“I love it.” I’m so close to saying what’s inside my heart and mind, but everything’s happening so quickly, and we’re not even done with the dog and pony show.

  To keep from saying too much, I kiss him instead. As my lips sweep his, I hold back other words.

  You. Me. Us.

  But I can’t risk rushing ahead and losing him all over again.

  When my alarm bleats in the morning, I stretch and rub my eyes. Time to get moving, grab a bite, head to the airport.

  When I peer around the suite, I see TJ’s already up and showered, tossing clothes into his suitcase with his phone pressed to his ear. “Right. Sure. I understand.”

  I tense everywhere. Those words don’t sound promising. And why the hell is he packing like he’s taking off on a rocket in two minutes? Sure, we leave soon, but we have plenty of time to zip suitcases.

  Unless he’s leaving . . . without me?

  I jump out of bed. I’ve seen this show before. Last time it ended with him walking away from me.

  “In fifteen minutes?” he asks as if it pains him. There’s a pause as he stuffs a shirt into the bag. “If that’s the only way.” Another beat as I hunt for my briefs and pull them on, nearly tripping as I go too fast. But I don’t want to be naked if bad news wallops me. “Just send me the details.”

  When TJ hangs up, he turns around, dragging a hand roughly through his still-wet hair. He looks thoroughly rattled. I feel that way too.

  “That was my agent,” he says hollowly. “Webflix wants me to go to Los Angeles. In an hour. Oh, and Slade’s downstairs.”

  30

  The Cockblocker and The Handyman

  TJ

  * * *

  I’m still processing Mason’s call. But the long and short is—Rikki was right.

  Also, Jude is on the verge of freaking out. His shoulders are tight. His lips are a ruler.

  I can’t let him think the worst. He talked me down last night. I need to reassure him now. In a heartbeat, I close the distance, grab his face, and press a poignant kiss to his soft lips. Touch is the language we’re most fluent in.

  But before I can deepen the kiss, I stop.

  This is the habit I have to break.

  I can’t rely on the physical to convey my thoughts. It’s time for words. I end the kiss, step away.

  Jude’s eyes flash with worry. “Is it the morning breath?” He covers his mouth, embarrassed. “I know you hate it.”

  “Don’t care.” I have to make him believe this detour isn’t bad for us. “Rikki’s story was correct about my deal. The last rewrite was terrible, but Webflix doesn’t want to abandon the project since Robert loves the book so much. They all do. He called Mason last night to devise a new game plan. Mason suggested”—I stop to breathe; this part feels unreal like it’s happening to another person—“that I oversee the adaptation.”

  I laugh, like, Can you believe such a thing?

  I can’t. At all.

  But Jude has zero problems on that front. Excitement rolls off him. “You said yes, right? That’s amazing. That’s fucking incredible.”

  “I think so?” I’m still numb—how do I process something as big as writing my book into a movie?

  “You better know so, stud.” He swats my ass then points to the door. “Go to LA now! Fix your film. This is a job for . . . The Handyman!”

  “Did you just give me a comic book hero name?”

  “I bloody fucking did. Now, vamoose!”

  His ebullience flips the switch. Buoyed by his confidence, I reel off the rest of the details. “Well, Mason sort of made it clear I had to go. And Slade gave his blessing for me to duck out of your press tour to tend to this. It’s kind of wild, right?”

  But the news isn’t all tubas and ticker tape. What does that mean for the new us? “I’ll miss the rest of the trip with you,” I point out, though I’m sure he’s put two and two together.

  With a no big deal shrug, he turns me around, sets his hands on my shoulders, and gently shoves me toward the door. “Save your project, Handyman Writer Superhero! You’re its only hope,” he says, going full Princess Leia.

  But I spin back around, pointing at the closet. “I do need to zip up my bag, though. Grab my laptop. I have to get on a plane in ten minutes. Daddy’s downstairs and he wants us to make a big show of saying goodbye.”

  Jude’s aghast, flinging his hand to his cheek. “He expects me to put on a public face in ten minutes? As if that’s possible,” he says, then tosses his head back haughtily as he strolls to the bathroom. He stops in the doorway. “But I’ll do my best to look decent for you, sweetheart.”

