He’s loud enough for me to hear and American enough for my happy radar to beep. I happen to be a connoisseur of American accents.

  I stop a few feet from him. “It is, indeed,” I agree. I’ve heard that about this shop, and I’m so bloody helpful to lumberjack-like men.

  He turns, giving me a full, close-up view. Those eyes. Fuck me with a ten-inch dildo—they are a dreamy chocolate-brown with gold flecks.

  I am not walking away.

  I will continue this conversation for as long as I possibly can, or until I learn what kind of lap dances he likes. “It’s our discount shop. It has a little bit of everything,” I say.

  He doesn’t answer right away. Maybe he’s straight. Sadder things have happened to me today.

  “What do you know?” he asks in a voice that sounds like he just got out of bed after having sex.

  I like that image—a lot.

  His dark eyes flicker, perhaps with dirty deeds. Maybe he’s got the same images running through his head that I do. “I might be in the market for a little bit of everything,” he adds. “Where should I start at TK Maxx?”

  How about letting me show you around?

  But best to make certain he’s into the same things I am before getting too flirty. “Depends on what you’re looking for. They have surprisingly fashionable dog clothes, excellent popcorn, and also home furnishings,” I say, starting with a bit of charm.

  His lips tilt into a bit of a grin as if I’ve entertained him. “Good to know, in case I get a late-night craving.”

  I’ve got a craving right now, all right.

  The American gestures to his shirt. “But I’m on the hunt for a new shirt.”

  I wave a hand at his firm chest. “You might want to try Angie’s Vintage Duds around the corner if that’s your thing. They have cool retro tees and stuff,” I say while I cycle through tactics to get his number.

  To satisfy my craving.

  “Thanks. Maybe I’ll hit up Angie’s. You never know who you might meet your first day in London.”

  He shoots me a smile.

  Trouble is, it’s only a friendly one, not quite a come-and-get-me one.

  I’m getting ahead of myself. I should get on my way because I don’t usually hit on men on the street. Maybe the thing to do is leave him a clue and put the ball in his court.

  “True. You never know.” I pause for a moment, then . . . What the hell. You’re only young once. “By the way, I’m Jude. I work at a bookshop on Cecil Court.”

  With that, I turn and get on my way, and I don’t look back.

  Not until I reach the end of the street. Then, I can’t resist one more glance his way.

  He hasn’t moved, except to turn his face toward me, watching me walk away.

  A kernel of warmth spreads in my chest, and I know later, at the shop, I’ll be staring at the door, hoping he walks in.

  A few minutes later, as I reach Cecil Court, I realize what a daft idiot I am.

  I didn’t tell him which store I work in, and there are only twenty bookshops on this street. I check my watch. I can make it to Angie’s to correct my mistake and still be on time for my shift. Spinning around, I walk quickly to Angie’s. But as I peer in the window for a few long seconds, I only see the purple-haired woman who works there. I give her a wave, then head off.

  Sigh. Another tiny heartbreak today, since I’ve a better chance of selling a Cleaneroo than seeing the American again.

  2

  Just in Case

  TJ’s Travel Journal

  London, Day One

  * * *

  My life was not a rom-com today.

  It’s been more like a manifestation of Murphy’s Law. Everything that could go wrong on my trip to London did go wrong. The flight was cramped, turbulence hit an 8.0 on the Richter scale, then the airline lost my luggage. On top of that, the hotel said it wouldn’t have my room ready for another few hours. I was tempted to crumple into a jet-lagged ball of stinky misery on the rundown lobby floor. I smelled like a ripe, day-old T-shirt, and I felt like a zombie. The front desk attendant took pity on me and sent me to a nearby store to buy some new clothes.

  THANKS, FATE, FOR CHOOSING THAT EXACT MOMENT TO SEND ME THE WORLD’S MOST BEAUTIFUL MAN.

  When Jude gave me his name then walked away, my life was distilled into two choices:

  Go to every single bookstore on Cecil Court and find him.

