But we come up empty as we hunt through Vegas thrift shop after thrift shop, though he does snag a pic of me laughing when he calls me a lumberjack as I model a flannel. We’re almost at the end of our list of stores.

  Off the beaten path, far from the Strip, I push open the door to One More Time. “Last chance,” I say.

  “I’m finding foxes and you’re wearing them,” he says, determined, as he marches to the racks, saying hello to a shopkeeper along the way.

  The store is huge and practically deserted on a Friday afternoon. We riffle through the men’s shirts.

  He grabs a teal one and thrusts it at me. “I did it!”

  I crack up. “Baby, these are chipmunks.”

  “No!” Jude goes full Edvard Munch.

  “But c’mon. They’re cute.”

  He huffs. “Fine. Whatever. Wear chipmunks. I’ll find a fox shirt online for you. I will prevail,” he says, lifting his fist.

  Shopping is so much better than the hustle and bustle of the hotel. I feel like I can breathe. “Let me try it on,” I say and head to the dressing room.

  Jude follows behind, and while I’m changing, I hear a frustrated oh.

  “Everything okay?” I ask when I step out of the dressing room to show him the shirt.

  He’s leaning against a rack of leather jackets, his brow creased. “It’s this rewrite for my character on Unfinished Business. It’s driving me a little batty.”

  I move next to him. “Why? What’s wrong with it?” I ask, concerned.

  He shows me the script on his reader app. I scan the scene. Jamie’s character is talking to a friend, who makes some mysterious reference about the secrets he’s keeping.

  “I asked the showrunner what that meant, so I know how to approach the scene and, more so, the character. She just gave me a basic note. He has secrets from his childhood.”

  I laugh humorlessly. “Don’t we all.”

  “Well, not me. But part of my job is to make a believable backstory for Jamie so I can get into his character, so I’m working on that.” When Jude meets my eye, he’s thinking and then brightens as if an answer has occurred to him. His smile builds. “Hey, what’s your motivation for being secretive?” he asks, a little awkwardly, maybe joking but not joking at all.

  I have a damn good answer to the question and, finally, a reason to share something deeply private at last. This might help him. “I’ll give you my motivation. Because I’ve got one,” I say, dead serious.

  His smile disappears. “You. Do?” He’s stunned, and I’ve barely said a word.

  I glance around. No one’s here. No photogs, no randos. Just a shopkeeper, far, far away.

  So there, by the leather coats, I wipe away the cobwebs and open the drawer of secrets. “My parents got divorced when I was fourteen. I’ve told you that,” I begin, and that’s easy enough to say. That’s just a plain and simple fact. “And the accepted story is it was a happy divorce. Or as happy as a marriage ending could be,” I say, stopping before I tell him the rest of it.

  “But that’s not the real story, is it?”

  I shake my head. I’m not sad over my parents split nearly two decades ago. I’m a grown man. I’m over it. But the divorce shaped me. “I’m not sure my dad knows the truth. He was fairly low-key about the whole thing. But my mom was having an affair,” I say.

  Years ago, when I stumbled across the affair, I was shocked, then ashamed of my mom. I couldn’t look at her without thinking of the deception. I didn’t want to think about it. I didn’t want anyone to think of it. Silence was the only logical choice. I decided never to breathe a word about it, so it’s strange to hear myself talking about it.

  “That’s so hard,” Jude says sympathetically.

  Is it hard, though? Now that I’m telling the tale, it’s easier than I expected, and I don’t know what to make of that, so I keep wading through. “No, it’s actually not. I mean, it sucks. You should be faithful, of course. But that’s not what’s hard about it.” I take a breath then tell him the rest. “She was having an affair with my brother’s baseball coach.”

  Jude’s jaw drops at the soap opera news. “Holy shit. Did your dad know? Or your brother?”

  “I don’t think so. No one talked about it. She’s married to the guy now, but they didn’t publicly say they were together till Chance and I had left for college. Then they claimed they’d just started dating. When that wasn’t remotely true.”

  “How do you know when it all started?”