  As he gets dressed, I fly around the suite, bringing my carry-on to the door then grabbing my messenger bag from the couch in the living room. I stuff my laptop inside it and pull the zipper closed.

  Minutes later, I’m at the hotel room door, ready to vamoose when Jude strolls out of the bathroom, freshened up and fully dressed.

  “Damn,” I say, then whistle at his appearance—jeans, a tight shirt, a fantastic smile, and great hair.

  “I guess I pulled it off,” he says, stopping a foot away from me.

  “You did.”

  After last night, this thing between us is hardly a show anymore. I don’t want to put on an act for anyone, least of all me. “Jude,” I say, eager to ask the question I wanted to ask ten months ago in Los Angeles. Nothing will hold me back.

  “Yes?” He sounds like he’s on the edge of his seat.

  My heart expands with hope. “Will you be—”

  A loud knock reverberates in my ears.

  Bang, bang.

  Then again.

  Are you kidding me?

  “Rise and shine, men. The day is young, and the agenda is long . . . and sexy.”

  I groan for a year. Slade is the ultimate cockblocker.

  “Yoo-hoo! I know you’re there. Answer the door,” the publicist says.

  “I swear he has X-ray vision,” I mumble.

  “He can read minds too,” Jude seconds.

  I face the music, yanking open the door. The man in the hall beams, but it’s his I’m going to chew you out grin. “Let me in,” he says cheerily.

  Like I have a choice. He pushes his way inside, shuts the door, then heaves a disappointed sigh. “What made you think that was a good idea to post a picture of you two and the guy who’s the reason Jude needs a fake boyfriend?”

  I seethe. This again? “Because—”

  “William isn’t the reason I needed a fake boyfriend,” Jude cuts in, using a voice I’ve never heard from him before. It says don’t fuck with me, and it’s seriously hot.

  Slade’s taken aback. “Excuse me?”

  “The press is the reason. William is a friend, our friend, and I’m not going to explain that again. And I’m not going to apologize for that photo with William. We took it and posted it and we’re good with it.” Jude smiles without showing teeth then gestures to me. “Now if you’d still like that picture of TJ and me, we’ll go make a big show of our farewell and what have you. But our friendship with William is officially off-limits.”

  “Whoa,” Slade says, his mouth opening and closing like a fish.

  The intensity in Jude revs my engine. I want to slow clap and shove him up against the wall. “You could totally play the HMFIC,” I whisper.

  “And you’d love it,” he whispers back. Yup. I do enjoy Bossy Jude.

  But there’s no time to savor that victory. As we walk to the elevator, Slade quickly recovers, reviewing Jude’s agenda in Paris and London, letting him know he’ll be traveling with him.

  Poor Jude.

  Slade also briefs us on the staged photo-op coming our way in less than five minutes. “There will be lots of press downstairs right now. I tipped off the usuals—Piper, Desmond, and plenty of others. So, expect them and their questions. Just smile and wave, though.”

  “We’ll behave,” Jude says.

  Once we’re downstairs, Slade marches us through the lobby and then whispers showtime when we reach the main doors. He slinks off.

  Jude and I step outside into the portico. The driver of a sleek, waiting limo scurries around for my bag.

  Reporters and photographers close in, cameras slung around necks. Piper and Desmond. Some others I don’t recognize. The honey badger didn’t show. But then, she’s never popped up at staged events. She gets all the dirt in other ways.

  I shove her out of my mind as Piper calls out: “Jude and TJ, how was your time in Vegas?”

  Desmond, I think, is next. “TJ, how do you feel about the Top-Notch news?”

  An American dude barks at Jude: “Word on the street is you and Ellie will have the centerpiece love story on Unfinished Business. Can you comment?”

  “What did you think of William’s surprise appearance?” Piper adds.

  Another American voice chimes in. “Did the three of you have a good time last night?”

