And it’s for the best. We don’t need to make plans to see each other outside of this ruse. He might like to flirt with me—he might even enjoy the view of my chest—but he’s not making plans with me, nor am I making plans with him.

  We’re over, and he’s so clearly moved on. Too bad I haven’t.

  But I’ve got to try, once and for all.

  As we head down the hall, passing the open door to his bedroom, I tear my gaze away from those sheets.

  Don’t want to see his bed. Don’t want to imagine pulling him down onto me, wrapping my arms tight around him.

  Maybe I won’t write Fake Dating My Ex. That story might be too hard to tell.

  My heart aches painfully, a weight in my chest.

  But then, isn’t that how I felt when I wrote my first romance several months after I left London? A little achy? Stuffed to the brim with missing and longing and want? But back then, Jude was the guy who got away. Now, he’s my ex.

  And I’m one of a handful of guys from his past.

  Along with Robert the Wanker, who somehow wasn’t that into Jude, and Arlo, who cheated on him.

  The possibility that I could be lumped with those assholes claws at me.

  When we reach the front door, I grab it and hold it open. Jude always had a thing for gentlemen. I can be a better ex than those schmucks who didn’t appreciate this man by my side.

  “Thank you,” he says, then drops a kiss to my cheek once we’re on the stoop.

  Like he’d do if I’d spent the night and I was leaving in the morning.

  Oh, fuck.

  That’s it.

  That’s what we missed.

  But before I can tell Jude I cracked the Daddy code, the driver emerges and holds open the limo door for Jude and me.

  After we slide inside, Slade wastes no time. “Nice move with the front door, TJ. Keep that up. Jude, nice move with the cheek kiss. It almost makes up for last night’s faux fucking pas,” he says as the driver pulls away. “Let me break this down for you. You two messed up last night—”

  “When we left separately,” I cut in because I want points for solving the mystery.

  Slade slow claps. “Yes! You figured it out. But it would have been better if you’d Sherlocked that answer last night, since Desmond Ratchet made a thing of you lovebirds leaving separately on Spotted in the Wild.”

  Dragging a hand through his blond locks, Jude groans. “Ugh. His blog is all gossip and paps shots.”

  “Yes. And the public loves gossip and paps shots. But we at CTM don’t love gossip and paps shots about our rising star and Oscar-nominated talent who’s playing a good guy on the new LGO show, do we?”

  “No,” Jude says, dipping his face.

  “So, let me remind you. Being boyfriends surprisingly means you have to act like you like each other. That also means—egad—leaving together because we want everyone to think you’re banging. But does Desmond think you’re banging?”

  I gulp. “I’m guessing the answer is no.”

  Slade clears his throat as he grabs his tablet. “From Spotted in the Wild,” and hits play on Desmond’s video report. “Hot new couple Jude Fox and TJ Hardman might be headed toward breakup already. Last night, the pair went to Food but left separately without so much as a kiss goodnight. We’re predicting a mutual split by next week. Who wants to place bets the Oscar-nommed actor is missing that naughty rocker?”

  The anger that faded when Jude splashed me with tea reappears at the mention of William.

  We’re not in this together. We’re in this against each other.

  I’m such an idiot to think more of his eye-fucking and his flirting. That’s just part of his Judeness. Probably part of what seduced William too.

  “It’s all fucking poppycock,” Jude says.

  “Or pop-star cock,” I mutter under my breath.

  Jude snaps his gaze to me. “What did you just say?”

  “It’s like being cold-cocked,” I say innocently.

  Jude stares at me like he doesn’t buy it. Whatever.

  Slade sighs. “I’m not refereeing a lovers’ spat. You two need to step it up,” he says, then lasers his eyes at me. “TJ, I expect you won’t be the smoothest since your skill is peacocking with words. But Jude,” he says, shaking his head, “you’re an actor. You should do better. Sell this romance, like we talked about. How hard is it? You have less chemistry than I do with my aunt! You two didn’t even kiss last night!”

  “Yes, we did,” I point out, annoyance flooding the whole car. I can smell the fumes coming off me.

