“Yes. Do you have plans to write or something?” Slade’s remark is cutting.

  I glance at TJ. Did that tone bother him? Stoic, he shakes his head. “Tomorrow will be fine,” he says evenly, hard to read once again.

  Our puppeteer gives us the details of the event, mentioning an interview and photos with a celebrity blogger, then adds, “And when you arrive, be sure to kiss each other on the cheek. I’d never ask you to do more, since that’d be inappropriate, but I think you can both handle some hand-holding and cheek kissing. Am I right?”

  “I have no problem with stage romance,” I say since I plan to ace this role. The sooner I nail it, the sooner I can get away from the man who belongs only in the past.

  “Same here,” TJ grits out.

  “Excellent. Maybe practice real quick here, then?” Slade suggests.

  If it gets me out of here sooner . . .

  I lean in and brush my lips to TJ’s cheek, dusting my jawline against his. A hot spark skates down my spine. That’s inconvenient. But then, TJ’s breath hitches. Ever so faintly.

  And I hate that I love the effect I have on him.

  “Perfect,” Slade says.

  “Perfectly hot,” a voice adds. It’s TJ’s agent. He’s popped into the doorway, and he’s beaming at my fake boyfriend. “Told you door number two was the solution.”

  I consider those words as the meeting wraps, and as TJ and I leave the office and step into the elevator together. Maybe I could stand here getting drunk on his aftershave, but I’m nosy too, so I ask the question that’s been nagging me. “Why exactly do you need a door number two?”

  TJ stares at the elevator doors as we chug downstairs as if he can’t bear to make eye contact. “I’m late with my book. My agent thinks going on some dates will inspire me,” he says, and he sounds like he’s in so much pain.

  Not writing seems so unlike him. He wrote two books a year for a while. “Do you think it will help?” I ask with no snark, just concern.

  He meets my gaze, shrugs a little helplessly. “No idea. But nothing has worked so far, so maybe this will.”

  I don’t even have to imagine how bad he feels since I know what it’s like when your most precious skill goes missing. “I hope you write again soon.”

  “Thanks. Me too.”

  When we reach the lobby, it occurs to me maybe he’s been too caught up in his deal to write a book. “Is it because you’re busy with the Webflix deal?”

  He scoffs. “You have no idea,” he says, and actually, he’s right.

  I don’t have a clue what happened to him and his career. I haven’t followed TJ as I did in the seven years after London.

  This time around, it hurt far too much.

  When I go home later, I look him up in The Hollywood Scoop. A headline from Rikki Finch reads Delayed Again!

  Turns out several months ago, the Top-Notch Boyfriend director took a long vacation. Then the lead actor landed another project, then the writer quit, was rehired, and quit again.

  It’s a rom-comedy of errors, the gossip site writes.

  For a few heavy seconds, my heart aches for him. I know what it’s like to want something that doesn’t happen.

  And to want someone you can’t have.

  6

  My New Nemesis

  TJ

  Aspen spins me around in the leather barber chair, playing his why-do-you-need-a-haircut game. “I’m getting a you-have-a-work-thing vibe,” he says.

  Before I can say no, or maybe yes, since I’m only seeing Jude tonight for work, the owner of Two Bits on Madison Avenue raises a hand to silence me. “Nope. I was reading your energy all wrong. Let me try again.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ve got all evening for you to figure it out.” There’s no way he’ll guess the truth—you have a fake date with the only guy you ever loved, and you were right to be jealous about the rock star after all.

  I introduced my former barista to Jude. Serves me right—William pretty much warned me back in London that he crushes hard.

  You win, William. You got the guy who got away from me.

  Except, I let Jude go. I couldn’t handle any more of his particular brand of devastation. I couldn’t even pick up the phone when he called a few days after I left Los Angeles because I knew I’d cave if I heard his voice.

  But I have to go through the motions tonight. I doubt Mason’s right. I don’t think fake-dating Jude will inspire me whatsoever. But maybe the act of dating and all the assorted prep for it will unlock some ideas.

