Page 186 of The Hopelessly Bromantic Duet

I burn. “Fuck him. He broke the golden rule.”

“Thou shalt never disparage another author online,” she says.

We smack palms in solidarity then return to the scenes. When we’re done, we reward ourselves with a toffee cookie we share, breaking off bites. As we go, we decide we should write a TV show, and that we’re going to call itMeet-Cute Again, and it’ll be an ensemble comedy with queer and straight romance, and we will cast it with our favorite actors and actresses.

“We’re brilliant,” Hazel declares.

“Geniuses,” I add.

“Webflix should hire us right now,” she adds.

“Meet-Cute Againis going to bethenew binge-worthy show.” Holy hell, it feels good to banter about writing with my work wife. “This is good. You and me, shooting the breeze.”

“We always shoot the breeze.”

“I know, but I want you to know it means a lot to me,” I say, trying on this patent honesty thing for size. I’ve never lied to Hazel per se, but I also could stand to be more open.

With a lift of her brow, she glances left, then right, then whispers, “Are we living in the movieFace/Off? Did you steal my friend TJ’s face and slap it on?”

I snort-laugh. “We’re not in the John Travolta/Nicholas Cage flick, but point taken. I’m usually a dick.”

“I mean, if the shoe fits,” she says, teasing. “Seriously, though, this is nice. You being allexpressiveand such with your feelings.”

“I’m testing a new MO—being open. How’s it working for ya?”

“Weird but good. Which is how I’d describe you. That’s me being open with my feelings and giving you a compliment,” she says.

“Weird is good, babes,” I tell her.

“Thanks.” She reaches for the mug and picks it up. “Do you think the fox is intentional?”

Amy has to know about Jude and me. Even if I’ve never posted pics of us on my Insta, FoxMan is all over the socials. “How could it not be intentional? It’s a little too coincidental, otherwise.”

Scanning the shop, she lowers her voice. “So is she also sayingI know that Jude Fox is the secret you hide at the bottom of a tasty beverage?”

Whoa. Deep thoughts. “You’re not serious, are you? Do you think my editor knows the full story?”

Hazel shrugs as if to say,stranger things have happened. “Could she?”

If Amy knows the truth, would she care? Probably not. She’s not all up in her writers’ business.

Unless . . . readers would care.

Shit.

I slam my computer closed, stuff it into my messenger bag along with the creature cup, and point to the door. “We have to meet Jason and Luke for pinball. Let’s go,” I say. My Hawks buddy is in town visiting Nolan, and Luke lives here.

“Sure. But we’re not late. Why are we leaving in such a rush?”

Once we’re out on the street, I drape an arm around Hazel and, after a moment’s debate, confess my new fear. “What if my readers find out I faked a romance? What the hell will happen?”

I’ve considered this before. But I didn’t have the bandwidth to analyze it fully. Maybe because I was staring down the barrel of a gun in the form of a deadline. Now that I’m writing again, I have to consider shit like honesty and trust. Amy knowing about Operation Fake Romance feels like my worlds colliding, and I’d rather Planet Editor and Planet Agent stay in their own orbits. But I might not have that luxury anymore. I walk along Eighth Avenue, glance behind me, then peer in front of me as if a celebrity blogger might be nearby, angling to ferret me out.

“TJ,” she says, gentle but firm. “You’re freaking out.”

“I know!”

“I mean, you’re freaking out over a coffee cup. I was only messing around. I’m sorry I worried you. I was just playing it out, like we do with book scenes.”

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