  “We definitely kissed,” Jude seconds.

  “Ooh, big deal. Did anyone see it?”

  “Are we supposed to scan for cameras before we smooch?” Jude asks.

  “Yes!” Slade shouts. “I’m not having you pretend to be lovers in private. You’re putting on a show. Tap dance, razzle-dazzle. Find the lens, then give that smolder to the crowd. If two men kiss in a forest and no one is around to see it, did they even kiss?”

  Jude hauls in a breath, his eyes fiery. “We kissed on the cheek in the middle of the restaurant. Right after you texted, and it was a great kiss. It was a fucking amazing kiss. I was not thinking of anyone else,” Jude bites out and, wow, he sounds livid.

  But why? He’s over us. He’s over me.

  I’ve only seen him this angry once before, and that was the day we split.

  10

  The Proof is in the Limo

  Jude

  Seriously.

  That kiss last night was incendiary. TJ barely touched me in the restaurant, and I was up in flames.

  Like I was when he took off his shirt a few minutes ago.

  What the hell is wrong with Desmond? If there’s one thing TJ and I have always done well, it’s touch.

  But Slade doesn’t seem to think so. “How would I know it was great?” the PR guy counters like a cross-examiner.

  I can’t believe this ruse isn’t working. How are we failing so horribly at pretending we’re into each other? It makes no sense.

  “I’ll show you,” I hiss, then jerk my gaze to the guy next to me. The sexy, beardy, brooding man who’s no longer falling for me. Who’s, actively, by the hour, getting over me more and more.

  I hate that he’s over us.

  Just fucking hate it.

  I grab his jaw and plant one on his cheek. Lingering right above all that scratchy stubble. God, he feels good. He smells good. That aftershave . . . that woodsy scent. Is it the same one he wore in London?

  Hope dares to race through me.

  I break the kiss, hold my hands out wide. “I probably even have beard burn,” I say.

  But Slade doesn’t buy it. He drags a hand down his face. “Get him a fake boyfriend, they said. How about having him volunteer at a nursing home, I said. Why don’t they listen to me?” Slade lifts his gaze. “Jude, you look like you’re performing. Just be natural.”

  What?

  He’s wrong. He’s so fucking wrong. “That was natural,” I protest.

  “TJ, you look like you’re thinking of someone else,” Slade says, and I wither. My God, TJ is done with me if Slade can tell he’s not into it. “Act like you like his cheek kisses. It can’t be hard. Think of the last guy you really liked if you can’t fake it for Jude, OK?”

  Stab me in the broken heart, Slade.

  Now, TJ will kiss me and think of Flynn, the Chicken King. Something I could have prevented if I’d calmly listened to him in Los Angeles about the Webflix deal. And I should have told TJ years ago that I stumbled across a few lines in his journal. At the very least, I should never have flung those lines back in his face in Venice. I sealed my romantic fate that day.

  No wonder he didn’t pick up the phone when I called him.

  Regret is my new middle name.

  “Listen,” Slade continues. “You’re going to attend the opening night of Adventures of The Last Single Guy in New York tomorrow. There will be a red carpet, bloggers, and photographers. I need you to be believable.” Slade checks his watch. “I have a meeting with Trish’s Morning Show. She’ll be at the theater too, and I’ll be sure to remind her that William is just a friend.”

  “He is just a friend,” I say with a huff.

  “Anyway, after the driver drops me off, why don’t you spend the next few minutes heading downtown, holding hands, and getting to know each other better. Because let me tell you how this works.” His stern eyes land on me. “You don’t get out of this fake boyfriend deal until TJ writes.”

  What on earth does that mean? “Do I have to chain him to a keyboard?”

  “No, Jude. Don’t be ridiculous. Take him out. On dates. Mason wants pages. Whole chapters. A good, swoony, sexy story. So inspire him.”

  I wish I could. I wish TJ knew I wanted to inspire him years ago. I wish I’d inspired his breakout book, not Flynn. God, unrequited feelings can suck it.

