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)
He blinks, a good sign I’ve surprised him. Brilliant. I’d like to keep him off-balance. But he recovers quickly, his eyes icy again. “And just think, now I’ll have first-hand experience I can use to write a fake romance,” he says.
Ouch. That’s a low blow.
But he still doesn’t let go of my hand. He lingers in the handshake. I glance at his fingers, which have mapped my entire body.
Inconveniently, my skin heats up from the memories.
I let go, dropping his palm. It’s good for me to be the one ending things, even a handshake. “Ah, I thought you’d done it before. My bad,” I say.
“But there’s a first time for everything,” he says bitterly.
Holly clears her throat. “And there’s a time, too, to get everything sorted. That time is now, gentlemen.” She nods to the door. “Mason and I will go fetch Slade.”
Once our agents leave, it’s just TJ and me in the sleek meeting room outfitted with a pair of long blue couches and a table. I wish I weren’t still attracted to TJ. Being alone with him feels like a cruel sort of joke.
I peer around the open door. Hopefully, Slade moves at superhero speed.
Maybe I should make fake conversation about TJ’s books as we wait. But right when I’m about to ask how his writing is going, he cuts straight through the silence. “So, you and William are—”
Fuck that. I don’t want to suffer through the third degree about William when I’m innocent. “So what did you do wrong to get yourself tossed into fake boyfriend jail?”
TJ simply stares at me, those brown eyes full of . . . is it hate or disgust? Hard to say, but there might also be a touch of you’re a fucking dick, Jude, and not the good kind.
“What did I do wrong?” He repeats the question, tapping his chest. “Hasn’t that always been the question?”
Then you should have picked up the phone when I tried to call you. You should have answered my text.
But I’m not going to hash out the past. I shrug off his I’m-so-innocent comment. “Actually, TJ, I don’t really need to know what trouble you’re in,” I say breezily, even though I’m dying to know why he needs a fake date.
“This wasn’t my idea,” he seethes.
“Well, it certainly wasn’t mine,” I volley.
“That much is clear,” he mutters as I head toward a couch.
A flash of anger whips through me. I wheel around. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you don’t even let the body get . . .” He shakes his head like he’s pissed at himself for saying that much.
“Cold, TJ? I don’t let the body get cold?”
“Forget I said anything,” he says.
There was nothing cold about the way I felt for this man back then. My emotions were fire. But that’s another thing I’ll keep to myself. “You don’t believe everything you read in the press, do you?” I ask, saccharinely sweet.
He tilts his head and gives an innocent, closed-mouth smile. “No, Jude. That’s your style, to believe everything you read.”
Touché.
Before we can hurl more barbs, the door swings open. In walks a tall, elegant man in a tailored shirt and crisp trousers. A skull earring shines in one ear, matching a gleaming ring on his index finger. He's a curious mix of stylish and edgy with fair skin and a Celtic tattoo on his hand. His brown eyes sail from TJ to me like he’s taking our temp.
TJ stands with his arms tightly crossed. At the opposite end of the couch, I’m squared off with my hands on my hips.
The temperature is sub-zero. But the newcomer seems determined to warm us up.
I hope he has enough space heaters to fill a city block.
5
FIRST REHEARSAL
Jude
“I can see I have my work cut out for me.” Slade, the agency’s PR guy, sizes us up the moment he comes in, his dark eyes flickering with wicked glee. “And this is my favorite kind of job. A hard one.”
I keep my mouth zipped tight, bottling up all these feelings inside me—anger, annoyance, stupid latent lust.
TJ is quiet too, as icy as ever.
“I love that silent treatment. It makes it all the sweeter when you call me a fabulous matchmaker later on. Slade the matchmaker.” He puffs out his chest like he’s strutting.
“More like Slade the PR puppeteer,” TJ mutters.
Slade smiles in over-the-top delight, then snaps his fingers. “Even better, plus points for alliteration,” he says as he strides across the room. “Let’s sit and review the plan for our new favorite couple. I want to make this as easy as possible, so let’s get our ducks all lined up. It’ll be a waterfowl kick line when I’m through.”
Slade gestures to the navy-blue couch. I sit on one end while TJ parks himself as far away as possible.
The man in the purple paisley shirt sighs like we’re bad little duckies. “Men, please. You’re going to be putting on quite a public show for the whole world. We can’t very well have you so dang far apart on the couch.”