“Because you’ve acted cold! These last months, you’ve acted like you were over him.” She wags a finger. “You’ve been all nose to the grindstone. Work, work, work. No mention of TJ.”

  “I wanted to be over him. And honestly, I’m not sure there’s much point in talking about him now, since it’s all a ruse,” I say a little heavily as I reach the last button.

  She gives me a doubtful look. “Is it, though? That kiss in the limo sounded pretty stinking hot.”

  “Right, but it’s not like we’re getting back together. I mean, Liv, they even have our fake boyfriend breakup scripted out for us.”

  “If it’s all just a ruse, why do you sound bummed about it ending eventually?”

  Because of the jittery, unpredictable way I feel around my ex—like a popcorn popper, about to explode. “You’re right,” I say as I roll up the cuffs. “We’re faking our romance, so who cares?”

  She arches a brow as she slinks forward and straightens my shirt. “You care.”

  “Hardly.” I tuck the shirt in, trying to hold my ground. Like, I’m not counting down the minutes till I see my ex. Like, I’m not replaying our kiss over and over. Like, I don’t care one bit.

  She steps back, her eyes touring my wardrobe: black trousers, the robin’s egg shirt, short black trendy boots. “Damn, I did well. TJ is going to be a hot mess tonight.”

  I can’t hold back my grin. “That’s very, very good.”

  Her face says busted, and I honestly don’t mind. “Like I said, you care,” Olivia says. “And I was right, which pleases me to no end. Now, tell me, why do you want him to be affected by you?”

  I don’t need to ponder her question as we leave my room. One day after that fierce, angry kiss in the back of a limo, I’ve got the answer. “Because he still does it for me,” I admit.

  And that’s very good for our fake boyfriend theater and very bad for my heart.

  When we exit the subway and head into the zoo of Times Square, Olivia tells me she’s going to run ahead because Amelia has demanded she come backstage.

  “Did she use those exact words? Come backstage?”

  “Yes, but she added pretty please.”

  “Did you meet your soul mate in Amelia Stone or what?”

  “Manners get me in the mood every time,” she says.

  “Which would explain why you’re taking off for the theater right now,” I say.

  She waves then flies through the crowd, determined to get some, it seems. I don’t rush, though, because I’m not going to show up sweaty and disheveled for the cameras. Or for TJ. But as I weave through the Eighth Avenue foot traffic, I text him that I’m on my way.

  Jude: Almost there. I’ve been running lines in my head all day for when I see you. We don’t want to fuck this one up for Daddy. How’s this for a greeting? “Hey there.”

  TJ: Brilliant. But who’s giving the cheek and who’s giving the kiss? Details, or Daddy will have a fit.

  Jude: If you’re as late as you were at the restaurant, I’ll have to kiss your cheek when you finally saunter in.

  TJ: That was a trick question. One, I can be trained, ergo I’m here already at the St. James. Two, you’re the star. Therefore, you offer the cheek, and I kiss it.

  I do like his logic. It’s sort of sweet, as if he wants to play the role of the man behind the scenes. As I turn onto Forty-Fourth Street, the shimmering marquee of the St. James beckoning against the March sky, I write back.

  Jude: Are you being cheeky?

  TJ: LOL!

  * * *

  Jude: Stop the presses. You use Internet abbreviations?

  * * *

  TJ: Take the compliment, Jude.

  * * *

  Jude: Taken. :) I’ll be there in five.

  TJ: I’ll be waiting.

  * * *

  My chest flutters at those three words. They’re a little romantic, a little poignant.

  Or maybe he’s simply playing his part.

  Ugh. I wish I knew what was fake and what was real with him. But I know this—I’d do well to avoid another obsession with him, so I should stop analyzing.

  As I near the theater, my phone rings. William’s name flashes on the screen, and I debate whether to pick it up.

  12

  When We Were Good, We Were Really Good

  Jude

  I don’t really have the time for a call, but I have to answer, considering the state William was in when I last saw him. What if I don’t and something happens? Or he breaks more than a hotel room? I step away from the crowds, darting into the doorway of a shuttered store. “Hey, mate. How’s it going?”

