Page 150 of The Hopelessly Bromantic Duet

“Some things never change.”

“Truer words,” Jude says wryly, and I don’t think he’s talking about tools.

That’s the trouble. We shouldn’t flirt. We should stop. I should be friendly, and that’s all. “I can come back sometime and fix it if you want?”

“Yeah?” He sounds so hopeful, as if I’ve proposed giving him that valet of his dreams.

“If you want me to fix it,” I add casually, so this doesn’t become a bigger deal than it should. “I have the time.”

His brow knits as if he’s puzzling that out. “Oh, you mean because you’re not writing?”

I shake my head. “Weirdly enough, not writing takes a lot of time. I stare at the screen, trying to write. It’s like insomnia. You spend a lot of time trying to sleep but rarely get any.”

“That sounds terrible,” he says, reaching out a hand, maybe to touch me, squeeze my arm. But he must think the better of it as he runs it through his hair instead.

“Yes, it’s been kind of awful,” I say heavily.

“I hope you’re able to write soon. I mean that truly,” he says.

I swallow past an uncomfortable knot of emotions. “Thanks. I appreciate that.”

“But what did you mean then, TJ? When you said you have the time?” He asks it like he’s on the edge of his seat, eager to know what I’ve been up to.

Now that he’s asked, I don’t know how to reply. That’s the big fucking problem with Jude lately. I don’t know what to share with him or hold back. I don’t know how to protect myself and rely on him as we navigate this charade. But I’m pretty sure I don’t want to sayoh, I meant I have plenty of time because I’m single as fuck and have been for ten long months.Instead, I boomerang back to the reason Slade corralled us and ignore the question. “What do you think we did wrong last night?”

Jude takes a beat, maybe to process my left turn. “I dunno. I replayed the rest of the night after he texted us. We kissed on the cheek, and, fine, no one saw it, but how can he be pissed about that?”

“Right? That’s not our fault,” I say.

“Then we had a drink together. I’m honestly at a loss,” he says as the dryer beeps.

Jude yanks open the door, grabs my shirt, and hands it to me. I slide it on and thank him as I button it.

“Happy to help,” he says, then gestures grandly to my chest. “If only Daddy could see us now.”

“He would be so proud of us for getting along,” I say.

Maybe we’re finding our way to an unspoken truce this morning, somehow moving past the pain of that fight inLos Angeles. We’ve been laying down our weapons, working together to decipher Slade’s clues.

We leave, having made no plans to fix the door in his laundry room.

And it’s for the best. We don’t need to make plans to see each other outside of this ruse. He might like to flirt with me—he might even enjoy the view of my chest—but he’s not making plans with me, nor am I making plans with him.

We’re over, and he’s so clearly moved on. Too bad I haven’t.

But I’ve got to try, once and for all.

As we head down the hall, passing the open door to his bedroom, I tear my gaze away from those sheets.

Don’t want to see his bed. Don’t want to imagine pulling him down onto me, wrapping my arms tight around him.

Maybe I won’t writeFake Dating My Ex. That story might be too hard to tell.

My heart aches painfully, a weight in my chest.

But then, isn’t that how I felt when I wrote my first romance several months after I left London? A little achy? Stuffed to the brim with missing and longing and want? But back then, Jude was the guy who got away. Now, he’s my ex.

And I’m one of a handful of guys from his past.

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