  Slade shifts his attention to my partner in crime. “And you don’t get out of this till the publicity tide turns for Jude. Which I will determine. But let me give you a hint. It starts with coverage that’s full of hearts a-fluttering for you two. You’re both invested in each other.”

  TJ sinks back in the leather seat. “And, ladies and gentlemen, that is what we call stakes and the pressure of a ticking clock,” he says, then grabs his phone and taps something into it.

  Bet he’s taking a note on how one of his heroes shouldn’t kiss.

  Bet he’s writing about how much his hero is over his ex.

  “Now, do your homework so you don’t look like a couple of guys who are fake dating, because that will be a far, far worse story for the bloggers to get a hold of. That’s the kind of story that might make CTM drop you. You feel me?” Slade asks, but he doesn’t wait for our answer as he raps on the partition telling the driver he needs to go.

  The car pulls over, and when Slade leaves with a blown kiss, it’s just TJ and me again. I steal a glance at my former roommate, who looks unfairly better than he did when he left me.

  But also a little sadder.

  Like me.

  As the car pulls away from the curb, heading down Fifth Avenue, I defend my lips. My pride too. “That kiss was natural.”

  “You heard Slade,” TJ says, too nonchalant for my taste. “You were overselling it. Maybe it would help if you thought of someone else. Just an idea.”

  I want to tear my hair out. Doesn’t he get it? There’s no one else. “Like you were?”

  “And why would it matter to you if I was?”

  Because I want the truth from you. But hell if I’ll admit that. Instead, I call him on the lie as I lock eyes with my one-time lover. “You weren’t thinking of someone else. I hear the way your breath catches when I’m near you.”

  “Is that so?” TJ tries to stay cool, but his voice hitches as I stare at his lips.

  I push on, leaning closer, issuing an accusation. “Whenever I get near you, you shudder.”

  “And what about you? What do you do?” TJ sounds as frustrated as I am. But also, as aroused.

  “I do the fucking same, because I want to kiss you.” Holy hell, that was like ripping off a layer of my soul.

  His brown eyes glimmer with outrageous hope, but then they darken like he’s shutting down that possibility. “Well, you didn’t show it.”

  “Then I will now,” I say, my skin sizzling with lust. The temperature in the back seat is scorching.

  “How?”

  I bite the corner of my lips, knowing this drives him wild with desire.

  TJ fights like hell to be stoic. But he hardly lasts. He lunges at me. Grabbing my face, he whispers against my lips, “Prove it, Jude Fox.”

  “Gladly.” I crush my lips to his.

  Oh, yes.

  I kiss TJ the way I wanted to last night. With all the passion I’ve ever felt for him. With all the anger that courses through me now. With all the regret, the hurt, and the mistakes I’ve made.

  I give it all to his mouth as I kiss him furiously. Our tongues tangle as we battle for dominance. He consumes my lips, and I devour his right back.

  He licks into my mouth, and I suck on his tongue. Our hands grapple in each other’s hair, claw at each other’s clothes.

  We are merciless. This kiss is beyond genuine. Neither one of us was performing last night. There’s nothing fake about our red-hot attraction.

  I grab the back of his head, my hands curling through his hair. His palms slide down my chest, and he clutches at my shirt, jerking me closer.

  As I show him that our kiss was natural, and as he demonstrates that he only thinks of me, we play a brand-new game.

  Who can wind up his ex more?

  I want to make him crazy, just like missing him for ten long months has driven me mad. I touch him that way, hard and ruthless as the limo weaves downtown, my mind races to clothes coming off, to bodies connecting.

  I’m dying to invite him over. To get naked with him. To come together again.

  The car lurches to an abrupt stop at a light. We jerk away from each other.

  Like a predator, TJ stares silently at me. He wants to take me apart. His eyes shine with lust; his lips are swollen with need.

  Then, he pulls back, smooths a hand down his shirt. “You’re right. That was convincing,” he says as if that’s why we kissed.

  To make sure we can pull it off.

  That proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that we can kiss. Hell, that kiss could be evidence in a trial.

  “We shouldn’t have a problem at the theater,” I say, my chest still rising and falling.

