Total pages in book: 244
Estimated words: 236705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1184(@200wpm)___ 947(@250wpm)___ 789(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 236705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1184(@200wpm)___ 947(@250wpm)___ 789(@300wpm)
Once upon a time, the sexy, witty Brit was just that hot guy I met my first day in London.
Then, it turned out we were sharing a flat.
But living that close to the most charming man I’d ever met was one step away from falling in love with him.
Newsflash–I fell. Hard and fast into a swoony, epic romance that felt like something out of a movie…
Until an ocean pulled us apart.
Years later, fate tried to put us back together again.
But by then, two hearts were broken and I wasn’t sure anything could fix them. Especially, the plan for us to pretend we were in love when we’d come to hate each other…
Includes:
Hopelessly Bromantic
Here Comes My Man
NOTE: As an added bonus, this collection also includes the standalone romance novel The Bromance Zone!
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
HOPELESSLY BROMANTIC
BOOK 1 IN THE HOPELESSLY BROMANTIC DUET
by Lauren Blakely writing as L. Blakely.
To be the first to find out when all of my upcoming MM books go live click here!
PRO TIP: Add lauren@laurenblakely.com to your contacts before signing up to make sure the emails go to your inbox!
Did you know this book is also available in audio and paperback on all major retailers? Go to my website for links!
PROLOGUE
SOME GUYS ARE JUST LIKE THAT
TJ
Present Day
Seven years ago, when my boss hit me with the news that he was sending me to London for the next twelve months, I could picture my nights unfolding like a dirty fairy tale.
After working my ass off all day, I’d hit the music bars, check out cool new bands, and meet hot guys. They’d charm me with their accents, and I’d charm them with my wit, and we’d bang till Big Ben struck morning O-O-O-and-one-more-O’clock.
My sex life would be nothing like it was in college, which was a lot like a drought—a famine from which, two years post-graduation, I’d only recently started to emerge.
But Ye Olde London? It would be a beefeater feast.
And sure, yeah, a great work opportunity. Obviously. And I wanted that because I had goals. Big ones.
Little ones too.
First, I wanted to stop at the bookstore on Cecil Court I went to on a family trip when I was an awkward teenager. While my parents hunted for a guidebook, I browsed the paperbacks, and for the first time in my life, I visualized my name on a cover. I left there with an armload of books . . . and a dream.
The bookshop was one of the first places I went when I arrived in London seven years ago. I wanted an auspicious beginning to my year abroad. Full circle and all that.
But that time, when I reached Cecil Court, it wasn’t a paperback that sparked my dreams.
It was a man.
This bloke had more charm and appeal than any hero I could write into a novel.
But he wasn’t simply between the covers of a story, where I could mastermind the ending. He was vibrant, real, and the most thrilling time I’d ever had. Soon, my London life was full of him.
And—spoiler alert—this guy in the bookstore was going to upend my world, not once, but twice.
Some guys were like that. They stayed with you, even when you wanted them out of your head.
And they left, even when you wanted them to stay.
PART ONE
Seven Years Ago
And so it begins . . .
1
WHAT KIND OF LAP DANCES DOES HE LIKE?
Jude
This is the greatest vacuum cleaner ever. There has never been a better one in all the land. It’s literally going to change your life.
I repeat those notes from my agent before I head into the audition room—a drab, windowless shoebox of a place above a strip club on the outskirts of Leicester Square.
I’ve got no problem with the business of exotic dancing. But all things being equal, I’d rather audition for a new commercial above, say, a Tesco or an insurance office.
But a gig is a gig is a gig.
I put on my best smile as I give the casting director my name. “Jude Graham with Premier Talent. Harry Atkinson reps me, and it’s a pleasure to be here.”
The casting director looks up from her tablet, question marks in her eyes. “Harry? I thought he was—” She makes a slashing gesture against her throat.
“I hope not. I saw him a week ago. Very much alive. And also, not headless.”
“Ah, must have been someone else,” she says.
Yes, I’ve noticed the epidemic of talent-agent beheadings in London lately.
“Sorry for whoever that might be,” I add.
She smiles faintly, the thick coat of plum lipstick cracking. “All right, show us you’re in the market for a Cleaneroo.”
Somehow, she manages to keep a straight face when she says the brand name—something I’ll be required to do in three, two, one . . .