  Hence, the haircut. Aspen is a wizard with scissors. As Astronaut Food’s newest tune plays in his upscale shop, I wait for him to guess again. “You’re finally going to ask me out, and you want to look your finest,” he says, gesturing to his frame. A fun and handsome Black man, with arty tattoos of flowers curling around his arms, and clothes plucked straight from the designer racks, Aspen is not short on dates.

  I laugh. “Somehow I think that whoever your new boyfriend is would take issue with that.”

  “Oh, hush. I’ve only been seeing Tommy for one week. Who the hell knows? But he’d take pride in it,” Aspen says with a wink.

  “As well he should,” I say.

  “Let me try one more time to read you.” He draws a big breath. Then smiles victoriously. “You’re desperately in need of an emergency cut for the one reason every client desperately needs one. You have a hot date tonight.”

  I roll my eyes, about to say no way.

  Except, fuck.

  I do need to say I have a hot date tonight. I need to be all giddy and excited, as per Slade’s orders to sell this fake romance to, well, everyone in the world. Including my barber since he’s not in the vault. The vault has maybe four or five people in it—my agent, Jude’s agent, Slade the publicist, and my friend Hazel, who pretty much knows everything since we have the same type of brain.

  Overactive writer brain.

  Aspen taps his toe. “Sooooo. Is it a hot date, Hardman?”

  I meet his gaze in the mirror, plaster on a smile, and prepare to lie when the door swings open with a loud clang.

  “You will not believe this!”

  Saved by Hazel.

  The redheaded Tasmanian devil marches to Aspen’s station, brandishing her phone, red clouds of Internet rage surrounding her.

  This isn’t my first time at the someone-online-irritated-Hazel rodeo. “Ten bucks says some jackass pissed you off on Twitter?”

  She thrusts an arm skyward. “Close! Instagram! And I officially have a new nemesis.”

  Aspen smacks my shoulder. “Move it, TJ. Hazel sounds like she has better tea.” He pats the arm of the chair and bats his lashes at my friend. “Let me do your hair first, honey.”

  “Seriously? I have to be at this restaurant thing in an hour and a half,” I say to them.

  Aspen scoffs. “As if I can’t do your whole beauty routine in thirty minutes, handsome. And to answer your question . . . yes, seriously. Hazel’s up first. I love gossip. It replenishes all my electrolytes.”

  I get out of the fancy leather chair with a huff and snap off the smock. “Regale us with the tale of your new enemy, Hazel.”

  Like a queen, she takes the seat and lifts her face to Aspen. “Thank you. Just the usual trim. But make me look pretty.”

  “As if I’d do anything else. Now, give us the deets,” he says as he grabs my smock and puts it on my romance writer friend.

  “Malcolm Mann,” she seethes.

  Aspen makes an ew face. “Malcolm Mann as in The Man’s Man?”

  “Yup. The self-help guru who’s all be a man,” Hazel says, imitating the rough-and-tumble voice of the guy with the satellite radio show, non-fiction books, and speaking gigs.

  “And what did he do to piss you off?” I ask.

  “He’s coming for us, TJ! He announced today he’s writing a romance novel, and this is his tagline.” She waves her phone about. Her jaw tics as she bites out the words she reads from his feed. “Straight-up romance with a man’s touch.”

  I cringe. “Oh no, he didn’t.”

  Aspen breathes hard through his nostrils. “I need a moment before I touch my scissors, honey.”

  Hazel smiles, understanding. “You take all the time in the world. But can we please talk about how awful he is?”

  “Oh, we better,” Aspen says as he sets his hands on her shoulders as if he’s steadying himself.

  “The idea that romance needs a man’s touch is insulting,” Hazel begins. “I’m not a man and I’m perfectly capable of writing romance from the point of view of both a man and a woman.”

  Her legions of fans would testify to her abilities. “Preach. You know I love your books,” I say.

  “Me too,” Aspen adds.

  “Thank you. Also,” Hazel continues, then points to me, “what kind of what-the-fuckery is this straight-up romance line?”

  I raise a hand, a little offended. Or maybe a lot. “Gee, do you think he’s saying queer men and women can’t write straight romance? It’s hard to tell what he means with the word up in there after straight.”

