Jude clutches my hand in a vise-like grip. “Yes. He was beaming. And all I could think was I am the luckiest guy in the world to have such a supportive boyfriend.”

  “Brilliant.” Then, she draws a deep breath, shoots an almost apologetic smile to Jude, and asks, “Have you been in touch with William with Lettuce Pray? We’ve heard that he might need to cancel some concerts.”

  I grind my teeth as Jude gives a sympathetic smile. “He’s a good friend, but I’m not privy to his concert plans. You’d have to talk to him.”

  Piper gestures to the photographer. “One more photo of the two of you?”

  “Of course,” Jude says, then drags me hard against him.

  The goateed guy snaps the shot, then Piper thanks us and leaves, weaving through the crowd.

  Giving me a pointed look, Jude drops the volume. “Darling, let’s have a word in private.”

  “Sure,” I say, dreading this talking-to. Yes, Jude, I suck at acting. Bet that surprises you.

  He tugs me toward the men’s room, then pulls me inside and locks the door. It’s a single stall, black-tiled bathroom—because of course it is—and we’re alone.

  He turns to me and locks eyes like we’re locking horns. “You were crying at my movie?” His question drips with skepticism.

  I didn’t fucking lie, but I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much the performance affected me. “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Do you think maybe you’re overselling us?”

  “Like you weren’t?” I fire back, then imitate him. “Luckiest guy in the world? Who says that shit?”

  He sneers. “All your heroes. That’s in your books.”

  He won’t win this argument, though. “They say that at the end, man. When they’re all happy and shit, forever.”

  “And isn’t that what we’re supposed to be? Happy and shit?” Jude asks, imitating me now.

  “Yes, but it’s the beginning of our supposed story. We’re not at the luckiest guy in the world level yet. And when I saw your movie, we’d only just reconnected per Slade’s backstory.” I might not be a good actor, but I understand story arcs. “We’re supposed to be infatuated right now.”

  “And infatuated people don’t say things like My boyfriend and I are thrilled to be here.”

  Fuck him for calling me on bad dialogue. Fuck him for being right. And fuck him once more for the pointed tone he’s taking. “Fine. What do they say since you’re the expert? What did you and William say to each other, for instance?”

  Whoa. That slipped out. I didn’t plan to go there. But now that I’m here, I’m dying to know.

  Jude’s stare could burn holes in steel. “I told you,” he hisses, his voice deadly. “He’s a friend. He’s only ever been a friend.”

  I give an I don’t believe you shrug. “Those pictures, though.”

  Jude rolls his eyes but says nothing, and it’s like he’s holding back all the vitriol in the world. Good. He should. He should learn not to say everything that comes into his head. “And there are pictures of us tonight, looking happy. I told you, TJ. Stop believing photos.”

  “Fine,” I grunt. But it’s not fine. My heart aches at the mention of William. I haven’t been with anyone since I left Los Angeles. I can’t stand the thought that Jude would forget me so easily. “Just tell me how you want me to act.”

  “Like we like each other,” he says. No shit, Sherlock.

  “Easy for you to say,” I say, then I want to kick myself. For someone who was once great at keeping his feelings to himself, I’m having a helluva hard time shutting up tonight. Spinning around, I head to the sink, yank on the tap, then splash my face. I need to cool down. When I turn off the faucet, I grab a paper towel and dry off, then glance in the mirror.

  I don’t look happy. I look like a broken man. But this pain won’t help me write my next sexy romantic comedy. It won’t get me through the evening either. So what if he moved on? I broke us off. I left him. I didn’t take his call. And I didn’t answer his text.

  Of course, he moved on.

  Let it go, man.

  I turn around, hold out my hands to show they’re empty, like the rest of me. “Sorry, Jude. That was uncalled for. This whole thing isn’t easy for me. I’m doing my best.” I realize tonight will go smoother if I admit that much. “And I’m failing.”

  Jude’s expression softens along with his voice. “Then let me lead. I can help us both get through this, okay?”