  I brace myself for the usual lies—everything is great. I swear, I’m fine. I just miss all my friends.

  But what I get instead is a deep breath. “Hey. I’m good. Really good. Listen, I wanted to say I’ve been thinking about what you said last time I saw you. When you took me home from the Luxe.”

  Hope rises in me. “Yeah?”

  “About making changes and whatnot,” he adds as if I don’t recall every word.

  “And what are you thinking?” Rehab. Please say rehab.

  He’s quiet, but New York’s not. Cabs lurch by, and crowds jabber. Somewhere nearby, a siren wails.

  “I’m definitely thinking,” he finally says.

  But if he can’t even say the word rehab, he might not be ready to quit drinking. “How’s it going this week? Have you been back at yoga?”

  “Oh!” There’s sunny excitement in his voice. “I didn’t tell you?” I wince. Those words rarely mean good news with alcoholics.

  “Tell me what?”

  “I have been going on the reg. My new yoga teacher is fine as fuck, and we went out last night for a smoothie.”

  “Is that code for something?”

  “No, it was legit a smoothie. Tonight, we’re going to . . . a bonfire on the beach.”

  Bonfires on the beach usually involve bottles. I check the time. “William, I need to take off. I’m due at the theater any minute. But be careful, okay?”

  “At the beach? Don’t you worry. I’ll fight off all the sharks.”

  “You know what I mean,” I say. Why the fuck won’t anyone else tell him the truth? Why won’t his family, his agent, his other friends? “I want you to think seriously about getting help,” I say, and tough love hurts. It’s gut-wrenching.

  “I know you do, Jude. And like I said, I’m thinking about it. I’ll talk to Damian about it.”

  “Is that your new guy?”

  “Let’s hope so. Have I mentioned he’s hot?”

  “Yes. Yes, you have,” I say, wishing his yoga fling was a good sign, when in fact, it’s probably a sign he’s turning to men, as well as alcohol, to fix whatever is empty inside him.

  “Anyway, you enjoy the show. Say hi to TJ for me. Would be fun for us to hang again now that you’re back with your man,” he says, and that’s the guy I know. Earnest, real, unfiltered.

  I latch onto the memory of the supportive person he can be. He’s always wanted his friends to be happy. “I will,” I say, though I know I won’t tell TJ I spoke to William.

  Anytime his name comes up, TJ turns into a jealous dragon . . .

  Wait a moment. This is bonkers. How did I miss that obvious fucking neon sign?

  If TJ’s jealous, that might mean he’s not over me after all.

  I’m practically buzzed as I tuck my phone into my pocket. When I reach the St. James, I’m still grinning. The lobby is teeming with photographers, snapping pics of influencers, producers, celebrities of all shapes and sizes.

  I cut through the crowds, saying hi here and there to a few industry people. I spot that guy from Food who TJ introduced me to earlier in the week—the Man’s Man. He’s built like a slab of beef. He tips his chin toward me. “Hey, Jude,” he says. “Whoa. Like The Beatles song.”

  Never heard that before. “Indeed, like The Beatles song, Malcolm.”

  “Good to see you again.” He offers his fist in some sort of frat-bro bump. Can I pretend I don’t see that? Not with all the paps around. But the last thing I want is someone taking a shot of me fist-bumping a frat bro, so I pat his shoulder in greeting instead.

  “Hope you enjoy the show, Malcolm. Lovely to see you again,” I say.

  “Tell your dude I DM’d him,” Malcolm calls out.

  I flash a red-carpet grin. “Absolutely.”

  I push him out of my mind, returning to the delight of TJ’s jealousy. When I find my date, he’s just beyond the doors, swiping the screen on his phone. My smile is unbeatable. So is my libido as I rake my gaze over the man from head to toe. He looks sharp in stylish black trousers and a shirt with—Are those psychedelic mushroom drawings on it?

  The man has style, and it’s because of me. The memory of thrifting in London is such a feel-good drug.