  Or miss out on what felt like the first chapter in my new life here in England.

  Wait. There was a third choice. Get my ass over to the thrift store he recommended, buy some new clothes, and then beg, borrow or steal for a shower if I had to.

  I was not going to let this chance pass me by.

  Cecil Court, here I come.

  3

  We Meet Again

  TJ

  * * *

  When I wander down the little lane in Covent Garden, it’s as if I’ve traveled to my personal paradise. Shops line the quaint alley full of books—my favorite things after sex and pizza.

  I could get lost and never want to be found. Except I do want to find Jude. What are the chances he’ll be in one of these shops right now?

  Maybe it’s best to focus on my original mission. Even before I left the States, I wanted to go to the bookshop I’d visited as a kid. No, not that one with the medical textbooks.

  Definitely not the children’s bookstore with the stuffed dragon in the window.

  And for sure it’s not the shop with globes in the window.

  When I’ve scoured nearly the whole alley, I’m convinced the store I camped out in a decade ago has closed.

  Until a sign beckons me.

  An Open Book.

  It feels like déjà vu.

  Peering inside, I breathe a sigh of relief. This is the store. Jude is probably history, and soon, he’ll be a hazy memory of my first day in London—just some cute guy I met one afternoon.

  A bell tinkles as I enter. I don’t see a shopkeeper. Maybe they’re in the back?

  I browse the shelves, checking out row after row of colorful spines, stories in each one that lure me to read and also to write. I reach a row of works by Oscar Wilde, one of the greatest Irish writers ever. That dude was funny as fuck.

  As I tip a copy of The Importance of Being Earnest into my hand, the thump of a hardback tome rattles a shelf behind me and I jerk my head.

  Then I turn.

  And wow.

  This must be kismet.

  Jude’s paused in the act of sorting books, surprised to see me, it seems. And he looks—impossibly—even better than he did a few hours ago.

  “You found the shop,” he says, his lips twitching with the hint of a grin, his blue eyes full of mischief.

  All at once, everything feels a little heady and a lot possible. Like this is the start of something. My fingers tingle, and I’m not even sure why. But maybe it’s just from this dizzying sense of . . . fate.

  And fear.

  I don’t want to fuck this up. Life doesn’t give you a lot of chances. So I don’t answer him right away. “Well, I had a few clues,” I finally say.

  Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I did step off the plane and into my very own rom-com.

  “It’s good to be an amateur detective,” he tosses back.

  So that’s how we’re doing it—going toe to toe and quip to quip. Bring it on. “Who said anything about amateur?”

  His lips curve into a sly grin. “Ohhh . . . you’re a professional detective?”

  “How else would I have found An Open Book?”

  His eyes travel up and down my body. “Sheer determination.”

  I laugh. “Yes, a little bit of that, but someone left a few hints. It was like a scavenger hunt. Maybe that’s my new calling—scavenger hunting.”

  “Didn’t know that was a thing. You do learn something new every day,” he says. Then he makes that wildly sexy move again as he did outside TK Maxx—he coasts his teeth over that lower lip. I stifle a groan. My God, does he know what that does to a man?

  Who am I kidding? Of course he does. A guy who looks, talks, stands like that—he’s gorgeous and knows it.

  Hell, he makes leaning against a shelf sexy.

  “You know what I learned today?” I ask, plucking at my new Tetris shirt. It’s nice and snug and makes my chest look good.

  “Dying to know.”

  “That Angie’s Vintage Duds does, in fact, have good clothes. Appreciate the tip.”

  “Would I lead you astray?”

  That’s an excellent question. I glance down at The Importance of Being Earnest in my hand as I hunt for retorts, then I look up, our gazes locking. “I have no idea, Jude. Would you?”

  He laughs easily. Bet he does everything easily. Pose, walk, talk, read, live.