  I nod. “I will. That whole thing with Piper wasn’t my best moment. I’m terrible at making shit up.”

  His lips twitch in a skeptical grin. “You make things up for a living.”

  I scoff. “On my computer. With a keyboard. With my head,” I say, tapping my temple. “I’m not an actor. I don’t ad-lib well about . . .”

  Feelings.

  He should know this. I was a mess that morning in his Airbnb when we tore our relationship to pieces.

  “I do understand, but we have to try to like each other. I mean”—he gestures to my hair, a bit of mischief in his grin—“you tried to look good for me tonight.”

  My cheeks redden.

  “Oh, stop. I like your haircut,” he says, and his flirty tone weaves dangerous magic around me.

  I don’t know what to feel about his effect on me. How wary I should be. How guarded. “Are you saying that as you or as my fake boyfriend?”

  But my phone buzzes. His beeps. We both grab them like gunslingers in the Wild West.

  Slade’s name flashes across my screen in a group text to Jude and me. Good evening! I’m sitting here at home enjoying some delicious gazpacho while scrolling through Food’s Insta feed and checking Piper’s socials, and I couldn’t help but wonder—did I miss the big entrance? Pretty sure I asked for a cheek kiss when you two lovebirds saw each other. If I missed the pic, please do forgive me. If I didn’t, then please remember how it’s done—Lips meet cheeks. Easy peasy, men.

  My shoulders sag. “We were supposed to kiss when we saw each other,” I say to Jude.

  His blue eyes dart down to my lips, and he stares shamelessly at my mouth. When he raises his face, his eyes lock with mine. “TJ Hardman, you and I know how to sell a kiss. Let’s fucking do this.”

  We might not trust each other. He probably doesn’t even like me. But we’re in this together.

  I take his confidence as my own and follow him out of the bathroom.

  It’s showtime.

  8

  Blowing It

  TJ

  The restaurant is packed now. A Grammy-winning singer chats with a reporter at the bar, a TV actor poses for photos, and a YouTube star shoots a video.

  Jude grabs my hand, speaks softly. “Plenty of press over there by the bar. We’ll keep it simple. We can’t act like we’re kissing for the camera. So we’ll stop in a few seconds before we reach the bar, and we’ll kiss.”

  My heart jackhammers inconveniently at the last word. I still want to kiss those lips. I hate wanting him. I’m embarrassed that after all this time, he turns me on.

  But he does. So damn much.

  Which means the only way to handle tonight is to take back control. I tug on his hand and stop his pace. I close the distance, and in the middle of the restaurant, I press a kiss on his cheek.

  The first night in London, when Jude and I went out, I kissed his cheek, and it’s as enticing now as it was back then. I linger on his skin, savoring the way he tastes and smells. He sighs gently, a sexy sound that thrums through me.

  “Did we sell that?” I murmur just for him.

  “Not at all,” he breathes, all low and sensual.

  “You want me to do a better job?” I tease.

  “I don’t know if you can,” he taunts.

  It is on.

  I lift a hand, hold his cheek, turn his face, and drop my lips to the corner of his. I give Jude Fox a trace of a kiss.

  It’s magic once again.

  When I let go, his eyes glimmer. His breath shudders. Maybe he’s acting like he’s into the kiss, but the flush on his face looks all-too-real. Makes me want another kiss.

  “Sold now?” I ask, voice rough from the contact.

  “And for a very good price,” he murmurs, then glances around the restaurant. All the bloggers and photographers are otherwise occupied. They missed our charade.

  Jude blows out an annoyed breath. “Well, that was much ado about nothing,” he says.

  Does that mean we need to try again? I’m game but wary too. The more we fake kiss, the more I’ll think it’s real. “Should we hit the bar?”

  He scans the crowd once more—a little lost in thought. “I guess if we keep it up, it might look like we’re acting.”

  “Drinks it is,” I say, and at least we’re on the same page about liquor. That’s gotta count for something.

  Once we grab stools at the end of the counter, he asks if I want an old-fashioned.

  “I do,” I say.

