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)
Jude moves closer. His shoulder touches mine as he shows me the screen. I freeze.
Are you kidding me?
I turn my gaze to him in slow motion, awe coasting down my spine. “You took a picture of Yes Man at An Open Book?”
The evidence is there on his phone, yet I can’t quite believe it.
“I did,” he says, sounding nervous, but happy too. “I figured you’d want to see it someday. I took it and held on to it.”
I can barely catch my breath from what he’s saying, and more so, what it’s doing to the organ in my chest. “When did you take it?”
“When it released.”
“You went in there. Took a picture of it on the shelves. And you’ve held on to this for five years?”
“I did. I held on to it for you,” he says, his warm, rich voice reaching deep into my chest, touching me in a place only he ever has.
This can’t be happening so fast. I can’t let it. I don’t even know what to do with this. My heart is out of fucking control. My emotions are spiraling. All I want is him.
I won’t say that yet, so instead I tell him a story so he’ll know what this gift means to me. “My brother bought a gift for me long ago. A travel journal. It meant a lot to me because he got it at that store on Cecil Court when we were thirteen. The one where—”
“Where we met again,” he supplies, his eyes locked with mine.
“Yes. That one. Chance held on to it for ten years. He gave it to me when I went to London a second time,” I say, and every word I share is like stripping off a layer of self-protection, letting Jude into my mind, into my most private thoughts. “It meant a lot to me because it said he knew me. I hadn’t even told him I wanted to write a novel, but he knew I’d need to write down my thoughts.” I take a breath, prepping to say the next thing. “I wrote in it when I was in London. About the city. About places,” I say, swallowing around a knot of emotions as I start my true confession.
“You did?” Jude sounds like he’s hanging on to the edge of the world.
“About people too,” I add softly. “I even mentioned this guy I met.”
“Did you?” he asks, like he’s amazed that he inspired me.
Heat rushes over my skin. I’m caught in the haze of Jude once again. “I did.”
“I hope you said nice things about him,” he says, then runs his hand over my shoulder, along my neck, lighting me all the way up.
“Very nice things,” I whisper.
If I say more I will tell him what I only ever admitted on paper. Deeply personal, deeply private words that I’d never want to share with anyone. “That journal meant a lot to me because Chance held on to it over the years. He waited for the right moment. He wanted it to matter. That’s why I loved the gift. And now, this picture you took?”
“Yes?” That one-word question is full of the same hope I feel.
“It matters to me because you took it. You held on to it. That’s why I love it. This is my new favorite thing.”
And so are you, Jude Fox.
I’m so close to breathing those risky words out loud.
I do the only thing I can.
I cup his cheek, slide my hand into his soft hair, and cover up my feelings with a kiss on the sidewalk of Santa Monica.
Every kiss with Jude has been incredible. But this one might be the best yet. It’s slow and lingering. It’s hot and intimate. It makes me feel like the hero in my own love story.
It’s also a kiss I’m sure I’ll never recover from.
Because I know. I just know.
Less than twenty-four hours later, and I’m already falling in love with him all over again.
36
THE SPOTLIGHT’S ON ME
TJ
The fountains outside the Mark Taper Forum dance in the twilight. As I head to the doors, a canvas bag in hand with a gift in it, I stop to snap a photo of the theater and send it to Hazel. I’m so damn jazzed, and I need to share that with someone.
TJ: This is where I am right now.
Hazel: Are you telling me because you might die of excitement from seeing him and you wanted someone to know your whereabouts?
She’s a witch. A fucking mind-reading witch.
TJ: Yes, Hazel. When I die, I’ll be in a theater with seven hundred people and no one will be able to find me but you.
Hazel: I love being your person. Also, HOW THE HELL IS YOUR WEEKEND? Since this is the first I’ve heard from you, I assume it’s been a non-stop sex fiesta of epic proportions.