  “When I was fourteen, I found out accidentally. My mom asked me to use her laptop to look up directions to a game, and there was a window open with a string of messages between her and the baseball coach. The guy who was responsible for my brother’s potential career. And they were . . .” I stop because they were things a kid should never see his mom or dad talking about. That’s the real hard part, I guess.

  Jude reaches out, strokes my shoulder gently. “You don’t have to say. I understand.”

  “Yeah. Well, you get the idea.”

  “I do.” He steps closer, squeezing my arm now. “Did you ever tell anyone?”

  I swallow roughly. “Not till right now.”

  Jude smiles warmly, as if he’s glad to be the one I invited in. He rubs my arm. “And so . . . you never told her you knew. You never asked her what was going on. You never said a word to your brother. You chose to protect everyone . . . including yourself,” he says, kind and caring and understanding me completely.

  Just like that.

  Ah shit. I thought I was holding it together. I thought I was fine with what went down and saying it nonchalantly now. But when Jude connects the dots, I’m not so chill.

  “I wanted to protect Chance, so it wouldn’t affect what he loved. I wanted to protect my dad since he didn’t know. And I wanted to protect my mom, in case the affair didn’t work out. So, that might explain why I’m a little secretive,” I say, with an abashed smile.

  “It does.” Jude runs his fingers softly through my hair. “You protected everyone, and then you just kept doing it for a long, long time.” He stops to play with a strand, stroking it lovingly. “You meant it when you said you were trying to protect me last year from getting hurt.”

  “I did mean it, Jude,” I say, so damn grateful that no one is hunting for used jackets right now.

  I don’t want to leave this safe zone with him, now that I know what I’m feeling—freedom. Maybe this means I no longer need to be everyone’s protector, including my own. “But I don’t want to be that guy anymore. Who keeps it all to himself. Who doesn’t let someone in,” I admit.

  “You’re not that guy anymore,” he says, setting a hand firmly on my chest for emphasis. “You’re this man. A good man. And you shared all that just to help me with a part.” He sounds a little awestruck. “Thank you.”

  “Thanks for making it weirdly easy,” I say with a smile.

  Jude and I are quiet for several seconds, and then he lets go of me. “When I didn’t work for two years— you want to know why?”

  I blink, surprised at the shift but ready for whatever he wants to share. “I do.”

  “When Arlo—he’s my ex—used me to get my former agent, that was only the start of it. He slept with my agent,” he says, and I nod. Jude told me that in Los Angeles. But clearly, there’s more to the story. “Then my agent started sending Arlo out for more roles, ones he’d have sent me on. And my role. Arlo and Harry worked some kind of backroom deal for Our Secret Courtship where if the producers wrote me off, they’d bring back the character for him. So, Arlo got my part on that show. That’s why I was gone and he eventually replaced me.”

  Talk about backstabbing. No wonder Jude was suspicious as fuck. “Shit. I do need to take out a hit on them,” I say.

  “What happened next is on me,” he continues, self-loathing in his tone as he runs a finger over the old leather of a gray jacket on the rack. “I didn’t realize it at the time. But I stopped truly giving my emotions to my roles. I shut down my feelings. I didn’t want to get hurt again. But I hurt myself because I didn’t put any of my heart or my hurt into auditions. I didn’t work. I didn’t get cast in any parts. I was a mess,” he says with a heavy sigh.

  “I hate that you blamed yourself. But don’t beat yourself up now,” I implore him.

  He lets go of the soft leather. Meets my eyes unflinchingly. “I’m okay now. At the time, though? I was in a dark place. It wasn’t till Pillow Talk that I got my act together and realized I needed to be honest with my emotions on stage and in front of the camera, or I’d never make it,” he says, then takes a moment, maybe to center himself. “So, I understand your need to keep secrets. I kept my own for a while too. I was ashamed of what I’d done in those two years—by not trying. I was hurt and angry, and I turned off my emotions. I didn’t want anyone to know it was my fault I hadn’t worked. It was my fault I didn’t get any roles. When I saw you last year, I was ashamed to tell you. I didn’t want you to know how I’d stalled out my career.”