  I cut through the crowds, walking past a few photographers on the hunt for celeb shots, and stride right over to my date. When he notices me, he tucks his phone into his pocket. I stop a few inches away. Before he can say a word, I cup his face.

  Fuck cheek kisses. I want his sexy mouth, so I take it, lingering for a few risqué seconds on his lips.

  He trembles, then whispers, Wow.

  “Hope you don’t mind that I went off-script,” I murmur.

  His strong arm wraps around my waist. “Your ad-lib is on point.”

  When I pull away, he does as we planned, dropping a kiss to my cheek and . . . click.

  There’s a camera. There’s a flash of light. There’s Slade in the corner of the lobby, approvingly smiling as he chats with the morning news host from the infamous chicken dude interview.

  Slade mentioned he might grab tickets, so I’m not surprised to see him. Plus, as the press guy for a talent agency, no one would think he was here to babysit two clients faking a romance. He looks like he belongs.

  And perhaps, for the first time since we met again, TJ and I look like we belong together too.

  Trish beelines for us, clasping a mic, her blonde bob as unmoving as the hair on a Lego woman. I flash back to the viral video, picturing the moment when TJ’s ex refused to hold his hand on camera.

  I grab his hand. His brown-eyed gaze sails to our threaded fingers. Is he thinking about that other interview? Cataloging the differences?

  I hope so.

  Trish arrives and sticks out a hand. “Hi there, TJ. I’m Trish from the morning news, and we’ve talked in the past.”

  “Of course. Good to see you again,” he says, so smooth and on it.

  She shifts to me, introducing herself. “And I’ve adored you since Afternoon Delight and Our Secret Courtship. And, get ready for this—I even saw you in The Artificial Girlfriend way back when.”

  Whoa. That’s hardcore. “Hardly anyone mentions that show,” I say, truly surprised.

  TJ nudges my side. The pride on his face is picture-perfect. “Told you you were great in that.”

  Trish thrusts the mic in his face. “So, you saw The Artificial Girlfriend too?”

  “I did,” TJ says warmly. “Little-known fact. I helped Jude rehearse for that series.”

  Trish looks confused. “How did you do that?”

  TJ squeezes my hand, giving me an affectionate glance before returning his focus to Trish. “We were roomies for three weeks in London. Eight years ago,” he says, and the memories—dear God, the fucking amazing memories—of those twenty-one days hit me like the sun rising in the morning.

  “He helped me run lines for that audition,” I say.

  “He was nervous. But I knew he’d get it.”

  I smile, a little embarrassed. “He was very, very encouraging.”

  “That’s not all, Trish,” TJ says, and I freeze for a second, unsure where he’s going. Then, he turns to me and finishes, “Remember what I said about you getting an Oscar someday?”

  Damn, that’s sweet and sexy. I lift a finger, wag it. “Don’t jinx me.”

  He returns to Trish, who’s waiting with avid eyes with a laugh. “Allow me. I told him, and this is pretty much an exact quote, When you get your Oscar, be sure to thank me for running the lines that got you your breakout gig.”

  I smile for the twentieth time tonight, a little glowy everywhere.

  “You did say that.”

  Trish beams. “What a wonderful story. Roomies reunited.”

  “Hey, that could be the name of your book, TJ. Or wait—maybe The Roommate Arrangement. How about that?”

  He gives me a crooked grin. “You’re naming my books now, Jude?”

  “Seems I am,” I say, bumping my shoulder to his.

  “Just one more question,” Trish says. We’ve made it this far, so I mentally cross my fingers that she isn’t about to curveball me with an Is William really just a friend?

  She turns to my date instead. “TJ, is it too soon to expect that Jude might inspire your next big book?”

  He blinks as if he’s caught unprepared. Then he parts his lips to speak, but no sound comes. He looks lost.

  I jump in. “A man can hope. Thanks again, Trish.” I want to ask him what’s wrong, but a few more bloggers ask for photos, so we smile and pose and answer a few simple questions.

