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)
Well, of course, he did, you daft idiot! He didn’t put on a shirt by fucking accident.
My roommate strides over to the counter. When he reaches me, I catch a faint whiff of aftershave. It’s woodsy and clean. He wasn’t wearing that on Saturday night when we went to The Magpie. Did he buy it here in London or was it in his suitcase that he retrieved on Sunday? And how much of a perv would I be if I nipped into our bathroom some night, uncapped it, and inhaled his scent?
The answer smashes into me like a wrecking ball—a big pathetic perv.
I straighten my shoulders. “Are you coming here to gloat about The Goat’s Nipples?”
His brow furrows. “You mean The Goat’s Navel?”
Shit. “Yes, that’s what I meant,” I say, trying to recover as if I’d merely dropped a line on stage. “The Duck’s Navel, of course.”
TJ grins slyly, his lips twitching. “It’s the duck with the nips, Jude. You said so yourself,” he says, waggling his phone. “You a little distracted, buddy?”
Did he come here to torture me with that shirt and that aftershave and that hair? When he squares his shoulders, making his chest look even sexier, I resort to a full-on rescue mission and save myself with a slice of the truth.
“Actually, yes. I keep checking my phone to see if Harry has gotten word on the audition.” That’s not a lie. I did check my mobile an hour ago.
TJ’s face turns sympathetic. “Nothing yet?”
“Not a peep.”
“Well, when you get the good news, we need to celebrate.”
“How?”
“You know, get a beer or something. Something . . . friendly,” he says.
“Was that irony?”
“Literally,” he says with a smile. God, he has such a great smile, all straight teeth, and an easy grin. It’s not a know-it-all grin like some men wield. It’s a genuine one.
“Anyway, are you . . . looking for a book?” That’s a logical question, even if I really want to ask Where do you go at night and what do you do?
“I am.” He drums his fingers on the counter, then glances back at the handful of other patrons in the shop. They’re busy sifting through shelves, but I keep my eye on them in case they need anything. “Ever heard of this writer named Agatha Christie?” TJ asks.
I feign ignorance. “Not ringing a bell. Did she pen those bonkbusters about Hollywood royalty?” I snap my fingers. “Hold on, that’s Caroline Vienna. Oh, I’ve got it! Did Agatha write those tales of the teenage spy?”
The gold flecks in his eyes brighten and flicker. “I loved the Rhys Locke books when I was younger. I devoured them all. Did I ever tell you I came to this bookstore when I was thirteen?”
“No,” I say, surprised at how easily he reveals this and the gleeful look in his eyes.
“I spent hours here on a family trip. And you just named my favorite writers. Caroline Vienna and Alistair Edwin. I actually got a bunch of their books from this store,” he says, with a faraway gaze like he’s slipped into a memory—a very happy one. “So, it was . . . kinda interesting that you worked here.”
“A little kismet,” I say before I think better of it.
Because there’s no kismet with us. And what the hell? I don’t believe in kismet. I believe in work and putting in your time.
TJ gives a soft smile. “Yeah, it’s kind of cool that you work in this shop.”
“Are you going out tonight?” I blurt out.
His grin turns lopsided for the first time. His mouth is all kinds of crooked as he studies me. “I’m here right now. Why are you asking if I’m going out?”
I flap a hand at him. “Well, after you get your Agatha Christies. You look like you’re going out.” Ugh. I sound so flustered it must be obvious why I’m asking—because I’m a jealous, prying roomie.
“Nah. I just went to the gym after I went to—after I did some stuff.” There he goes again—not saying what he’s doing. “So I showered after I worked out.”
Great. Now I’m picturing him at the gym, pumping iron, and getting all sweaty.
Everywhere.
Sweat dripping down that chest, between his nipples, then onto his navel, then his happy trail.
“Cool. Cool. I go to the gym too,” I say.
Then I want to smack myself. I go to the gym? Have I ever talked to a man before? Let alone one I know? I need to lock up my mouth and throw away the key.
“Gyms are good,” TJ says.
I’ve got to save me from me. I point to the mysteries near the back of the shop. “Let me show you the Agatha Christies.”
“Thank you, but I don’t want to keep you from work,” he says, and maybe that’s a hint he wants to look at them alone.