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)
I am a fool in love, and I can’t stop grinning. “And was that so hard to do? You found me.”
“I was determined.”
“And I gave you some clues,” I point out.
“You did. Just Jude,” he teases. Then he continues for our audience, “So, in that shop, I bought this book.”
I grab the play from the cushion next to me, waggle it in front of the camera. “Any TJ Hardman fans recognize this? Anyone? Anyone at all?”
I’m still amazed at what he pulled off in Top-Notch Boyfriend. Then I stage whisper to the screen. “He didn’t even tell me till yesterday that he put The Importance of Being Earnest in his book.”
“You didn’t read it till yesterday!”
I wave a hand airily. “Details, details.”
“But back in London, the day after we met and went out—oops! Jude turned out to be my roomie,” TJ says.
I groan at the memory. “My God, that was bloody fucking hard. I was living with this strapping stud,” I say, snuggling up against my boyfriend.
“It was incredibly hard,” he says, laughing. “Somehow we lasted two weeks before we kissed in the rain.”
“Longest two weeks of my life,” I say, playing up the sexual frustration of waiting for him.
“But then, five days later, I had to return to the US,” he says, somber now. “And once I got on the plane and left the Oscar Wilde behind, with those favorite lines we read to each other . . .” He stops, pulls his gaze from the camera, looks only at me. “I missed you more than I knew was possible.”
“I missed you so fucking much,” I say.
He takes a deep breath then resumes the tale for the camera. “And seven years later, Jude looked me up and we found each other again. It didn’t quite work out then,” TJ says, “But eventually, when we had to fake a romance, going on those public dates gave us the chance to learn what we needed and wanted. Being forced to spend time together gave us a way to start over.”
I cover his hand on my shoulder with mine and squeeze. “I think love stories start in all kinds of ways. What matters is whether you keep telling them if you have the chance. This is one we’ll keep telling. And we’ll tell it for a long time.” I take a beat, eyes on the camera. “With all of you now, if you want to follow our love story here.”
I turn away, kiss his cheek. He hits end.
We upload the video to our private feed, making the feed public.
Anyone can see the video. And anyone can see our pictures from the last few weeks, as well as the new ones we added this morning.
A photo of my copy of The Importance of Being Earnest, well-worn, showing its age and meaning.
Photos of the notes TJ left for me in the flat.
The photo I took of his first novel at An Open Book.
And one more image TJ added.
A picture from The Case of the Disappearing Pages.
It’s official. It only took two weeks for me to fall in love with London, from the sights to the rain to the music.
Don’t get me started on the men, though. That situation is not what I expected. There has been no non-stop fiesta of dick.
Cue the sad wiener trombone.
But hey, I blame my roommate for that.
Jude takes up all the space in my mind. He makes everyone else look like a carbon copy of an already faded, old-timey, black-and-white photograph.
After the last week of getting to know him, I’m no longer convinced I can handle fifty more weeks of living together with, let’s face it, my dream guy. He’s the swooniest man I’ve ever known, and my entire body vibrates just being near him. He’s wickedly charming and ridiculously beautiful, and I am so far gone.
Then we go to our public pages and tell our readers, our fans, and friends to watch the video.
Anyone is welcome to hear our love story.
EPILOGUE
THE LUCKIEST GUY IN THE WORLD
Jude
To say I’m on the edge of my seat on Oscar night would be an understatement. I tug on the cuffs of my tux—fiddle with the cufflinks.
Shifting closer, TJ presses a hand on mine, calming my nerves.
Mostly.
As the presenter at the Dolby Theatre reads off names for the best actor nominees, my boyfriend threads his fingers through mine.
Squeezes.
His reassurance settles my pulse more. Still, this is one of the biggest moments of my career, and I am wired.
“And the Academy Award for best actor goes to . . .” The presenter pauses, smiles, then finishes, “Sebastian Lowe.”
For a few seconds, I’m disappointed. I wanted to win. I wanted to give the speech Helen urged me to write.
But I’m okay. I’m more than okay as TJ leans in, presses a kiss onto my cheek.
And I clap for my fellow actor.