I hang up, lonely. So damn lonely. I miss him more than I could ever expect. I should get used to being apart from him. My job is nomadic. But it’s like I left something behind that I desperately need.

  Him.

  I flop onto my bed, take a selfie, then pop the image of a rumpled, tired, half-undressed me in a draft, typing the words. If you were here, you’d rip this shirt off me, right?

  But that’s not what I want to say to him.

  I delete the sexy note and begin again. Wish you were here.

  That’s closer, but it still only scratches the surface.

  32

  Definitely Liam

  TJ

  * * *

  On Thursday morning, I walk along the promenade in Santa Monica and duck into a coffee shop.

  I’ve got a final meeting with Webflix in an hour to go over my revisions. I’m this close to cracking the code on the script. But I’m still unsettled about something.

  I order a coffee, and while the barista measures the beans, I stare out the window of the shop, contemplating my fictional heroes. Is the unease about them?

  The script problem was, frankly, easy to diagnose. The adaptation veered too far from the book. In my revision, I went back to the basics of the story itself—the dialogue on the pages of the novel.

  Still, a couple of details about the heroes nag at me. Have I done enough with them in the adaptation?

  I’m close, but not quite there.

  Sort of like . . . my situation with Jude.

  Theoretically, I should feel better about my romantic life after we made it official between us Sunday morning in Las Vegas. Plus, we’ve been texting all week. I click on our texts, re-reading some of them, like his: Wish you were here.

  Then my reply, sent a few hours later: I wish I could be in London with you too. I hear the shower curtain shopping dates are stellar there. But blanket shopping is on the list for New York.

  He replied this morning. You can never have enough blankets, color, coffee, books. Or sex.

  The texts bring a smile to my face and a spring to my step and cock, but the trouble is I don’t feel as settled or certain as I’d hoped.

  “Here’s your Ethiopian drip,” the barista says, sliding me the mug. I thank him.

  Coffee in hand, I head outside, grab a table, and pop open my laptop.

  But before I dive back in, I noodle on my zigzagging thoughts today. Is asking Jude to be my boyfriend enough?

  No, you dipshit.

  The answer smacks me on the back of the head like a big brother.

  Boyfriendship is just the start. We have so much more to figure out—like what to do when the agency wants us to part ways.

  But we can sort that out in New York this weekend. I’ll see Jude tomorrow, and we can start then.

  As I take a drink of my fuel, I slide into the role of The Handyman, Script Doctor style.

  I laugh silently, still incredulous.

  Is this my life?

  Yup. And I hope Webflix loves my revisions. I fucking love this story. I fucking love these characters. And I fucking love that Webflix asked me to fix the script.

  While I was fixing the dialogue, I discovered another problem. The Webflix adaptation started in the wrong place, skipping the prologue entirely.

  Oh, just the moment when, you know, the heroes meet for the first time.

  I returned to the book on that too—a scene in the past when the guys meet in an art supply shop, hit it off, exchange names and numbers. But before they can start a romance, Jackson realizes—oops!—Liam is his best friend’s brother.

  My readers loved the meet-cute and the subsequent oh shit he’s off-limits moment.

  So, I added the meet-cute, adapting it straight from the prologue. Sipping my coffee, I read it for the fiftieth time. But I want to hear the lines out loud before I share this latest revision with Robert’s team.

  There’s only one person I can ask to run these lines with me. I call Hazel on FaceTime.

  My work wife answers right away, and I recognize the framed coffee cup behind her. She’s at our regular haunt in Chelsea, and I miss both Big Cup and her. Holding up a finger, she slings her bag on her shoulder and leaves the shop, walking down the familiar tree-lined block in New York.

  “This might sound a little silly,” I begin.

  She snorts. “Nothing sounds silly to a writer. Hit me up.”

  “Would you read this scene with me?”

  She’s not even fazed. “Which guy do I get to be?”

  “You can be Liam.”

  “He’s such a soulful hottie, and I love his flirty side.” She makes a gimme gesture with her fingers. “Where is it?”

  “Sending now,” I say, then drop the scene into an email.

  She stops, sits on a stoop that’s straight out of Carrie Bradshaw’s hood, then scans the scene. When she reaches the end, she adopts a deeper man’s voice, and we begin.

  * * *

  Interior: Art Supply Shop—Day.

  * * *

  Liam hands a sketch pad to Jackson.

  * * *

  LIAM: And here’s the one you’re looking for.

  * * *

  JACKSON: Thanks. (A PAUSE) There was something else I wanted, though.

  * * *

  LIAM: Ah, I had a feeling. I’m Liam.

  * * *

  JACKSON: You knew I wanted your name?

  * * *

  LIAM: I’m a bit of an amateur detective.

  * * *

  JACKSON: Evidently, but I have to ask the obvious. Is your name really Liam?

  * * *

  LIAM: You doubt my name?

