Page 176 of The Hopelessly Bromantic Duet

“So you planned this,” he says, sounding delighted.

I roll my eyes. “Don’t let it go to your head, stud.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I won’t.”

I unlock the gate, trot up the steps, then gesture like a game show host as I show off a true secret in the city.

“Wow,” he says, voice full of wonder as he surveys this block of New York that’s like a byway in the city, asHidden Gemscalls it. The private residential walk is lined with brick and flanked by Tudor homes with ivy climbing up the fronts, planters in the windows, and colorful accents on the doors. It’s a picturesque sliver, an escape into a quaint village that feels unreal, as if it couldn’t possibly exist in a messy, gritty city.

“I had no idea this was here,” TJ says, gazing almost reverently at the cute European-style homes. “It looks like London.”

I’m bursting with the pride of a well-done surprise. “Doesn’t it? I thought of you when I first came here.”

“You did? When was that?”

“About a month ago, Holly invited me for a dinner party with some of her English friends. And all I could think wasTJ would love it.”

He shoots me a smile, and I read between the lines—that was when we hated each other, yet you still thought of me.

I smile back, sayingyes, yes, I did.

“I do love it, Jude. It’s... a bit like Cecil Court,” he says.

“Right? That’s what I thought too.” I tip my head toward the private walk, inviting him in.

It won’t take long to see Pomander Walk, but we wander along, checking out the facades. It’s like a movie set. When he’s toured it a few times, he deals me a skeptical look. “You’re really taking this seriously? This whole book babysitter role?”

Is that all he thinks this is? Me ensuring he holds up his end of the fake boyfriend bargain?

“Yes,” I tell him. “But it’s not because it’s part of our marching orders. I mean, it is. Of course I want this fake romance to work. I want to have a long and busy career. I want to be a working actor. But I also truly wantyouto write,” I say, trying to keep the frustration out of my tone. I want him to get it once and for all—I care.

He steps closer, his eyes soft. “I didn’t mean it in a bad way. But maybe it came across like I was questioning you.”

“A little.”

He breathes out like he’s letting go of something. “It’s more that... well, you seem to take a particular delight in showing me around. In encouraging me to write. I was simply trying to understand that part of you.”

“My motivation?” I laugh and wag a finger. “Always thinking like a writer.”

He dips his head, and when he raises it, he shrugs. “Busted.”

But if he wants my motivation, he’ll get it. “I wanted you to see it because... you’re happiest when you’re writing.”

“That’smostlytrue,” TJ says, his gaze lingering on me for a long, long second that makes my heart hammer. Am I part of thatmostly? It’s an intense thought. Maybe for both of us. He breaks the stare and looks around. “And this is great. It reminds me of London. It makes me think that maybe there needs to be some London in the story.”

“London is always a good idea,” I say.

“Can I take a picture?”

“Of course,” I reply as he takes his phone from his pocket. I step out of the way.

Shaking his head, he grabs my arm, yanks me against him. “Selfie?”

This is the first picturewe’vetaken together—no photogs, no reporters, or Instagrammers. Just us. I hope it remains only ours.

I line up next to him, and he drapes an arm around me, then clicks. When he shows me the shot, I catch things I’ve felt but couldn’t see—the possession in his touch, the way his hand curls over my shoulder.

And I like it.

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