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)
“There’s a lovely Oscar recap in Establishing Shot.” A tease of a smile graces her lipsticked mouth as she reads, “And then there’s Jude Fox. He’s the dark horse of the awards season. But sometimes, these rising stars have the best luck. The big issue seems to be whether rumors of his personal life will cloud the judgment of the Academy. However, a representative says, ‘Jude Fox has been friends with William Halifax for several years and cares deeply for him as a friend.’ Fox is currently linked romantically to bestselling author TJ Hardman, and they were spotted last night at the opening of Adventures of The Last Single Guy in New York.”
When she puts the tablet down, she sighs in contentment.
“Wait. I’m confused. Was that good?” I point at the device. “That was such a blah ending. Romantically linked? That’s it? That’s all they’re saying?”
“Yes, and for now, it’s enough. It’s a shift.”
“That’s a shift? It sounded like they were casting aspersions with the whole mention of William as a friend.”
“Not at all. It’s a nice, neutral piece. They took the quote Slade gave them earlier in the week. Took it and used it. That’s very good.”
I don’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth, but I don’t get it. “How?”
She lifts her tumbler, swirls it. “Imagine the opposite. They could say the whole he’s a friend bit is a lie. Or they could say they don’t believe you. Instead, they accepted the statement as fact. We wanted to see some good press. We’re starting to get it.”
Our fake romance must continue until the tide fully turns, so this piece is the start. That’s good, I suppose, since I have a reason to spend more time with TJ.
But it’s bad too, since I can’t fuck up the role of his public boyfriend. I’ve got to pull this off for him and me.
And I made a promise to him last night.
Later, when the stars twinkle above Manhattan, I make good on it. When I’m back in my home, I grab a Hidden Gems book, flip through the pages, and read entry after entry.
Then, I grin.
That one.
It’s bloody perfect. If only I could get in. I make a quick call to my agent and ask for a favor. She says yes.
Then, with the book in hand, I let my mind return to earlier, and I try to sort through my uncertainty. My what the hell is bugging me worries.
When I replay our ending for the millionth time, there isn’t a question, though. There’s something I need to say to him in person. Something I’ve been mulling over for ten long months. I simply have to face it. I also want to help TJ, so I text him.
Jude: Want to go on a date on Sunday afternoon? That gives you all weekend to write. And I have just the place to take you if you’re a good boy and make lots of pretty words. I think this place might be inspiring.
TJ: You’re asking as if I’d say no.
Jude: I want you to say yes.
I also want this date to be between us. Maybe to get to know him all over again. So I write back, my chest pinging with nerves.
Jude: We don’t have to tell Slade. We can just go. Like regular people. See what happens. But just you and me.
TJ: The Oscar Wilde Society of Often and Well dictates that I say this—name the time and place.
I’ll be counting down the hours till Sunday. I give him the details, and I’m about to close the thread when a new text pops up.
TJ: P.S. . . . I wrote 5000 words today.
“That’s amazing,” I say out loud, then I tap out a reply asking if I can see them tomorrow. But I don’t hit send. The last time I read his work-in-progress, I also read his journal. I delete and start over.
Jude: Will you tell me about the story on Sunday?
TJ: Maybe :)
It’s not a promise, but at least there’s an emoticon. That’s something.
17
SECRET REAL DATE
Jude
I’m taking a chance that TJ’s never been to Pomander Walk, but it’s a good gamble. As I wait on Sunday afternoon at the iron gate in the middle of West Ninety-Fifth Street in Manhattan, I finger the key in my pocket. Some agents are backstabbers, and some are fairy godmothers. Holly is undoubtedly the latter.
A few minutes later, the familiar silhouette of my former roomie comes into view. He strides down the street, all long legs, broad shoulders, and trimmed beard, and he’s wearing a Henley, a surprising choice for the king of the hipster button-downs.
No jacket though. Pretty sure he’s part polar bear. When he’s a few feet away, I call out, “You have Arctic genes—admit it.”
When he reaches me, he tugs on the lapels of my navy peacoat. “And you have Abercrombie & Fitch genes.”