  Hazel sets a hand on her chest and smiles obsequiously. “Thank goodness romance finally has a straight manly man to do things right and fix all the mistakes the women and queer men have been making.” Then her green eyes twinkle with mischief. “You know this leaves us with no choice, right?”

  Aspen likes to think he can read minds, but I can almost always read Hazel’s. “You want to write a douche with an alliterative name into your next book to have your sweet revenge?”

  “Obviously. And you should too, TJ. Let’s make him the same guy. Can we do that? Pretty please.”

  “Ooh, crossing worlds. I love it,” Aspen says as he runs his hands through her hair. “Let’s get you a shampoo, honey. And we’ll talk more about what we’re going to call this character.”

  When they return a few minutes later, Hazel’s decided his name will be Dane Donovan and he’ll appear in both our books as a villain, obviously. “Will that help you write, TJ?” she asks, sounding hopeful.

  I’ve been looking for an opportunity to sow the rumor of my romance. It’s going public in about an hour, so this is the best opening I’m going to get. “If not, then my date tonight with Jude Fox will,” I say with as much cheer as I can muster, though it’s unpleasant to spin lies.

  Especially when Aspen’s jaw comes unhinged again. “You’re seeing Jude Fox, as in, the Fox? The hottest, sexiest, most bangable man on screen?”

  A part of me wishes my yes could be an honest answer. A bigger part of me wishes I didn’t have to lie to a friend.

  Good thing I’ve already told Hazel the truth. I called her yesterday after that painful CTM debriefing. So when we leave the salon a little later, both freshly styled, she hugs me and whispers, “Good luck tonight.”

  “I’ll need it,” I say.

  Especially since I’m due at the restaurant in twenty minutes, but I’m at least a half hour away. When I arrive, I’m late, and Malcolm Mann is here too.

  7

  Red Carpet Smoothness, at Your Service

  TJ

  As I walk up to the restaurant in the East Village, I search the crowd for my date. A long line snakes around the front of Food. A black-and-white sign hangs above the restaurant in Times New Roman font. The restaurant is like a bored teenager with its plain doorway, decor, and name—it just can’t even. If it didn’t have a crowd, you’d miss it. Which, I suspect, is the point. Food is so aggressively ordinary you have to know what’s trendy to know you should eat here. Only the cool kids, please.

  The line is maybe fifty people deep, and many are peering through the restaurant's glass windows, trying to spot celebrities inside. Maybe Jude is late too. Then he won’t know I’m fifteen minutes late. But when I reach the doorway, I look past the Man’s Man and spot my man—albeit pretend—in the far corner of the bar. Jude is chatting with a reporter.

  My stomach flips.

  That’s annoying—my body’s reaction to him. But I blame it on his charm. It radiates off the Brit like sunshine.

  His charm is evident in the way he talks to reporters. It’s in his eyes, the attention he devotes to people, like the blonde who holds a phone near his mouth.

  Lately, I feel charmless. Like everyone is going to notice I don’t belong with him.

  That’ll be the story the celebrity bloggers ferret out. The broody writer and the magnetic actor are a mismatched pair, they’ll say. They can’t possibly be together.

  I’ve got to pull this off, though. If word gets out I faked a romance, my readers will eat me alive. I may not share a ton of personal details with my readers but being private is one thing—lying is something else entirely. But at least it’s for a good cause—the cause of my next book.

  When I reach the hostess stand, I give her my name. Before she can say a word, a hand comes down on my shoulder.

  “Whoa. Is this TJ Hardman in the flesh?” It’s the voice from satellite radio.

  “That’s me,” I say, turning around and flashing a fake smile at Hazel’s new enemy, which makes him my enemy too. Stories need antagonists, and maybe he’ll inspire me to write. Perhaps my heroes will unite behind a common enemy. He’s big and broad, built like a linebacker, with a do-it-yourself kind of buzzcut. Be a man and all. Cut your own hair.

  “I’m Malcolm Mann. Stoked to meet you, Teej,” he says, and when he shortens my initials, it feels like the dental hygienist scraping my teeth.

  “Nice to meet you too, Malcolm. But it’s just TJ. Not Teej,” I say.