  “I wouldn’t have been disappointed in you, though. I’ve always believed in you.”

  He meets my gaze, his blue eyes full of gratitude. “I know that now. I maybe even knew it then, but I had a chip on my shoulder. I think that’s all part of why I handled everything with you so badly last year. I was really insecure. I didn’t think I was good enough for you, and you tried to assure me it wasn’t a race, but I couldn’t handle it.” He exhales in deep regret.

  My heart hurtles to him. I know what it’s like to beat yourself up. “I’m my own worst enemy too. I didn’t write for ten fucking months after Los Angeles. I felt like a failure, and then you came into my world again and reminded me I wasn’t.”

  “I’ll remind you anytime,” he tells me.

  I glimpse his smile sneaking through. That smile is like the sun warming my soul.

  But I want to make him feel good too. “You’re Jude Fucking Fox.” I curl a hand tightly around his shoulder. “You’re the man who touches people with your performances. Like the woman on the plane who had to tell you what your movie meant to her, like that British blogger at Food who said she was gutted by your performance.” I take a beat. “Like me.”

  He dips his face briefly, then raises it and smiles. “You’re the reason the movie was so good.”

  “You mean you put the hurt and anger into the role?” I ask, though, of course, I wish I’d never hurt him.

  “No,” he says, shaking his head. “The opposite. The way you showed up for me at Pillow Talk. The way you laughed during the performance. And then the thing you said backstage. You make me believe. That’s what I held onto when I went into the If Found, Please Return audition. That’s what I held onto when we were shooting too. Make them believe.”

  “You’ll keep making people believe for a long, long time.”

  “We both will,” Jude says, and he’s confident but not cocky. He’s self-assured now, where before he grappled with insecurity. I love this change in him. But I love it for him. Jude’s happier with who he is.

  He tips his forehead to the register. “Now, let me buy you this scrummy shirt. I can’t wait to see you wear it tomorrow night. And we’ll just keep looking for foxes,” he says, then spins around to head to the counter.

  “There’s a great—”

  I swallow the rest of the sentence. There’s a great shop on your street in Manhattan. Want to go shopping there?

  As he pays for the shirt, my heart squeezes painfully, aching with unsaid things. And don’t forget I’ll fix your laundry room door. And I want to take you to a baseball game. And play pinball at my favorite arcade. Maybe it’ll become your favorite too.

  I want that future badly, but I have to get through the here and now. Tomorrow night will be here soon, and we’ll need to play the part of boyfriends at the concert—the roles our agency wrote for us to fix the messes we made of our careers.

  But I want to be more than his concert date. More than his travel companion for publicity events.

  I want to be the man by his side.

  Except, our track record is a warning sign. Stay in the slow lane.

  I’ll just have to keep pumping the brakes on this real fake romance a little longer.

  26

  Reality Check

  TJ

  * * *

  Jude is busy the rest of Friday afternoon. Slade arranged for a publicity assistant to escort the rising star to a handful of various interviews in the city, meeting with entertainment press about the movie and the Oscars.

  That gives me plenty of time alone in the hotel room to bang out another chapter. I settle into the couch and write my ass off.

  When I finish in the early evening, I check my texts. My app is drowning in messages from my friends about sushi tomorrow.

  They’re all in. Jason, Luke, and Christian too. Jason lands tomorrow, as he said, but Luke’s here and wants to know if we’re free tonight. Christian asks who’s up for a few rounds of poker tonight.

  Cards with new friends and my guy? Kind of sounds . . . perfect, so I reply: Let me check with Jude when he gets back.

  I hit send, then re-read my message. Something just feels right about making these kinds of plans, this kind of way.

  I’m about to exit the app when a new text from my brother pops up.

  I never replied to his earlier one. I’m officially a very bad twin. I click open his note. Fine, don’t tell me shit, but you look happy. Nice pic in The Hollywood Scoop.

  Pic? What pic is he talking about?

  Nerves prickle along my neck as I sit bolt upright and jump onto the blog. Scrolling the home page, I spot a piece titled What Happens in Vegas . . .

