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)
Those days and nights in London felt like magic, like we were the only two people in the city. “Fine, so we were into each other in London,” I grumbled.
“So into each other that you reached out to him seven years later and asked him to come to see you, and he said yes straightaway. He got on a plane. He got a hotel. He brought blueberries to your show. And now you honestly think this man who was utterly mad about you once upon a time simply flew across the country to both shag you and sniff out work-related deals to steal from you?”
Well, it seemed that way at the time. But when she put it like that . . .
Perhaps I’d overreacted.
“I sort of did think that,” I said sheepishly.
“First, some tough love. TJ doesn’t have to steal opportunities. His newest book is a fucking number-one bestseller. Everyone wants a piece of it. Just accept that and be as happy for him as he is for you. Two, he was crazy for you in London, then he jumped at the chance to see you in LA. Ergo, you’re a fucking idiot.”
Maybe I was. Maybe TJ had touched a very sore spot, and I’d jumped to conclusions. “I will never need therapy as long as I have you.”
She laughed. “It goes both ways.”
But there was one little issue that nagged at me. “Except his last words to me were awful. He said this isn’t what I came to LA for.”
She dealt me a sharp stare. “Did you invite him to Los Angeles to fight with him?”
“No,” I muttered.
She draped an arm around me, squeezing my shoulder. “Then, don’t you think he was as hurt as you were?”
She had a point, but I’d felt so foolish the morning we fought. Seeing that Hollywood Scoop article, learning about how he met the exec at my play, reading the news in the trades rather than hearing it from him. All of that stung like ten thousand jellyfish stings.
Olivia was persistent. When we met Holly for martinis that night, Olivia straight up asked my agent if she thought that TJ’s agent had stolen the deal out from under me. Olivia didn’t mention TJ and I had been involved.
I was on the edge of the barstool, eager for Holly’s take since she knew the players.
Holly tutted, then said, “From what I’ve been able to glean, this deal was simply one of those whirlwind romances. No one planned it. No one was sneaking around. It was bloody kismet, and that happens. Webflix wanted TJ’s book, plain and simple. That was the prize, and when a company that big wants something, it gets it.”
Olivia turned to me, a satisfied look in her eyes. “There you go.”
The women in my life knocked sense into me over gin and olives. I’d been outrageous. I’d been hurt. I’d been completely insecure.
On the one hand, I felt better. I hadn’t been used. But on the other hand, I felt nauseated. I’d completely fucked up. I was desperate to leave the bar and try to salvage things. The second I walked into the cottage in Venice, I grabbed my phone, clicked on TJ’s name, and called.
Silently, I begged for him to pick up.
He declined the call on the third ring. I texted him too, asking if he could talk.
Like a dog waiting at the door, I stared at my phone for what felt like days, my stomach twisting with each passing hour.
No reply came. He froze me out.
Seems I was right, and Olivia was wrong. He came for sex and got it, and then when the going got tough, he was gone.
For the second time in my life, I deleted his number.
When fate split us apart in London, I knew two things—I was crazy for him, and I missed him desperately.
This time around, I knew something else: I tried, and he didn’t.
Now, we’re in the CTM conference room with our agents and crisis management, and I know one more thing. The ice age is still on.
TJ’s arctic.
The intros fly so fast, I barely have a second to rehearse what I’ll say once we’re alone or to register details beyond the fact that his hair’s a little longer, his beard is a touch thicker, and his arms have officially reached throw-a-man-down-on-the-bed levels.
But I’m not going to joke that he’s probably the only writer who has tickets to the gun show. That’s too personal. Too friendly. Too who we used to be.
I have to be someone else with him. When Holly introduces me, I offer my hand to shake as if meeting for the first time.
“I’d always hoped to land a part in a bring-a-nice-guy-home-for-the-holiday rom-com, so this’ll be fun, TJ,” I say, flashing my best smile his way, so he won’t know how much this ruse stings.