  The barrage of questions is suffocating, but I have to get used to it. I follow orders and draw Jude close for an embrace. Our kiss is quick and poignant and ends too soon. I reach for the door handle, a nagging voice in my head reminding me to finish the question.

  Fuck perfect moments.

  Grabbing his hand, I pull Jude into the back of the car and slam the door. We’re all alone.

  “Are you stealing me away?” Jude asks like nothing would make him happier.

  “I want to,” I say, taking hold of his face. The clock is ticking. Slade is waiting. My flight is probably boarding in minutes. My stomach cartwheels, but I don’t waste any more time. “Will you be my boyfriend? For real?”

  The question is ten months overdue.

  Hell, it’s eight years in the making.

  “Yes,” he says, and tingles rush down my chest. “But I have to tell you something.”

  Whatever he has to say, I want to hear it. “What is it?”

  “I feel like I already am,” he says, and then he kisses me like we could spend all day in bed wrapped up in each other.

  It’s not a bad idea, but my agent will kill me if I miss my flight.

  Jude lets go, then points to the tinted window. “When they want to know what you asked me, I’m going to say you wanted to know if we could get a cat.”

  I crack up. “We can get a cat.”

  With a tender kiss on my cheek, he pushes open the door and leaves.

  I watch him walk through the crowd until the car pulls away. I try not to miss him, but this weekend feels like a distant memory far too soon.

  31

  A Pig at Market

  Jude

  * * *

  On Wednesday night, I’m in a tux, holding a martini, and I’m acting. Acting like I’m not counting down the seconds until I can escape from The Ritz Carlton on Place Vendôme.

  The ballroom is a who’s who of the awards circuit. Over by the stage is Sebastian Lowe, nommed for his devastating turn as a drug lord suffering from panic attacks. By the swan ice sculpture stands an elegant Carrie Winslow, who sharply played a suburban wife tempted by a lurid affair. I’m dying to tell them both how much I adore their work. I’ve devoured all of Sebastian’s films and obsessed over Carrie’s character work.

  But I’m handcuffed, here in the corner of the glittering room. Slade taps his chin, quietly debating who to introduce me to next.

  “Carrie is the next Meryl, but she’s a no-go since she has a you know what problem,” he whispers, then mimes swallowing a pill.

  That seems a bit cold. “And that means I can’t talk to her?”

  “Yes, it does. Same for Sebastian. He just split from his wife. They’ll think he’s after you.”

  Wait. What? “Why would they think that?”

  “He’s closeted,” Slade whispers. “It’s the worst kept secret.”

  “Okay. But that doesn’t mean he’d be into me,” I say, pointing out what I hope is obvious. Orientation does not beget attraction.

  Slade rolls his eyes. “I know that. But what I know and what the press will decide from a photo are two vastly different things.”

  If TJ were here, he and I could float through this crowd together, chatting with whoever we wanted. But since I’m solo, Slade’s calculating everyone’s social capital.

  I get it, but I feel like a pig on market day. I swirl my martini, awaiting instructions and counting off another minute.

  Slade hums approvingly. “Oh, looky-look. Did I just see Ellie Snow over there?”

  I perk up at the mention of my Unfinished Business co-star, who plays Gwen to my Jamie. I crane my neck to see she’s been cornered by a mustached man who looks like a manager hunting for new clients. She has “save me” written all over her face.

  This is a job for Actor Man.

  “Go, go, go,” Slade says, shooing me.

  He doesn’t need to tell me twice. I weave through the taffeta and tuxedoed crowd, quickly arriving beside my co-star. “Ellie, do you have a second to discuss the scene where you accidentally picked up my dog from the doggie daycare since you were so frazzled?”

  Her big brown eyes light up with gratitude. “Yes, I have so many ideas for that moment. We must discuss them right now,” she says, and I ferry her away to a quieter section of the ballroom.

  “You saved me,” she says, holding my arm tight.

  “I’m thinking of searching for a secret doorway. A trick wall. Anything remotely resembling an escape hatch. Care to join me?”

  “I’m all in,” she says, then lowers her voice to a furtive whisper. “I’m not even sure who I’m allowed to talk to.”

