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)
“Yay, me,” I tell Hazel. I’m nearly yesterday’s news. I only need to ride this spotted-in-the-wild phase a little longer.
My friend strokes my hair. “You okay?”
“Fantastic. Never been better.”
“Ah, let me get out my decoder ring and translate that.”
That piques my interest, and I lift my face an inch. “I want to see this ring.”
The redhead across from me taps her temple. “I store it up here.” She shifts into a coolly robotic voice. “Target acquired is one TJ Hardman. Defeated, beleaguered wordsmith who hasn’t written a single word all day.”
Hazel shuts her laptop then clicks the screen closed on mine, a satisfied glint in her eyes.
“I didn’t save what I was working on,” I protest as I sit up.
“TJ,” she says pointedly. “You weren’t working.”
Fine, fine. Why does she have to be so right? “I wrote a Twitter post.”
“I know. I saw. It said Coffee is life. We need to jump-start you, stat.”
I stare through the window at the New Yorkers streaming by after work while the sun dips low on the horizon. “Why am I such a mess? I don’t get it. I don’t even miss Flynn.”
Turns out it’s super-easy to get over someone when he jerks the rug out from under you in front of, oh, say, everyone in the world.
Everyone as in . . . Jude?
My stomach plummets as I ask myself that question yet again. Trish’s show is the most popular in morning news, and the video has been viewed online more than five million times.
Is one of those viewers a guy in London with a smile that flipped my heart? With eyes that saw through me. A guy who’s visited my thoughts more than I’d care to admit to anyone but a barista, cab driver, or airline rep I’ve never met before?
Fine, Hazel knows.
But she worked out for herself that I was not pining—but not not pining—for a man abroad. When I confessed the details, it was cathartic. Especially when I confided how I was tempted to reach out to Jude a few years ago.
I’d been watching Our Secret Courtship—had seen every episode featuring his recurring character. But when he stopped appearing and another guy took over the role, I figured that wasn’t the time to DM him with a: Hey, what’s up, guy who got away? Want a visitor?
A deal’s a deal, and our terms were very specific—when we’d made it. Something happened in Jude’s career. I don’t know what. He went quiet, so I didn’t reach out, knowing that wasn’t what he’d have wanted.
One day, more than a year ago, Hazel mentioned him. Said he was back at it, snagging parts in plays off West End, in more commercials, and then in a popular British TV show. He was making things happen again, but I was seeing someone, so I saved the Jude update for a rainy day.
Now? Sure, I want to look him up once more, as per our deal. I am very, very single after all. But what if I put his name into Google and find pictures of him traipsing all over London with some other man?
A guy like Jude won’t be single for long, as Helen once told me.
I focus my attention on my work wife. Hazel and I write together most days, working on our respective books but helping each other plot when we get stuck and stalking hot models on Insta for cover pics. My job doesn’t suck. “If you were writing this story of a private guy who got dumped in the most public way, what would you do to jump-start him?”
She hums thoughtfully, taps her chin. “His favorite things. I’d take him to play pinball, to see a cool new band, and to go thrifting—especially since I have a date this weekend and I need a new dress.”
“So, my funk works for you too,” I tease.
“And so does the cure. But first, I’d arrange a happy-hour intervention. Gimme ten minutes,” she says, then whips out her phone.
How sad is it that an intervention is the first thing that’s sounded fun in many days?
If I’ve learned anything from writing both gay and straight romance, it’s that no matter the orientation, a night out with friends is like a necessary booster shot. It helps the vaccine work. I’ve taken my I-won’t-date-assholes-ever-again medicine in the form of that viral video.
This intervention will protect me for the long haul.
When Hazel scurries me into Gin Joint in Chelsea an hour later, she points to a table. Nolan and his brother, Jason, are in town, waiting with beers and an old-fashioned. Hazel says she’s going to freshen up in the ladies’ room.
I join the guys, and Nolan slides the cocktail to me. “Figured you’d need this.”
“Real friends know your drink order,” I say, lifting the glass and knocking some back.
“And they also know what you need,” Nolan adds, wasting no time. “Listen, I’ve been thinking about your problem.”