy,” I admit.

  “You mean it?” His voice pitches higher.

  “You should never be jealous of anyone,” I tell him.

  He tries to hide a smile too. “Good to know.”

  “But I messed everything up,” I say.

  TJ takes my hand from his thigh, turns it over, and threads our fingers together. “We both did. I didn’t give you a chance to explain. I froze you out. And look how dumb that was. I couldn’t write for ten months because of that.”

  That’s news to me—not that he couldn’t write, but why. I’m surprised but also touched. “Because of me?”

  “Well, yeah,” he says, laying it out there—a hard fact.

  He doesn’t say more, but that’s a revealing admission for TJ. How big we were to him.

  I squeeze his hand. “And you’re writing again now.”

  With his free hand, he raps his knuckles against the back of the bench. “I like the setup of the book.”

  “What’s the setup?” I ask, feeling bold, though he’ll probably dart and dodge.

  “These guys . . . they kind of have a past.”

  Perhaps this is his new way of sharing—from a safe distance. Well, if talking about his book characters lets him give me the big picture, I’ll happily view it through the lens of fiction.

  “And the two heroes? Do you like them too?”

  “I like them too,” he says, his warm eyes on me, but he doesn’t say anymore. Perhaps he’s finished with the book talk. Fair enough. He’s given me plenty.

  I clear my throat, then sigh. The unfinished conversation presses on me. I still have more to say. “I wanted, too, to explain about the journal.”

  “You don’t have to,” he says, shaking his head.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “I swear, it’s okay. In LA, you explained what happened, but I was too hurt to listen. I know now what you said is true.”

  “That I only read a few lines? That it was an accident?” I say, so relieved he believes me. “How do you know?”

  “Because I made a choice the other night to believe you. To trust you.”

  Wow. That’s another big step for him, and I don’t take it lightly. “I didn’t mean to open it, and once I did and saw what it was, I closed it. I knew you wouldn’t want me to see it. But I also didn’t tell you because I knew it would embarrass you.”

  “Yeah, probably the right call, if I’m being honest.”

  “But you had nothing to be embarrassed about. I was kind of ridiculously happy to learn you felt the same way I did.”

  “You felt that too?” He sounds like he wants to believe that more than he wanted to believe in Santa as a kid.

  “I did feel the same,” I say. I choose past tense, keeping the story in London—how my heart felt then.

  The present is too fragile to talk about.

  But talking and doing are two different things. My lips find his, and we kiss like we were crazy for each other once upon a time. Like maybe we can be once again.

  It’s a scorching kiss that makes me want to take him home and spend every night with him.

  That’s the trouble. We burn too hot, too fast. We are a supernova, and supernovas don’t last.

  I set a hand on his chest, struggling to catch my breath. “TJ, we can’t let this attraction between us affect the fake boyfriend thing.”

  He nods quickly. “You’re right. We can’t get so caught up that we lose sight of the goal.”

  Our eyes meet, and there’s sadness, maybe regret, in his gaze. Mine too, I’m sure. Our private feelings are risky. We can’t fuck up our fake romance. We need it to work.

  Our careers are at stake. Our careers allow us to do what we love.

  We should probably make a plan. But when my phone buzzes at the same time as his, that can only mean one thing.

  Daddy’s calling.

  And his plans always trump ours.

  18

  The Risks of Sardining

  TJ

  * * *

  A sleek black limo pulls to the curb a few minutes later, the late afternoon sun glinting on the roof. We slide into the opulent vehicle, and Slade claps. “Well done, men. Well fucking done.”

  “Thanks?” I say, but with a question mark. “Did something happen just now?”

  “You have a ship name!” Slade announces.

  And I also have a burst eardrum from the PR guy shouting in glee. I rub my knuckles against my ear. “Ow.”

  “Oh, hush. You can handle my excitement.” Slade thrusts his phone at us, clicking on the Instagram handle All The Tea. “They’re calling you . . . wait.” He jerks his phone back to his chest, clutches it close. “You want to guess?”

  I take the bait. “I’ll go . . . Tude.”

  Jude grabs his stomach, cracking up. Good. I wanted to make him laugh.

  “Guess again,” Slade says.

  “JudeJay,” Jude offers.

  Slade makes a rolling gesture with his hand, his eyes flickering with glee. “Nope. Keep going.”

  I rattle off options like a wordsmith getting his mojo back. “HardFox. FoxHard. ManFox,” I say, and Slade shakes his head with each one. Then Jude and I both blurt out, “FoxMan.”

  Slade pumps a fist. “Yes! Is that a beautiful name or what? It makes me so very, very happy,” he says, indulging in a long, contented sigh. Damn, this man digs his job.

  “So you picked us up to tell us that?” I ask, curious.

  Slade scoffs. “No, I picked you up because this is next level, and it’s given me all sorts of ideas.”

  But his devilish tone gives me all sorts of pause. “What kind of ideas?”

  Slade looks at the two of us. “You like music, don’t you?”

  Who doesn’t? “Love it,” I say.

  “TJ introduced me to music in London,” Jude says matter-of-factly.

  “The Goat’s Nipple,” I whisper.

  Jude smiles.

  Slade furrows his brow. “You didn’t know music before?”

  Jude shakes his head. “I had awful taste. He gave me good taste,” Jude says, nostalgic, and so am I.

  “Aww. That’s too cute. Can you share that with the press? That’d be fun for an interview.”

  I look to Jude to gauge his reaction. His eyes say nah. So does my gut. Some things are only for the two of us. “I think we might keep that between us,” I say.

  “Fair enough,” Slade says, then rubs his palms. “Anyway, I was gonna have you do a pool and darts hang out with the New York Leopards, but I want to go bigger. Put you guys out there more. Really embrace the FoxMan mojo. How do you feel about first-class travel?”

  “Is there any other way to fly?” I ask.

  “There is not.” My fake boyfriend offers me a hand for high-fiving.

  Slade practically squeals. “See? That’s what I’m talking about. This whole FoxMan vibe is gold. And I’m going to sell this gold for a fat profit.” He explains he’s sending us on a little trip to visit three cities—Las Vegas, Paris, and London. And we leave on Thursday to attend a charity concert this weekend in the city of sin. “Think you can swing it? TJ, you can write as you travel, right?”