  “Me either! Apparently, everyone is on the verboten list, except you. Actually, you probably shouldn’t talk to me. I’ve been radioactive,” I say.

  She rolls her eyes. “I’ll take my chances. Plus, I figure you’re stuck with me. Or should I say . . . stuck with Zoe?”

  I blink. “Wait. Who’s Zoe?”

  “Oh, our showrunner changed my character’s name from Gwen to Zoe. She said Zoe was better for the quirky girl next door.”

  I smile widely—the first real smile I’ve felt all night. “My boyfriend will love that. He has a thing for names telegraphing a character’s trait,” I explain.

  Ellie giggles then points at me. “Oh my God, you have it so bad for him.”

  I dip my face, heat rushing to my cheeks. “I do,” I admit, then raise my eyes and own it. “And I miss him like mad.” It feels good to speak the truth, plain and simple, at an event where I can’t share much at all.

  “When we’re back in New York, let’s all get together. Have a drink. Invent character names for everyone we see coming into the bar, and backstories too,” Ellie suggests, bouncing in her Louboutins.

  “I’m going to RSVP on his behalf right now. He’d love it.”

  She squeezes back. “It’s a date.”

  As we chat more, something catches my eye on the other side of the entrance to the ballroom.

  Ginger hair. A sharp nose. A familiar profile. Someone is peering around the French doors as if longing to be invited in.

  Then he’s gone as quickly as he appeared.

  Maybe I imagined the man I haven’t seen in ages. But he sticks in my mind for the rest of the evening. Perhaps, because I’m not sure what to make of him.

  Once I leave The Ritz, I shake off Slade at his hotel then head to mine. Walking alone by the river, I loosen my bow tie and check my phone. There’s no update from the West Coast, so I turn to an audiobook of a celebrity memoir, grabbing earbuds from my pocket and putting the evening in the rearview mirror.

  But someone brays down the street behind me. “Jude Fox? I was hoping that was you.”

  I recognize that voice. So that was Harry at the hotel. I can’t pretend I didn’t hear him, so I turn around. My former ginger-haired agent is trotting. Wait. Nope. Make that running . . . to catch up with me.

  That’s honestly a little ballsy. Maybe a touch stalkery.

  But I’m also terribly curious why he’s calling out to me. Does he want to apologize after all this time?

  Would I laugh if he did?

  I don’t need an apology. I’m so over him and Arlo, but I am intrigued.

  Harry pulls up, out of breath. “How the hell are you, mate?”

  Is he calling me “mate” and coming in for a hug? I lift a hand in a subtle wave, dodging an embrace. “Hello, Harry. How are you?”

  He shoves a hand through his hair, trying but failing to smooth his locks. “Grand. Brilliant. Chuffed to see you,” he says with a smile that reeks of an oily salesman. “I would love to talk to you about representation again. We were on such a smashing roll for a bit. Remember The Artificial Girlfriend and Our Secret Courtship? It was quite a run, and I know we could do it again.”

  Is he joking?

  I laugh humorlessly.

  He smiles simperingly.

  Ohhh.

  He’s serious.

  He truly thinks I might work with him again.

  Wow. That’s taking ballsy to a whole new level. Ballsy and shameless, as he attempts to hitch a coattail ride.

  And just like that, I do know what to make of him.

  Little.

  He’s just someone I used to work with, nothing more. I don’t need people like him in my life. People who hurt me. Harry doesn’t deserve another second of my time or thoughts. “No. I’m not interested in signing with you. Goodnight.”

  I pop in my earbuds and walk on, replaying that moment to share it all with TJ when I call him from the hotel. Then the Ellie bit. And Slade’s ridiculous rules. I want to tell TJ everything and then make plans to go people-watching with Ellie and him in New York. I want him to be a part of my new world there, just as he’s invited me into his big and wonderful one, with all his friends.

  I bound up the steps to my hotel room, mobile in hand, ready to hit his name the second the door shuts behind me. But it rings and rings.

  When I reach his voicemail, I’m more disappointed than I’ve ever been to hear a recording.