  Are you looking forward to the musical?

  -Absolutely.

  What do you think of your Oscar prospects?

  -It’s an honor to be nominated.

  How are you enjoying New York?

  -It’s wonderful, especially since my boyfriend’s here.

  When we’re done, I guide TJ away from the spotlight of reporters and away from Slade and the handsome man by his side, presumably his date. I tug TJ into a corner of the theater, near a bar. “Sorry Trish asked you that.”

  He shakes his head like he’s trying to shake off a mood. “It’s okay. It’s not a big deal.”

  But his smile is unconvincing. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m positive,” he says firmly, then nods to the seats. “Should we sit?”

  We do, and I’m left with that all-too-familiar feeling that he’s keeping secrets. Just when I let myself believe he might feel something for me, I’m reminded of why we’re bad for each other.

  We are friction. We scrape, and we grate. That’s the problem. When we’ve been good, we’ve been very good.

  Trouble is, we don’t always talk to each other. We don’t break down walls very well.

  But we’ve got to sell this fake romance, so I focus on the job and the parts we’re playing. As the house lights flicker, I take his hand, squeeze it, and kiss his cheek once more. “You look good tonight.” That’s true, but it’s also easy to say.

  He turns to me, his expression serious, his eyes vulnerable. “Lately, I don’t like it when people ask where my ideas come from,” he says softly, just for me. “It makes me feel like a failure. Like I have no imagination. I already feel that way.”

  That’s a surprising one-eighty, but a damn welcome one as TJ unexpectedly opens up to me. Though I hate that he’s so hard on himself, I’m touched that he’s sharing. “You’re not a failure. You’re brilliant, and you’re creative, and you’re just going through a rough patch.”

  He shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m broken.”

  I squeeze his shoulder, trying to impart some confidence to him. “You’re not. I’ve been through times like that when nothing is happening. But you’re not broken. This is a business of ups and downs.”

  “It’s a lot of down right now,” he says, blowing out a heavy breath.

  “It’ll change. I’ve read your books. And besides, now I have to inspire you, as Slade said. Take you on swoony dates,” I say, trying to lift his spirits as I raise my hand and play with the ends of his hair.

  He offers a small smile. “Thanks. It’s a little silly. The whole thing is.”

  “Yes, it is. But we can do this. We convinced Trish. We fucking nailed that. And we are going to nail the dating thing,” I say, my face dipping closer to his. And fuck it. I want to kiss him, and I’m pretty sure he wants me to.

  Our lips brush, and my whole body feels every delicious second of it.

  “Mmm,” he murmurs, and as we kiss chastely for the theater, an idea flashes before me, bright and brilliant.

  When we separate, I say, “Why don’t we do what we did in London?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We scoped out places for your book. The novel you were working on. Why don’t we do that and find some places in New York? Fun, off-the-beaten-path, or just pure date-y places.”

  He takes a few seconds, maybe to process my offer. “I’d like that.” Then he grins. “A whole lot more than seeing a musical.”

  “Oh, please. You’re going to love it.”

  “Doubtful,” he says as the audience claps, and the overture begins.

  I turn to the stage but remember my lobby run-in with the Man’s Man. I don’t want to forget my messenger role just in case it’s important to TJ someday. I lean in closer, cup my hand over his ear. “By the way, try not to get too excited. But Malcolm is here. He told me to tell you he DM’d you. Isn’t that thrilling?”

  TJ shudders in over-the-top glee. “I can’t wait.”

  I laugh. “Can I please tag along when you meet him for drinks? It would be fantastic character work if I ever have to play a douchey dude.”

  “Anything for research,” he says, then we turn our attention to the stage.

  Two and a half hours later, we give the cast a standing ovation then make our way out of the theater. “And you loved it, right? You totally loved it?”

  He scoffs. “I would say I tolerated it.”

  I tease him about hating musicals until we emerge on the street. Taxis line up, and theatergoers head for restaurants or home. It’s the moment of truth.

  This is where we fucked up the other night. This is where we need to nail it.