  * * *

  JACKSON: It’s just that Liam is such a classic . . . cute guy’s name.

  * * *

  LIAM: Do you think I made it up to impress you?

  * * *

  JACKSON: Maybe I was hoping you did.

  * * *

  LIAM: In that case, I’m Definitely Liam.

  * * *

  JACKSON: Definitely Liam has a nice ring to it.

  * * *

  LIAM: Then you can call me Definitely Liam.

  * * *

  I stop, release a big breath. That felt good to me. I hope it worked for Hazel. “What did you think?”

  “It’s soooo good. And you know why? Those are—gasp—the lines in the novel. The lines readers love. That whole definitely Liam bit hooked me the very first time I read your prologue.”

  “Thanks. I like it too,” I say.

  But it’s not quite there. It’s still missing something. Hmm.

  Wait.

  Could that be it?

  “What are you grinning over?” Hazel asks. “Because you sure as heck look like you just discovered calorie-free cake.”

  I think I know what the adaptation needs most.

  I ask Hazel for another reading but with a slight tweak.

  With a roll of her eyes, she drops into a stage whisper. “I had a hunch you were going to ask me for that.”

  Still smiling, I shrug. I’ve been busted and just don’t care. “Write what you know.”

  “And you did,” she says. “A story rich with longing.”

  We redo the scene with the tweak, and wow. Holy shit. Yes. That’s it.

  All my story uncertainty vanishes. I’ve cracked the final code on the rewrite. I just need to pitch Webflix on the changes when I go into the meeting.

  Where the adaptation is concerned, I know I’ve nailed it.

  But have I done enough for my own love story?

  I stare at the screen for so long the letters in Top-Notch Boyfriend start to blur. But in them, I find the beginning of the answer.

  No.

  I didn’t say enough to Jude. That’s why I’m unsettled. I have so much more to say to him.

  I want it to be Friday afternoon now, so I can see him and tell him everything in person.

  With a glance at the title on my screen—the words become crystal clear—I know exactly how to start. It’s late in London, but I call a store and order delivery to Jude’s hotel.

  33

  An Open Book

  Jude

  * * *

  I have a free day before the press junket, so after I grab a bite with my brother, I pay a visit to a special thrift shop, pinning all my sartorial hopes on this store.

  Inside Angie’s Vintage Duds, I spot my favorite shopkeeper behind the register. Helen gasps when she sees me, drops the scarves she is folding, flies around the counter and over to me, arms outstretched.

  “After all these years, I knew you’d come back to me.”

  I hug her, laughing as her purple hair swishes past my cheeks. “I’ve been gone less than a year.”

  “I measure time like a dog. In Helen years, it’s been forever,” she says, then lets go, only to hold my face and pinch my cheeks. “Are you well? Eating enough? You’re quite trim and toned, but be sure to eat some scones now and then, love.”

  “Scones hate me.”

  “Scones love everyone,” she says, smiling warmly. “I’ve been making plans for my Oscar watch party. Have you got your speech done yet? It’s in two weeks. You need to be ready for when you get that statue.”

  I won’t listen to her and tempt fate. “I haven’t written a speech because I won’t win.”

  “Nonsense. You have my vote.” She swings her gaze around the store. “Now, are you looking for something for your fabulous man?”

  I love that she figured me out just like that. “I am,” I say, and it’s such a relief to be out of the public eye and in the haven of Angie’s. I’m not stressed one bit about my image with Helen. “If you have a shirt his size with fox illustrations, I’ll pretty much love you forever.”

  She bops me on the nose. “You already love me forever, but as it happens, I do have a shirt just like that.” She beckons me to a rack by the dressing room. “Come along.”

  “You’re a goddess, Helen.”

  “The goddess of scrummy clothes for scrummy men.” She stops at a rack, flicks through shirt after endless variety of shirt, then grabs a yellow one emblazoned with tiny cartoon foxes, tails held high.

  I can’t even handle its hipster perfection. TJ will lose his mind. “I’m in love. I’ll take it,” I say.

  “Good. Now, tell me everything,” she says as we return to the counter and chat.

  I catch her up on the details of my life—from moving to New York to reconnecting with TJ to our trip to Vegas. “And then he made this private Instagram account for us.” I grab my mobile and show her our pics. “Want me to send you the link?”

  “Obviously. I’ll be checking it every day. I consider myself your matchmaker,” she says, then blows on her fingernails. “And I’ll be taking credit at your wedding.”

  I jerk back, hold up a stop-sign hand. “No one is talking marriage.”

  She laughs sagely. “Not yet, but someday. He’s the one for you and you’re the one for him . . . as I’m sure you let him know every day.”

  I gulp, chagrined.

  He is the one for me. But I haven’t said those words in no uncertain terms. “I will tell him,” I say tentatively, bracing myself for the blowback.

  Helen tugs on my earlobe. “Shame on you. You must tell him. Life is short. You eat the chocolate. Get the shirt. Tell the man he’s yours.”

