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)
“And fingers crossed, they’ve got a new writer working on the adaptation for film. He’s sharp and hilarious and loves queer romance because, you know, he has taste, and he knows it’s the best thing since dogs. So, there you go. We should get this Top-Notch Boyfriend train rolling again,” he says. “Choo-choo.”
“That’s great too,” I say.
And truly, this is good news.
But as I leave, a weight sinks in my gut. I’m lying to Mason by omission. As long as this fake romance continues, I’ll have to keep biting off these lies. Sure, Mason doesn’t have to know the full truth of Jude and me. Maybe he wouldn’t even care if he did. But I’m lying by telling everyone he’s my boyfriend when the truth is so much more complicated than that.
Jude Fox is the first guy I ever fell in love with, the only man I’ve ever loved, and the person I want to get to know all over again right now.
And over the last few days, I haven’t lied with Jude. I’ve been real with him, truthful with him, honest with him. I like the new me.
It’s a big change, stripping away my defenses, but it feels good.
I just wish I didn’t feel this bad as I head into the New York morning.
I do my best to set those thoughts aside as I meet Hazel to write. I power through a couple of scenes, and then I post a pic of the fox mug on Insta with the caption: The Magical Energy Imps in this cup of coffee are directly responsible for the scene on the dryer. You’re welcome.
The replies from readers land in a barrage of I can’t wait to read it and Bring it on, King TJ.
Their words fuel another round of writing.
By the time the clock hits two, I’ve logged another chapter, and Hazel has finished the meet-cute in her new book, the spin-off of her big hit, Sweet Spot. We read each other’s pages, offering little suggestions here and there. “And don’t forget to introduce Dane Donovan soon,” I add, reminding her about the character Malcolm inspired. “I’m planning a friend-group scene, and Dane, AKA The Big Douche, is about to show up.”
She bangs her fist on the table. “I will never forget my mortal enemy. And you want to know why? In the last week, Malcolm has been liking all my tweets and LOLing on all my Instagram posts, but guess what? I checked out his Goodreads shelves. And last year, he one-starred Sweet Spot and left a review with nothing but an eye-rolling emoji.”
I burn. “Fuck him. He broke the golden rule.”
“Thou shalt never disparage another author online,” she says.
We smack palms in solidarity then return to the scenes. When we’re done, we reward ourselves with a toffee cookie we share, breaking off bites. As we go, we decide we should write a TV show, and that we’re going to call it Meet-Cute Again, and it’ll be an ensemble comedy with queer and straight romance, and we will cast it with our favorite actors and actresses.
“We’re brilliant,” Hazel declares.
“Geniuses,” I add.
“Webflix should hire us right now,” she adds.
“Meet-Cute Again is going to be the new binge-worthy show.” Holy hell, it feels good to banter about writing with my work wife. “This is good. You and me, shooting the breeze.”
“We always shoot the breeze.”
“I know, but I want you to know it means a lot to me,” I say, trying on this patent honesty thing for size. I’ve never lied to Hazel per se, but I also could stand to be more open.
With a lift of her brow, she glances left, then right, then whispers, “Are we living in the movie Face/Off? Did you steal my friend TJ’s face and slap it on?”
I snort-laugh. “We’re not in the John Travolta/Nicholas Cage flick, but point taken. I’m usually a dick.”
“I mean, if the shoe fits,” she says, teasing. “Seriously, though, this is nice. You being all expressive and such with your feelings.”
“I’m testing a new MO—being open. How’s it working for ya?”
“Weird but good. Which is how I’d describe you. That’s me being open with my feelings and giving you a compliment,” she says.
“Weird is good, babes,” I tell her.
“Thanks.” She reaches for the mug and picks it up. “Do you think the fox is intentional?”
Amy has to know about Jude and me. Even if I’ve never posted pics of us on my Insta, FoxMan is all over the socials. “How could it not be intentional? It’s a little too coincidental, otherwise.”
Scanning the shop, she lowers her voice. “So is she also saying I know that Jude Fox is the secret you hide at the bottom of a tasty beverage?”
Whoa. Deep thoughts. “You’re not serious, are you? Do you think my editor knows the full story?”