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)
That’s all I’ve wanted—to know him. “I’ve noticed, and I like it.”
“Good. I came to LA for you. When I said this isn’t what I came for, I meant I didn’t come to fight. I came to be with you. Only for you. I was so fucking excited when you looked me up,” he says in a barren voice that hooks into my heart.
“You were?” I’m unable to hide a giddy smile.
“You have no idea,” he whispers.
“I was so happy to see you. It was insane, TJ, the way I felt when you walked into that lobby bar. My whole body lit up. My heart went a little crazy,” I admit.
“You mean it?” His voice pitches higher.
“You should never be jealous of anyone,” I tell him.
He tries to hide a smile too. “Good to know.”
“But I messed everything up,” I say.
TJ takes my hand from his thigh, turns it over, and threads our fingers together. “We both did. I didn’t give you a chance to explain. I froze you out. And look how dumb that was. I couldn’t write for ten months because of that.”
That’s news to me—not that he couldn’t write, but why. I’m surprised but also touched. “Because of me?”
“Well, yeah,” he says, laying it out there—a hard fact.
He doesn’t say more, but that’s a revealing admission for TJ. How big we were to him.
I squeeze his hand. “And you’re writing again now.”
With his free hand, he raps his knuckles against the back of the bench. “I like the setup of the book.”
“What’s the setup?” I ask, feeling bold, though he’ll probably dart and dodge.
“These guys . . . they kind of have a past.”
Perhaps this is his new way of sharing—from a safe distance. Well, if talking about his book characters lets him give me the big picture, I’ll happily view it through the lens of fiction.
“And the two heroes? Do you like them too?”
“I like them too,” he says, his warm eyes on me, but he doesn’t say anymore. Perhaps he’s finished with the book talk. Fair enough. He’s given me plenty.
I clear my throat, then sigh. The unfinished conversation presses on me. I still have more to say. “I wanted, too, to explain about the journal.”
“You don’t have to,” he says, shaking his head.
“Yes, I do.”
“I swear, it’s okay. In LA, you explained what happened, but I was too hurt to listen. I know now what you said is true.”
“That I only read a few lines? That it was an accident?” I say, so relieved he believes me. “How do you know?”
“Because I made a choice the other night to believe you. To trust you.”
Wow. That’s another big step for him, and I don’t take it lightly. “I didn’t mean to open it, and once I did and saw what it was, I closed it. I knew you wouldn’t want me to see it. But I also didn’t tell you because I knew it would embarrass you.”
“Yeah, probably the right call, if I’m being honest.”
“But you had nothing to be embarrassed about. I was kind of ridiculously happy to learn you felt the same way I did.”
“You felt that too?” He sounds like he wants to believe that more than he wanted to believe in Santa as a kid.
“I did feel the same,” I say. I choose past tense, keeping the story in London—how my heart felt then.
The present is too fragile to talk about.
But talking and doing are two different things. My lips find his, and we kiss like we were crazy for each other once upon a time. Like maybe we can be once again.
It’s a scorching kiss that makes me want to take him home and spend every night with him.
That’s the trouble. We burn too hot, too fast. We are a supernova, and supernovas don’t last.
I set a hand on his chest, struggling to catch my breath. “TJ, we can’t let this attraction between us affect the fake boyfriend thing.”
He nods quickly. “You’re right. We can’t get so caught up that we lose sight of the goal.”
Our eyes meet, and there’s sadness, maybe regret, in his gaze. Mine too, I’m sure. Our private feelings are risky. We can’t fuck up our fake romance. We need it to work.
Our careers are at stake. Our careers allow us to do what we love.
We should probably make a plan. But when my phone buzzes at the same time as his, that can only mean one thing.
Daddy’s calling.
And his plans always trump ours.
18
THE RISKS OF SARDINING
TJ
A sleek black limo pulls to the curb a few minutes later, the late afternoon sun glinting on the roof. We slide into the opulent vehicle, and Slade claps. “Well done, men. Well fucking done.”
“Thanks?” I say, but with a question mark. “Did something happen just now?”
“You have a ship name!” Slade announces.