  “Not when it comes to important matters like finding just the right shirt, and just the right store, and just the right book.” He steps closer, taps the Wilde I’m holding. If an electrical charge could jump through pages, it just did. My skin is sizzling, almost like he touched me rather than paper.

  “Like this book. Is that what you came to the store for?” Jude asks it so damn innocently, like he’s goading me into admitting I came here for him.

  Of course, I did. But two can play at this flirting game. I waggle the book. “I just needed to brush up on my Wilde.”

  “Naturally. You’re just here for the books,” he says, calling me on my patent lie.

  “It’s a bookstore. Why else would I come?” I counter.

  “There couldn’t be any other reason,” he says. “But I’d be a terrible shop assistant if I didn’t help you find just the right Wilde.” He takes his time with his speech so that each word can send a wicked charge through me.

  They all do.

  “Except, I don’t even know your name,” he adds.

  I glance around. The shop is empty, except for a couple of young women parked on comfy chairs in the corner, flipping through guidebooks, maybe. They’re wrapped up in their world. I hope they stay there for hours.

  “I’m TJ,” I say.

  A laugh bursts from Jude.

  “My name is funny to you?” I ask.

  “That’s so very American,” he says.

  “What do you know? I am American,” I say. “And I know you don’t do the whole initial thing here. Does that mean you prefer to be Jude the Third?”

  Another laugh. “If I’d told you I was Jude the Third, I doubt you would’ve come looking for—” He sounds like he’s about to say me, but he amends it, quickly shifting to, “All the Wildes. Besides, I’m just Jude.”

  But he’s not just Jude.

  He’s not just at all.

  I keep that thought locked up tight. “And if I’d told you what TJ stands for, you’d know exactly why some Americans prefer initials,” I say.

  His blue eyes sparkle with intrigue. “You have to tell me now, TJ.” My name sounds like a bedroom whisper on his lips.

  “You’ll never get that out of me,” I say, matching his breathless tone.

  He arches a brow. “Never? Never ever, you say?”

  I could dine on his charm. I could eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner on his wit. I never want to leave this store. We can play word badminton till after dark. I’ll stop only when the lights go down, and we can do all the other things—the things I’m already picturing with that lush, red mouth of his.

  “Never,” I repeat, then take a long, lingering moment. “Unless you have your ways.”

  He hums, a rumbly sound low in his throat. Then he taps his chin. “Perhaps I could guess. Thomas James?”

  I shake my head. “Not even close.”

  “Theodore John.” He makes a rolling gesture. “I could go all night.”

  “I hope so. And, perhaps, you should,” I say.

  Over drinks. Over sex. Over breakfast.

  But the shop bell tinkles.

  Jude groans as a customer strolls in. “I have to go wait on a customer.”

  And I have to make sure you and I go out tonight.

  But before I can say You’ll find me here by the Oscar Wildes, Jude adds, “Don’t go anywhere, Thiago Jonas.”

  “You’re not even warm,” I say as he walks past me, brushing his shoulder against mine.

  “But I bet you are,” he whispers.

  I try to stifle the hitch in my breath. But it’s hard with this man, and his mouth, and his face, and my good fortune.

  “Very,” I say, low, just for him.

  “Good,” he says, then strides to the front of the store and chitchats with a customer. The whole time he ushers her around, my neck is warm, my head is hazy, and I feel like this is happening to some other guy. Like this is just a figment of my jet-lagged brain.

  I flip open the book, turn it to one of my favorite scenes, and hear the lines in Jude’s voice.

  It’s never sounded better.

  A few minutes later, Jude returns, sliding up by my side to read over my shoulder, his breath near my ear. “I hope you have not been leading a double life, pretending to be wicked and being good all the time. That would be hypocrisy.” He stops before I melt, because yeah, that’s the best I’ve ever heard this play. “Do you like Oscar Wilde?”

  “Very much so,” I say, trying to stay cool. “You?”

