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)
“What do you mean?”
She only arches a brow.
“What are you saying, Liv?” I press. I hate unsaid things. I hate when she observes me and doesn’t just spit it out.
“I’m saying I don’t think you just want to shag him, Jude,” she says, uncharacteristically salt-free. “It sounds like you like the guy. You just told me how he fixed a drawer,” she says, too bloody observant.
Good thing I didn’t mention he sent me a playlist. Or that we texted about it.
I don’t want to like TJ in the way she means. Not after my university ex left me, saying I just don’t feel the same way for you as he walked out the door with a casual shrug while sawing my heart in half.
“I have no interest in liking someone after Robert,” I say coolly.
“Robert was a twat,” Olivia says.
“I know, but I’m the twat who fell for the twat.”
“It happens to the best of us. It’s not your fault.”
“But it is my fault if I go out and get involved with someone else.” I hear myself and shake my head. “What in the holy fuck am I saying? I’m not getting involved. And I’m definitely not getting involved with my roomie. I’m not getting involved with anyone.”
“Good. Then we can all go out sometime and have fun. As friends,” Olivia says. “Let’s get the crew together. Shane and Amanda and Archie.”
“Yes, that sounds like a fantastic idea,” I say. It’s just the sort of activity to keep TJ firmly in the friends and roomies zone.
“Now, any word on scientists and robots in love?”
I frown. “Are you trying to remind me of all the things in my life that suck? I haven’t heard from my agent about the gig, ergo I didn’t get the job. The American is off fucking other men every night, and I have horrible exes.”
She stretches an arm to ruffle my hair. “You are so dramatic.”
“This is news?”
“Also, you’re wrong,” she goes on. “You not hearing from Harry means there’s a chance you got the gig. If it were a no, you’d have heard as much.”
My heart soars again with wild hope. “I really want the job.”
“I know, love.”
But she doesn’t deny that the American might be shagging other men. And that bothers me—too much.
So much that I text him on my way to Cecil Court.
Jude: You were right. I’m addicted to The Goat’s Navel.
TJ: Called it!
Jude: But you have to admit, that name sounds like a pub.
TJ: A pub I’d want to go to.
Jude: Have I mentioned I work near a pub called The Duck’s Nipple?
TJ: That is a fantastic name. It’s so good I want to steal it and use it someday.
Jude: In an article?
TJ: Something like that. Gotta go. Source is calling.
As I pass the kid’s bookshop, I sigh, staring at the last message. There’s something he’s not telling me. I wish I knew what it was. I wish I knew why he wouldn’t tell me.
I feel a little stupid, though, for wanting to know.
And that bothers me too.
But when he walks into An Open Book a few hours later, that doesn’t bother me at all.
11
MYSTERIES CAN HAVE HOT SEX
TJ’s Travel Journal
London, Day Six
After turning in my sixth article—count ’em, six—on Thursday afternoon, I took off for another research trip. I’ve spent all my evenings so far on a mission. Checking out moody places in London.
Because I’ve decided at last. At fucking last!
Here goes, Travel Journal. You’re the first to know officially that . . . I’m going to write a whodunit. A race against the clock.
Whew. I said it, and I’m starting it tonight.
When I was a kid, I devoured Alistair Edwin’s tales of the international teenage spy Rhys Locke as he cracked the case wherever there were jewel heists. Locke was the coolest hero, all steel and nerves, and just out of school. But I won’t write a teenager—my hero will be in his twenties. Maybe there’ll be some sex. Mysteries can have hot sex, right? Mostly there will be clues, and whodunits, and all sorts of wild plot twists.
A scene here at Aldwych station, an abandoned tube station that looks haunted.
Another at the Hardy Tree in a cemetery, where I went last night. Maybe there will be a chase there. An apprehension.
And I definitely want a scene in a creepy church like the one I saw on Tuesday.
I should pick up some Agatha Christies to get in the right frame of mind. Murder on the Orient Express makes my brain pop every single time I re-read it.
And, well, if I’m going book shopping, it’d be rude to go anyplace but Jude’s store.
(Travel Journal, you weren’t fooled by that excuse, were you? Yeah, me neither.)
12
AND THE CLUES ALL SAY
Jude
TJ looks freshly . . . showered. The ends of his hair are wet. He’s wearing a plain white T-shirt. It’s tight enough that I can spy the faint outline of his nipples. Dear God, did he wear that on purpose?