  Those are some words to live by.

  I’ll start with the shirt.

  On Friday morning, Slade whisks me to the Savoy Hotel for an early Q and A. Reporters fire off questions about the movie, the Oscars, Unfinished Business.

  But also . . . TJ.

  You were supposed to be on this tour with him. Everything okay?

  What’s the latest with you and the author?

  You were inseparable for a while, and now you’re separable?

  His work on the script is under wraps, so I keep my answers vague but truthful. “Everything’s great with TJ.”

  “Rumor is you’ve broken up. Care to comment?” one man asks.

  Before I can reply, another reporter shouts, “Yeah, what’s the real reason he’s not here?”

  I haven’t been this anxious in ages. I steal a glance at Slade in the front row. He pastes on a big grin. Smile and wave.

  But I don’t smile. I tackle the obnoxious question head-on.

  “I assure you we didn’t break up. Everything is fantastic. In fact, it’s never been better,” I say, fueled by the memories of Vegas and my dreams for this coming weekend. “He has a deadline and needed to work on his book. He’s incredibly supportive of me. So, I wanted to be supportive of him.”

  There. All completely true.

  Slade stares sternly at me, shut up written all over his face. But I wanted to answer honestly, and I don’t regret what I said.

  Another reporter presses on. “But he’s been seen in Los Angeles. He lives in New York. William and Christian live in LA.”

  It’s a slap in the face. That’s where honesty gets me.

  Behind the podium, I clench and unclench my fists. “The great thing is he can write from anywhere,” I say, injecting cheer into my tone.

  “Why not here, then? With you?” the reporter continues.

  Why do they care so much? It’s like I’m naked on stage, the way they pick apart every word.

  Slade strides to the front of the room, cups his mouth, and booms in his big voice, “One more question is all we have time for, folks.”

  “But Jude didn’t answer the last one,” the reporter unhelpfully reminds the room.

  “He did,” Slade says. “TJ has business to tend to as well. They can’t always travel side by side. But they’ll be seeing each other when they both return to New York this weekend. Thank you again. That was the last question.”

  I’m so wrung out. I’ve no problem letting Slade shepherd me out the back door of the briefing room. It’s exhausting defending what feels like a lie, even though it’s true.

  But reality and farce are spilling over into each other. It’s too much, this balancing act between actual and pretend boyfriends. All I want is to be in New York, where I can talk to TJ and figure out how to live fully in the real us land.

  “You and TJ need a public date this weekend,” Slade murmurs out of the corner of his mouth.

  I groan privately. I don’t want to perform a date. I want to have a date with my boyfriend and only my boyfriend.

  When I return to the hotel room to finish packing for my flight in a few hours, I’m desperate to connect with TJ. He’s the only one I want to talk to about anything.

  But it’s the middle of the night in New York. Time zones can fuck off. I text him instead.

  Jude: This weekend, can we please figure out what to tell our agents? I want to put this whole fake boyfriend thing behind us and just be real.

  A half hour later, he replies. He must be up late or having trouble sleeping. That’s no fun, but I’m thrilled to hear from him.

  * * *

  TJ: Me too. Can’t wait to see you today. Also, there’s a gift for you at the front desk of your hotel. It arrived in the nick of time. Grab it before you catch your flight soon. Please.

  * * *

  My frustration slinks away as I answer him.

  * * *

  Jude: I love gifts. What is it?

  * * *

  TJ: Open it, Jude. I’m going back to sleep. I need to rest up before you return.

  * * *

  Jude: Yes, you definitely need to rest up since I have plans for you.

  * * *

  TJ: Mmm . . . I like being on your to-do list.

  * * *

  Jude: You are all of the list.

  * * *

  I stop at the concierge desk on my way to the airport, excited about the gift. The clerk hands me a package, and I thank him, then rip off the brown butcher paper from An Open Book.

  I freeze.

  This is the last thing I expected—a copy of Top-Notch Boyfriend. Why is he sending me his book now? Is this his way of taking me up on my offer to help sort out any continuity issues with the crossover?

  I turn the book over, read the jacket copy I already know, about the best friend’s-brother romance between an illustrator and a violinist. Jackson and Liam are full of charm, banter, and heat, one reviewer says. These two heroes stole my whole heart with their connection, another writes.

  My stomach twists, but it’s time for me to brave this tale of his past love. I’ve dreaded this moment, but I suppose it was inevitable that someday I’d have to read the story Flynn inspired. TJ needs me, and this is such a TJ way of asking for help.

  I pat the cover, like that settles that, when a bookmark slips out. No, wait. It’s a piece of stationery from my former store. Under the logo for An Open Book, it looks like someone from the shop has written a message.

  But the words are TJ’s.

  * * *

  I want you to read this. Trust me. I think you’ll like it. I think you’ll know why.

  34