  “A lot,” he says, and neither one of us is talking about the Irish poet.

  But I feel Wilde would approve of everything I’m about to do.

  “Go out with me tonight, Jude,” I say, as a tangle of heat rushes down my chest, curls into a knot in my belly.

  “I was hoping you’d ask. But . . .” He pauses, and my stomach plummets. This is when he’ll disappoint me. “I have to work till nine. Can you meet at nine-thirty?

  That’s it? That’s the but? I would meet him at three in the morning. At noon. Now.

  I keep all that eagerness to myself. “Yeah. Want to meet at a pub? Get a beer? That sounds so very English.”

  “And it also sounds so very good,” he says. “Where are you staying?”

  “Not far from here. My hotel’s near Piccadilly Circus.”

  “Meet me at The Magpie.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  He points to the book. “Is this the edition you came for? The one with the two men in top hats?”

  “It’s perfect.”

  “Did you really want the book?”

  I swallow roughly, meet his eyes, speak the whole truth. “I really want the book,” I say, and it’s not a lie. It also might have a double meaning.

  As he heads to the counter, I follow him. I feel like I’d follow him anywhere, and that’s a dangerous thought. But now’s not the time for analyzing.

  Now is a time for doing.

  Jude rings me up, slides the card reader across the counter, then takes out his phone. After I swipe my credit card, he says, “And I believe you were going to give me your number, TJ.”

  As I slide him the card reader, he gives me his phone. I keep my head down, so he can’t see the size of my smile as I tap in my digits then swivel the device back to him. Seconds later, he sends me a text.

  * * *

  Jude: Mark my words. I’ll figure out what TJ stands for. I have my ways.

  * * *

  TJ: Just try them on me.

  * * *

  Then, since it’s always good to leave them wanting more, I take the Wilde and go. As I walk off, I can see the rest of my days and nights in London in a whole new way.

  4

  A Great Dick with A Great Dick

  Jude

  * * *

  I’ve had dates that started worse.

  There was the guy who turned out to be my second cousin, though we thankfully learned of our interconnected family tree branches before we smacked lips. Then, there was another guy who informed me the second I sat down at the table that he liked to take cold baths before sex.

  Give a bloke some food before you reveal your fetishes. I mean, that’s just polite.

  But let’s not forget the man who cried the instant I arrived at the café. I don’t even know why. He just blubbered for thirty minutes till I called him an Uber and sent him home.

  With that precedent, a night out with a hot, but exhausted American likely won’t crack the top-three worst dates. But when I catch sight of TJ through the window of The Magpie, yawning wide enough to fit a double-decker bus, I suspect the evening won’t end the way I imagined—with mutual finishing.

  Well, there are other uses for mouths.

  I go into the packed bar and head straight for his booth, where he’s reading the book he bought. “Usually, it takes a few beers before I bore my dates, so I’m ahead on that count,” I say.

  “Sorry about that,” TJ says with a tired laugh as he sets the Wilde aside. “But I assure you, boredom is not the issue.”

  “It’s past your bedtime?” I suspect that’s why he’s zonked.

  A sheepish look flits across his tired eyes. “That obvious?”

  “Yes, but you said it was your first day in London.” I slide onto the dark wood bench across from him. On the wall above us hangs a vintage poster of London from a century ago.

  “Who’s the detective now?” TJ counters.

  “It’s a useful skill,” I say drily, tapping my temple. “Remembering, that is.”

  “Sure is. And hey, if it helps, I haven’t slept in more than twenty-four hours. But thanks for the heads-up that you’re dull.” TJ points to the door. “I’ll just make my great escape right now.”

  “I don’t think you’re going to slip away just yet.”

  His eyebrows dart up. “And why is that, Just Jude?”

  “Oh, I have a nickname already?”

  “You made it easy.”

  I’d like to make a lot of things easy for him. Like, say, having me when he’s not knackered. “And you’ve made it hard for me to figure out your real name.”