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)
He jerks his head around, one brow lifted in question.
“New York real estate porn, that is,” I add.
Jude tosses his head back and laughs. “This is triple-X variety then.” Halfway down the hall, he opens a door with a creak of the hinges. “And here is the money shot. I’ve got tissues in case you need them straightaway.”
“Ohhhh God,” I groan salaciously as I stare at the stacked appliances. “I just came in my pants.”
Jude cracks up. “You should use that in your book.”
First Slade, now Jude with the suggestions. Am I funnier today than I was yesterday? If I am, I’d like to channel it for good—the good of my deadline. “Perhaps I will, since laundry in the home is its own foreplay,” I say as he tosses the shirt into the dryer.
He turns the dial, then leans against the machine, adopting a too-dirty look. “And I’m running this bad boy on . . . high heat.”
“Now I can really picture the scene perfectly,” I say.
“See? I’m very inspiring.” The way Jude stares at me then fights not to stare again kicks up heat in my chest.
That’s a good sensation—a familiar one. Sometimes, when I write the banter and the slow, sweet ache of tension, I feel this same kind of longing as I type. Like I do right now as Jude Fox gives me all sorts of slow-burn vibes while he undresses me with his eyes.
Yup, this is my hero’s recurring dirty daydream, for sure.
Will he act on it is the question.
But wait.
Stop. Just fucking stop.
I can’t even consider acting on anything.
Jude is dangerous. Jude is the guy who stole my creativity. Just because he likes me shirtless doesn’t change the score between us. He accused me of something I didn’t do. He flung my private words back at me.
And I walked away from him and froze him out.
Ergo, we are all the way broken up.
I try to focus on something else. Anything else. The creaky door. “Do you want me to fix your door? It’s a little loose,” I say, trying to shake the gravel from my voice.
“I don’t have any tools.”
“Some things never change.”
“Truer words,” Jude says wryly, and I don’t think he’s talking about tools.
That’s the trouble. We shouldn’t flirt. We should stop. I should be friendly, and that’s all. “I can come back sometime and fix it if you want?”
“Yeah?” He sounds so hopeful, as if I’ve proposed giving him that valet of his dreams.
“If you want me to fix it,” I add casually, so this doesn’t become a bigger deal than it should. “I have the time.”
His brow knits as if he’s puzzling that out. “Oh, you mean because you’re not writing?”
I shake my head. “Weirdly enough, not writing takes a lot of time. I stare at the screen, trying to write. It’s like insomnia. You spend a lot of time trying to sleep but rarely get any.”
“That sounds terrible,” he says, reaching out a hand, maybe to touch me, squeeze my arm. But he must think the better of it as he runs it through his hair instead.
“Yes, it’s been kind of awful,” I say heavily.
“I hope you’re able to write soon. I mean that truly,” he says.
I swallow past an uncomfortable knot of emotions. “Thanks. I appreciate that.”
“But what did you mean then, TJ? When you said you have the time?” He asks it like he’s on the edge of his seat, eager to know what I’ve been up to.
Now that he’s asked, I don’t know how to reply. That’s the big fucking problem with Jude lately. I don’t know what to share with him or hold back. I don’t know how to protect myself and rely on him as we navigate this charade. But I’m pretty sure I don’t want to say oh, I meant I have plenty of time because I’m single as fuck and have been for ten long months. Instead, I boomerang back to the reason Slade corralled us and ignore the question. “What do you think we did wrong last night?”
Jude takes a beat, maybe to process my left turn. “I dunno. I replayed the rest of the night after he texted us. We kissed on the cheek, and, fine, no one saw it, but how can he be pissed about that?”
“Right? That’s not our fault,” I say.
“Then we had a drink together. I’m honestly at a loss,” he says as the dryer beeps.
Jude yanks open the door, grabs my shirt, and hands it to me. I slide it on and thank him as I button it.
“Happy to help,” he says, then gestures grandly to my chest. “If only Daddy could see us now.”
“He would be so proud of us for getting along,” I say.
Maybe we’re finding our way to an unspoken truce this morning, somehow moving past the pain of that fight in Los Angeles. We’ve been laying down our weapons, working together to decipher Slade’s clues.