  And if I were writing this scene, that’d be a sign—the ex remembering the other guy’s drink order. But really, this just means Jude has a good memory.

  But so do I. “And for you? Beer? Champagne or Negroni?” I rattle off his three favorites.

  “Show off,” he says, rolling his eyes. He’s playful this time, though, not annoyed. I like that better. Maybe we can try to get along.

  “I’ll have a Negroni,” he says.

  I order, and as we wait, I meet his gaze. We both have a lot riding on this ruse, so I start over. “I’ll do a better job.”

  “Thank you. I’ll do my best too. We want this to work, don’t we?” His tone is still relaxed as if he thinks we can pull this off, even if no one caught us on camera moments ago.

  “We do. And I won’t blow it for you,” I say. Jude has worked his ass off to reach this point. He slogged through a few years when he hardly worked at all. He’s on the other side of that struggle, and if I can help him with his reputation rehab, I should.

  He wiggles a brow. “When you say that, I’m not sure I can resist some wordplay.”

  I grin. “I can’t either. So does that mean . . . you want me to blow it for you?”

  “I do. I just fucking do,” he says, setting his hand on his belly as laughter consumes him.

  I crack up too, and we let our guards down together.

  A few seconds later, a rough-and-tumble voice cuts past our laughing. “Told you I’d track you down.”

  I groan quietly, recognizing the voice. I haven’t had time to fill Jude in about Malcolm, and now he’s a yard away, and I’m forced to be polite. “Jude, this is Malcolm Mann from The Man’s Man. He’s a self-help,” I say, taking a deliberate pause for a little shade, before I finish, with “legend.”

  “Pleasure to meet you. I’m a big fan of . . . self-help,” Jude says smoothly, and I smile at the smart quip.

  But Malcolm seems to miss Jude’s double meaning. “That’s awesome. Glad to hear it.” He shifts his attention to me. “Don’t know if you heard the news, but I’m writing a romance novel.”

  “Is that so?” I feign surprise. Take that, world. I can act.

  “It’s gonna be great. I figure, how hard can it be?” he asks.

  “I’m sure it’s super simple,” Jude says drily, and I’m too amused to be insulted by Malcolm.

  But the guy can’t even tell Jude’s mocking him as he mocks romance novels. “Right? Boy meets girl, boy falls for girl, boy does something dumb, girl forgives him, and they live happily ever after.”

  “You’re pretty much an expert,” I deadpan.

  Malcolm ignores my comment.

  “Except, sometimes dudes fall for dudes,” Malcolm says, then gestures from Jude to me. So informed, this asshole. Yes, Malcolm please mansplain more about how gay love works. “But don’t worry,” he stage-whispers in my direction. “I won’t try to horn in on your territory in the man-on-man genre.”

  “Whew. Thank God. I bet you’d give gay romance some stiff competition with your pen,” Jude says.

  I fight like hell not to crack up.

  Malcolm preens at the compliment. “Not gonna lie. My sex scenes are pretty smoking. The heroine came three times on command in the last scene I wrote.”

  “What a lucky lady,” I remark.

  Malcolm wiggles his brows. “Write what you know, as they say. Speaking of TJ, I would love to talk shop with you sometime. We men have to stick together, right?”

  So, women are the enemy? Okay, whatever. “DM me, bro,” I say, talking the talk and offering a fist for bumping. When in Rome . . .

  He knocks back. “You’ll hear from me. My handle is The Man’s Man.”

  Of course it is.

  After he walks away, the bartender slides our drinks in front of us.

  Jude thanks him, then lifts his glass in a toast. “Cheers to Malcolm. Does he not realize The Man’s Man is packed with double meaning?”

  “And I mean packed,” I say, then we clink glasses and drink.

  When I set down my cocktail, I meet his gaze. Earlier, I didn’t want him to know I’d meant the praise for his performance. But Jude’s trying tonight. For both our sakes.