  He blows out a breath and turns to me like he wants to say something.

  But he’s quiet.

  I am too.

  Finally, he points to the window and the street beyond. “I should go. Or else . . .”

  Or else what?

  But maybe I don’t want to know the answer. When he asks the driver to pull over, I say nothing but goodbye.

  As I watch him walk away, I wish it were tomorrow so we could explore whether this kiss was just a fluke . . .

  11

  Being Cheeky

  Jude

  Man can’t survive on his opinion alone.

  Fortunately, I have a woman to help me pick the right outfit. My bed is littered with the wrong ones.

  I take off a pale-yellow linen button-up and toss it on the pile. “Supplies are rapidly dwindling, Liv,” I warn as the mountain of do-not-wear shirts grows taller.

  She ignores my concern, flicking through the shirts still on hangers at lightning speed. “Not that one,” Olivia declares as she nixes a purple button-up.

  “I like aubergine,” I protest.

  “I like eggplant, too,” she says, tossing me a bawdy wink. “And peaches. But this shirt doesn’t say anything.”

  “It’s a shirt. What do you want it to say?”

  That earns me a sharp stare. “Seriously, Jude?”

  “Yes, seriously. That’s why I’m asking.” I flap a hand at the pile. “At this rate, I’ll have nothing left to wear.”

  “Poor Jude will have to go shirtless. Cry me a fucking river.”

  “The abuse, dear woman. The abuse I endure.”

  “You’ll miss your free stylist when you’re paying some Hollywood person a pretty penny for picking your wardrobe.”

  “I’m not going to have a stylist,” I say. That’s too wild a thought. I still can’t truly believe I nabbed the part in If Found, Please Return, let alone that critics lauded it. I can barely breathe out loud that I’ve been nominated. It’s all too surreal, especially after those two years when I hardly worked at all.

  Those dark days never feel like they’re in the past. Just like that, I could be there again, so I need to stay several steps ahead.

  “You are,” Olivia insists. “In, oh, say, three fucking weeks, when you go to Los Angeles and accept your Academy Award.”

  I cover my ears. “Tra la la la la.”

  Stopping her shirt perusal, she grabs my hands. “Please. Don’t be so modest. You’re going to win, and I’m going to be right, and it’s going to be fucking fabulous.”

  “What part are you looking forward to the most? Being right?”

  She wiggles her brows as she returns to the wardrobe assessment. “Obviously. Being right is one of my favorite things. After dark chocolate cake and multiple orgasms, both of which are on my agenda tonight. Amelia got a new toy to try, so after the show, it’ll be time for cake and banging.”

  “In that order?”

  She lifts a finger, pausing to think. “Fair point. She’s been sending me nudes all day, so maybe I want the banging first, then the chocolate cake.”

  I laugh. “So you’re going to squeeze in a quickie before Adventures of The Last Single Guy in New York?”

  “Well, Amelia doesn’t take long to get in makeup.” Olivia stares at the ceiling and taps her lip, likely adding up the minutes to blast off for her and her new main squeeze—the former London Wicked star who’s playing one of the leads in the show we’re seeing tonight. “Now that you bring it up, if I leave right now, I could probably just nip off to her dressing room and sit on her face before she puts on her mascara.”

  I roll my eyes. “I can’t take you anywhere.”

  “And I can’t take you to opening night if we don’t pick out some clothes. Stop taking so long.”

  “Right, right. It’s me taking forever.”

  “It so is,” she says, then wheels around to the closet. She gasps and makes a slow-mo point to a robin’s-egg blue shirt. “This shirt says something. It says ‘hot rising star.’ You’re wearing this, and you’re going to look fucking amazing, and TJ is going to melt to pieces when he sees you.”

  That’s reason enough. I snatch it from the hanger and put it on.

  “You want him to melt, don’t you?” Olivia goads like she’s caught me K-I-S-S-I-N-G in a tree.

  No point pretending with her. She can always sniff out the truth. “Yes.”

  She swats my shoulder. “I knew it!”

  I shoot her a dry look. “You say that like me wanting TJ to melt is a surprise.”