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)
This guy is officially a gleeful asshole.
I rack my brain trying to figure out how Jude and I botched last night, other than not kissing cheeks. But I come up empty.
Slade knocks on the partition and calls out to the driver in a friendly tone, telling him to head to the next address.
Less than twelve hours after we parted ways, I’m going to see Jude again.
The thought both bothers and excites me.
9
RECURRING DIRTY DAYDREAM
TJ
The irony is that when Slade interrupted me this morning, I’d written the first good sentence in months—I’ve been having a recurring dirty daydream. Granted, it’s only seven words, but they’re a lot better than the ten chapters my agent kiboshed the other day. This opening is interesting. It’s sexy. And it sets the scene for romance with a capital R.
But I didn’t tell Slade I was busy making words. Don’t want to rile him up. Best to focus on things that make our handler happy.
“What do you think of the Leopards’ chances next season?” I ask as the car cruises down Eighth Avenue.
Slade grabs a cup of coffee from the console cupholder. “I want to see Luke Remington get some playing time in the pocket. How long does he have to warm the bench?” Slade asks as an annoyed football fan, which is pretty much the main kind of fan there is.
“Too long. Would be nice to see him leading the team,” I say, petting the angry kitty with sports talk.
“But is Luke on a path to become the QB? Nope. Translation: I am not getting what I want this morning on any front,” he says, and okay, that attempt at light conversation backfired.
I’ll just drink a cup of shut-the-fuck-up while Slade downs some coffee.
He sets his cup next to another one. He must really be ticked—it’s a double caffeine day, and it’s only nine. Slade starts in on the offensive line problems, and I peer out the window as the car swings onto Jane Street.
Holy shit. The guy I fell in love with twice lives twenty stinking blocks south of me. Did I barely miss him someday on the subway in the last month? We cruise past Champagne Taste, a consignment shop Hazel and I went to a week ago. Has Jude ever shopped there? What if I’d bumped into him outside the shop? Or in the dressing rooms?
That would have been wild.
My pulse spikes annoyingly at either prospect as I record every detail of the utter Judeness of this block.
The cobbled street. The canopy of trees. The brick buildings. Jane Street is the most gorgeous one in all of Manhattan, so of course, Jude lives here.
When the car pulls to the curb, I whip my gaze to Slade. “Do you want me to get him?”
He shoots me a you can’t be this dumb look. “That’s what I was just saying. Yes, I want you to get your boyfriend. Bound up the steps and give him the kiss on the cheek you failed to give him last night. He knows you’re coming.”
“You gave Jude a heads-up that you were on your way but not me?”
“He’s an actor. They take longer to get ready. Anyone who has ever been on a book tour with you knows you go from being sleepy to sexy in fifteen minutes flat. It’s your superhero skill.”
Fine. That’s not a bad skill to have.
Slade grabs the extra cup next to his coffee. “Here’s the Earl Grey you got Jude this morning.”
“Wow, I’m a thoughtful boyfriend,” I say drily.
“I wish you were, TJ. But feel free to start right now,” Slade says. He is such a delighted jackass.
After swinging the car door open, I get out and head toward the picturesque wrought-iron gate that opens onto a bright green stoop. I glance down the block. No one is looking. Photographers aren’t here snapping shots.
What is the point of this boyfriend theater?
But then, I find the answer in my own overactive writer brain. Because if I were writing this fake boyfriend story, Slade’s role in it would be to make us stay in character for as long as possible. He thinks we’re failing at playing our parts. Trouble is, I’ve no idea why. But I want to solve this scavenger hunt since problem-solving is my job.
I ring the buzzer then check my reflection in the foyer window. When meeting your fake boyfriend, it’s important to look good.
Hey! Maybe that’s a new rule for Fake Dating My Ex.
And whoa, hello title.
Grabbing my phone from my pocket, I dictate another note. The number-one rule for fake dating your ex? Thou shalt look fuck-hot at all times.
And I do, wearing my black button-down with tiny sushi illustrations on the front pocket. The sleeves are nice and tight, and the shirt fits like a glove.
Let Jude enjoy the view. All this could have been his if he’d trusted me ten months ago. I could give him this tea today for real. Hell, I could kiss him like he’s been mine for the last year. I could romance him all over the city and make him feel like a prince.