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.”
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 . . .