  There’s something I have to tell him. “A few months ago, I sneaked into a movie theater on a Tuesday morning and watched your movie,” I say, and his smile starts, slow and genuine, as I talk. “I vowed not to see it, but I broke that vow after the first weekend. You were . . .” I don’t even know what words to use, so he understands how he affected me. But I’ve got to try. “I meant what I said about the tissues.”

  He meets my eyes—his brim with gratitude. “Thank you. I hope you know how much that means to me.”

  “I do know what it means to you,” I say.

  He clears his throat, lifts his hand, and touches the hair above my ear. “I like your haircut not just as your fake boyfriend, but as me.”

  Swoop goes my heart.

  The event winds down with no more reminders from Slade to behave. My fake boyfriend and I leave and go our separate ways, Jude getting into a Lyft to the Village and me walking to Chelsea.

  As I go, I open a text to Jude. We made it through our first event. I hit send before I could overthink it.

  He replies quickly. We sure did. And now I have your number again.

  I stare at the words with swirling emotions. I’m thrilled he responded quickly and gutted he deleted my number.

  But another emotion elbows its way to the front of the line as I walk home. I’m shocked to learn the full impact of my choice from months ago. Jude was so hurt when I didn’t pick up that he erased my number.

  Wow.

  I thought I was protecting myself by shutting him out. I didn’t think about his side of it. I didn’t for a second contemplate how he’d feel.

  If I’d known, maybe I’d have answered his call.

  One more emotion follows me home. Regret. It clings to me the rest of the night.

  * * *

  The next morning, I’m still thinking of regret when I get out of bed and head straight to my laptop.

  What if one of the heroes in my book is grappling with regret and lust at the same damn time?

  I noodle on those twin emotions for a bit as I tap out a few words, then the buzzer in my apartment bleats loudly. I pick up the intercom, and the doorman greets me with a good morning, then adds, “Guy named Slade says it’s time for a ride.”

  What the hell is that about? “Tell him I just got out of the shower so I’ll be out in ten.”

  Exactly ten minutes and a fast as fuck shower later, I slide into the back seat of his stretch limo. Slade smiles, but he doesn’t look happy. “It seems you forgot some of the basic rules of fake dating.”

  Just me? But even if I want to throw Jude under the bus, I don’t. “This may shock you, but this is the first time I’ve faked a romance. So you might want to enlighten this pretend-dating virgin.”

  Approval sparks in his dark eyes. “I like that sass. And I believe I speak for Mason when I say this,” he cups his mouth to boom, “Put that shit in your book.”

  I grimace, then grumble out a reply: “Thanks for the reminder that I need to write.”

  “You do, and that was fodder. Get your phone out, dictate a note as you do, and save that line for book number eleven that’s so overdue it’s like an elephant gestating.”

  Seriously?

  But since I have no clout with my agency at the moment, I comply. When I set my phone down, I give Slade the universal look for what’s the deal? “What am I in trouble for now?”

  “I’ll tell you after we pick up your dancing partner. I’m looking forward to ripping you two apart in tandem.” Slade lets out a satisfied sigh, rubbing his palms. “It gives me such professional joy, second only to firing someone.”

  This guy is officially a gleeful asshole.

  I rack my brain trying to figure out how Jude and I botched last night, other than not kissing cheeks. But I come up empty.

  Slade knocks on the partition and calls out to the driver in a friendly tone, telling him to head to the next address.

  Less than twelve hours after we parted ways, I’m going to see Jude again.

  The thought both bothers and excites me.

  9

  Recurring Dirty Daydream

  TJ

  * * *

  The irony is that when Slade interrupted me this morning, I’d written the first good sentence in months—I’ve been having a recurring dirty daydream. Granted, it’s only seven words, but they’re a lot better than the ten chapters my agent kiboshed the other day. This opening is interesting. It’s sexy. And it sets the scene for romance with a capital R.

  But I didn’t tell Slade I was busy making words. Don’t want to rile him up. Best to focus on things that make our handler happy.

  “What do you think of the Leopards’ chances next season?” I ask as the car cruises down Eighth Avenue.