  With terror in my veins, I open the blog post.

  The hottest new Hollywood ship was spotted by yours truly this morning. Jude Fox and TJ Hardman indulged in this too cute for words selfie after an Egg-asmic breakfast at The Invitation. They are so adorbs they’re warming this jaded blogger’s cold, black heart.

  Good thing this romance is heating up. If the wheels keep falling off the Top-Notch Boyfriend Webflix train, Hardman will need someone to turn to when the project derails.

  Dread coils in my gut.

  That’s why the blonde from earlier looked eerily familiar. She’s Rikki Finch, the blogger.

  I click over to my contacts and hit Mason’s name at the speed of sound. I barely have time for hello. “What is this Hollywood Scoop piece all about?”

  “TJ, what have I told you about the gossip blog?” He sounds exasperated.

  I’m sure he once bequeathed wisdom to me on the topic, but I can’t remember where I stashed that chestnut. “I don’t know. Just tell me. My heart is racing at a thousand miles an hour.”

  “Get a drink. Take a bath. Listen to some music.”

  “I hate baths,” I grumble.

  “Because you hate relaxation.” He knows me far too well. “But there is nothing you can do about gossip blogs, so go play blackjack, or chill out with your man. Everyone has an agenda and Rikki Finch’s agenda is clicks. Read the piece again. There’s nothing new in it. She snapped a pic of you and now she’s trying to tie the pic to your Webflix deal to make it seem newsy.”

  A voice calls out on his end of the phone, but I can’t make out what his husband says.

  “I’ll be right there, hot stuff. It’s TJ,” Mason replies to Tremaine. A pause. “I’ll send him your love and then get the fuck off. Message received.”

  I yank the phone away from my face. Shit. It’s nearly seven, which means it’s almost ten in New York. “Sorry, Mason. It’s Friday night. Go have fun with your hubs.”

  “I will. We’re going to take a bath, since you’re not.”

  Rolling my eyes, I laugh. “Okay, that was TMI.”

  “Nope. It wasn’t. I’ve read your books. That was not TMI at all. Now, consider this an order: go enjoy a nice platonic date with your fake boyfriend and let it inspire you.”

  Real, I say to myself.

  Everything with Jude feels real.

  An hour later, my fake boyfriend and I play poker with Christian and Luke.

  “So then I said, Yes, of course I do all my own stunts, except for any involving cats. That’s where I draw the line,” Christian says as he slides a chip across the felt.

  “The fe-line line, is it?” Jude asks playfully.

  Christian shudders. “Claws. Who wants to mess with that?” he says as the tuxedoed dealer slaps two cards down for Jude.

  “I’ll make sure to work a stunt double for any cat scenes into my next contract,” Jude says as he picks up the cards.

  “Nothing is more terrifying than a cat. Not even a three-hundred-pound lineman coming at you on the line of scrimmage,” the golden-boy football player, Luke, puts in.

  “Cats are officially the worst,” Jude says, then adds sheepishly. “I still want one, though.”

  Luke chuckles, then stage whispers. “Dude, I have two. I think they hate me and are plotting to kill me.”

  “They probably are,” Christian says in mock seriousness. “And I hope you’re prepared for a sneak attack at any moment.”

  “As prepared as anyone can ever be,” Luke says, then ups the ante with another chip. “And still, I love the fuckers.”

  “Same here,” Jude says.

  That tracks. I always thought he was a cat person, and I can picture him adopting one. A vexing Siamese that keeps watch over his washer/dryer and drives him batty.

  I kick back and listen to the guys as I consider my hand, psyched everyone’s getting along and that I’m learning more about Jude.

  It’s a fun evening, and I’m pretty sure a few photogs snap pics of all of us. That ought to make Slade happy—a big old group hang. I recognize Piper Grace and that guy from Spotted in the Wild who opined on Jude and me going home separately the other week. Ha. That won’t happen tonight, bloggers.

  I enjoy every second with the guys. But when the card game winds down, it’s time to take my agent’s excellent advice all the way.