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)
Mason smiles the nefarious grin that only a true shark of a literary agent can pull off. The man gestures grandly to himself. “Then I shall be your app. Be ready this Thursday at eight o’clock for a date at the St. James Theatre, home of the new musical, Adventures of The Last Single Guy in New York.”
I hate musicals and Mason knows it. “Why are you sending me to a night of auditory torture?”
“Because it’ll inspire you. And you’ll be going with the date we hand-selected for you.”
What the hell has he cooked up? “Who is we?” I ask.
“Holly and moi.”
That name is dangerously familiar. “She reps actors, right?”
Like Jude. But others too. Many others.
Mason points at me like I’ve won a prize on a game show. “Give this man a cookie! She joined our firm a little while ago, and do you want to know who she brought with her?”
Please don’t say Jude. Don’t fucking say Jude at all. “Who?” I ask, and I can hear the dread in my voice. I pray he’s arranged a date with someone else. Anyone else.
“Does the name Jude Fox ring a bell?”
I beg the universe that I misheard him. “Jude Fox?” I croak out in case there’s a country star I don’t know named Bood Fox.
“Jude was fantastic in If Found, Please Return,” Mason continues, and there’s no mistaking this horror show now. I’m officially watching My Private Nightmare.
Mason’s praise of my ex continues. “And he’s poised to become a breakout star, but he desperately needs a very appropriate fake boyfriend. And his agent and I have chosen . . .” he pauses, bangs air drumsticks, and points to me, “. . . you.”
The words knock the air out of me. I can’t breathe. “And you’ve somehow, for some reason, chosen me out of everyone in the free world?”
“Voila! TJ Hardman and Jude Fox are now a Hollywood-meets-the-lit-world couple,” Mason says. He really is a bionic shark. “As America’s sweet and hot romance writer, you’re the perfect antidote.”
“Antidote to what?” Anxiety consumes my soul as Mason proves he’s more like a bionic shark descended from Neptune himself and crossbred with a fire-breathing dragon of the sea.
“You didn’t hear?”
“No, obviously I didn’t hear because I’m asking.”
Mason chuckles. “Let’s just say Jude needs a new beau because his last boyfriend was a bit of a bad boy.”
The fucker moved on already? I’m suffering, and he’s not? “I’m not very fun these days. I’m not good fake boyfriend material.” Good fake boyfriends don’t want to punch things.
“Didn’t you just ask for my help? I assumed that meant you’d do anything I suggested,” Mason says with an evil grin.
“Anything but date Jude Fox,” I spit out.
“Why not him? He’s fun, gentlemanly, talented, and easy on the eyes. We need you to get him through some events during the awards-season publicity tour now that his flick is the biggest small budget hit in years. And if I’m right, and let’s face it, I usually am, the events will spark some ideas for your book.”
That makes less sense than the solid gold shit I wrote. “How?”
“TJ, you need to shake up your world. Because what you’re doing now isn’t working.”
“And why is fake dating him going to shake it up?”
He stares at me like the answer is obvious. “You can’t spend all your time in the gym, kid. Or running in circles in Central Park. You need to get out there and mix it up. The dates you’ll go on will inspire you.”
If he only knew what Jude inspired—the biggest, boldest, brightest emotions I ever felt.
And one fiery ending where we burned our house down.
“I don’t think inspirational is the word I’d use,” I mutter.
“Your book is overdue. The way I see things is you can keep not writing your book, or you can go on some dates and find some spark again and write the book that everyone’s waiting for.” Mason takes a deep inhale, sounding wholly satisfied. “Which option sounds more appealing? Door number one or door number two?”
“I choose door number three. Getting my balls waxed by a first-timer at a shady clinic with one-star reviews,” I say, trying one more time to swim away.
Mason doesn’t blink. “And I imagine that’s how Brooks & Bailey feels every time you don’t deliver your book.” He gestures to his phone, waving airily at it—my stomach drops. I hate letting people down. “If you have a better suggestion, I’m all ears. If not, let me know what I should tell Holly.”
That Jude shouldn’t have accused me of using him.
That I have zero interest in fake dating a secret ex-lover, an ex-roomie, an ex.
But the clock doesn’t stop ticking on my deadline. There are no more extensions. No more grace periods. This farce might be the only thing between me and failure.