REALITY CHECK
TJ
Jude is busy the rest of Friday afternoon. Slade arranged for a publicity assistant to escort the rising star to a handful of various interviews in the city, meeting with entertainment press about the movie and the Oscars.
That gives me plenty of time alone in the hotel room to bang out another chapter. I settle into the couch and write my ass off.
When I finish in the early evening, I check my texts. My app is drowning in messages from my friends about sushi tomorrow.
They’re all in. Jason, Luke, and Christian too. Jason lands tomorrow, as he said, but Luke’s here and wants to know if we’re free tonight. Christian asks who’s up for a few rounds of poker tonight.
Cards with new friends and my guy? Kind of sounds . . . perfect, so I reply: Let me check with Jude when he gets back.
I hit send, then re-read my message. Something just feels right about making these kinds of plans, this kind of way.
I’m about to exit the app when a new text from my brother pops up.
I never replied to his earlier one. I’m officially a very bad twin. I click open his note. Fine, don’t tell me shit, but you look happy. Nice pic in The Hollywood Scoop.
Pic? What pic is he talking about?
Nerves prickle along my neckasI sit bolt upright and jump onto the blog. Scrolling the home page, I spot a piece titled What Happens in Vegas . . .
With terror in my veins, I open the blog post.
The hottest new Hollywood ship was spotted by yours truly this morning. Jude Fox and TJ Hardman indulged in this too cute for words selfie after an Egg-asmic breakfast at The Invitation. They are so adorbs they’re warming this jaded blogger’s cold, black heart.
Good thing this romance is heating up. If the wheels keep falling off the Top-Notch Boyfriend Webflix train, Hardman will need someone to turn to when the project derails.
Dread coils in my gut.
That’s why the blonde from earlier looked eerily familiar. She’s Rikki Finch, the blogger.
I click over to my contacts and hit Mason’s name at the speed of sound. I barely have time for hello. “What is this Hollywood Scoop piece all about?”
“TJ, what have I told you about the gossip blog?” He sounds exasperated.
I’m sure he once bequeathed wisdom to me on the topic, but I can’t remember where I stashed that chestnut. “I don’t know. Just tell me. My heart is racing at a thousand miles an hour.”
“Get a drink. Take a bath. Listen to some music.”
“I hate baths,” I grumble.
“Because you hate relaxation.” He knows me far too well. “But there is nothing you can do about gossip blogs, so go play blackjack, or chill out with your man. Everyone has an agenda and Rikki Finch’s agenda is clicks. Read the piece again. There’s nothing new in it. She snapped a pic of you and now she’s trying to tie the pic to your Webflix deal to make it seem newsy.”
A voice calls out on his end of the phone, but I can’t make out what his husband says.
“I’ll be right there, hot stuff. It’s TJ,” Mason replies to Tremaine. A pause. “I’ll send him your love and then get the fuck off. Message received.”
I yank the phone away from my face. Shit. It’s nearly seven, which means it’s almost ten in New York. “Sorry, Mason. It’s Friday night. Go have fun with your hubs.”
“I will. We’re going to take a bath, since you’re not.”
Rolling my eyes, I laugh. “Okay, that was TMI.”
“Nope. It wasn’t. I’ve read your books. That was not TMI at all. Now, consider this an order: go enjoy a nice platonic date with your fake boyfriend and let it inspire you.”
Real, I say to myself.
Everything with Jude feels real.
* * *
An hour later, my fake boyfriend and I play poker with Christian and Luke.
“So then I said, Yes, of course I do all my own stunts, except for any involving cats. That’s where I draw the line,” Christian says as he slides a chip across the felt.
“The fe-line line, is it?” Jude asks playfully.
Christian shudders. “Claws. Who wants to mess with that?” he says as the tuxedoed dealer slaps two cards down for Jude.
“I’ll make sure to work a stunt double for any cat scenes into my next contract,” Jude says as he picks up the cards.
“Nothing is more terrifying than a cat. Not even a three-hundred-pound lineman coming at you on the line of scrimmage,” the golden-boy football player, Luke, puts in.
“Cats are officially the worst,” Jude says, then adds sheepishly. “I still want one, though.”
Luke chuckles, then stage whispers. “Dude, I have two. I think they hate me and are plotting to kill me.”
“They probably are,” Christian says in mock seriousness. “And I hope you’re prepared for a sneak attack at any moment.”
“As prepared as anyone can ever be,” Luke says, then ups the ante with another chip. “And still, I love the fuckers.”
“Same here,” Jude says.
That tracks. I always thought he was a cat person, and I can picture him adopting one. A vexing Siamese that keeps watch over his washer/dryer and drives him batty.
I kick back and listen to the guys as I consider my hand, psyched everyone’s getting along and that I’m learning more about Jude.
It’s a fun evening, and I’m pretty sure a few photogs snap pics of all of us. That ought to make Slade happy—a big old group hang. I recognize Piper Grace and that guy from Spotted in the Wild who opined on Jude and me going home separately the other week. Ha. That won’t happen tonight, bloggers.
I enjoy every second with the guys. But when the card game winds down, it’s time to take my agent’s excellent advice all the way.
Enjoy Jude.
It’s an order, after all.
We say goodbye to Christian and Luke, and in the elevator ride up to our suite, I block Webflix, Top-Notch Boyfriend, Rikki Finch, and everything else in the world from my mind.
I shove Jude against the wall, pin his wrists above him. I only have space in my head for this man. “How do you feel about the view in our room?”
“How should I feel?” He’s sultry and sexy as I grind against his welcoming hard-on.
“Tell me how you feel when I’m nailing you in about ten minutes.”
* * *
I’m balls deep in a naked, sweaty, panting Jude when he gives me the answer. “So fucking good,” he rasps.
His hands slam against the floor-to-ceiling windows in our suite. Vegas blinks in all its neon glory below, and I am drowning in desire.
My fingers curl tight around his firm ass as I drive into him. Jude reaches a hand back, grabs hold of my hip, yanks me deeper. “Harder,” he urges.
The grin stays with me as I head downstairs, weave through the casino, and cross the walkway to the hotel across the Strip.
But when I enter Speakeasy and find Malcolm next to the blonde who took our picture yesterday, the grin vanishes.
“TJ, my man!” Malcolm calls out, patting the stool next to him. “Get the fuck over here.”
I close the distance to Malcolm and Rikki Finch with an anvil in my gut. She’s the woman who broke the news of my Webflix deal, then who ran the pics of William and Jude, then who called the Top-Notch Boyfriend adaptation a rom-comedy of errors.
And her reports are usually right.