  “My bad. But you’ll forgive me, right?” His we’re all good grin tells me he’s not used to hearing no.

  “It’s no big deal. I’m just letting you know.”

  “Good, because you are a big deal. And I am a big fan of yours,” he says, then offers a meaty paw.

  You’re not a big fan, dude. You’re sucking up to me—because there is no way you like my books. When I write women, they have things like agency and chutzpah, and when I write queer men, they fuck other men.

  “That’s great. Happy to hear that,” I say, shaking his hand and, hey, maybe I am good at faking it. I can practice with Malcolm before I see Jude.

  “I’d love to catch up with you later. Let’s grab a drink,” he says.

  “Sure,” I say, since keep your friends close and your friend’s enemies closer. Hazel will appreciate any recon I can do.

  “Sweet. Also, nice haircut,” he calls out as I walk away.

  What the hell? Is he tracking my hairstyles? “Thanks,” I mutter as I head inside.

  I make my way toward Jude, who flashes me a boyfriend-y smile that tugs on my chest. It does things to my dick too. I remind them both that Jude’s smile is an act.

  When I reach him, he gestures to the blonde with the glasses. “Piper, have you met TJ Hardman?”

  She extends a hand. “Piper Grace. I’m a blogger with Establishing Shot in London, though I’m based here,” she says in a crisp British accent. “Great to meet you, TJ.”

  “You as well,” I say, shaking her hand, then standing next to Jude.

  But wait. Do I hold his hand? Wrap an arm around his waist? Stand shoulder to shoulder with him? What would I do if this were real?

  My mind draws a dangerous blank, so my mouth takes over. “My boyfriend and I are thrilled to be here,” I say, hoping that helps, but nope. The second I speak, I want to extract my foot from my mouth because that’s not what you say at a restaurant opening.

  That’s not what anyone says. And they especially don’t say it like they’re rehearsing a line in a middle-school play.

  “Good to hear,” Piper says, with a hungry look in her blue eyes that I recognize from when I used to be a reporter.

  She’s sniffing out a story.

  Shit. I need to serve her a better exposé than TJ and Jude are awkward together. Especially since a goth dude with a Nikon is snapping shots of us. Piper’s photographer, I presume.

  I go with the arm move, curling my palm over Jude’s shoulder. “We’ve just heard such great things about Food and its focus on simple dishes. We were saying that last night. Right, honey?” I ask, adopting a new pet name as I shove my shoe down my esophagus.

  I’m deep throating my Vans tonight.

  Mayday. May-fucking-day.

  Jude sets his palm on top of my hand, squeezes it. Hard, like sending-a-message hard. “We were, love,” he says, slick and charming. “We’re all about new cuisine.”

  His tone says, let me handle this, but my pride disagrees with him. “We are,” I say, squaring my shoulders. “Restaurant openings are just the best. We have a blast going to them.”

  That wasn’t so bad. Maybe I’m getting the hang of this.

  Red carpet smoothness at your service.

  Piper tips her head toward me, her brow knitting. “I thought this was your first restaurant opening. Jude said as much a few minutes ago.”

  And . . . I spoke too soon.

  “It is. But we’ve been wanting to go,” Jude cuts in amiably as he grips my hand harder. Possibly, he wants to break my knuckles now.

  “So, you were talking about how much you want to go to one?” Piper asks, her reporter radar still beeping.

  Jude jumps on the grenade. “Yes, because we’re so excited to go out and be together. Do all the things. You know how it goes.” His eyes swing to mine, and they say shut the fuck up.

  But Piper thrusts her phone my way. “TJ, I’ve been dying to ask you a question about If Found, Please Return. What was your reaction when you saw your boyfriend on screen? I’m thinking, in particular, of the scene when he’s at the dining room table alone, talking to his wife, pretending she’s there . . . it absolutely gutted me.”

  Finally, a question I can answer from the heart. “I saw it earlier this year. I’m glad the lady next to me at the theater offered me a tissue. I’m not ashamed to say I choked up.”

  “Yes! I was a right mess. Totally sobbing,” Piper says, then she turns to Jude. “What did TJ say to you about your film? Did he tell you how chuffed he was?”