Page 223 of The Hopelessly Bromantic Duet

Then my reply, sent a few hours later:I wish I could be in London with you too. I hear the shower curtain shopping dates are stellar there. But blanket shopping is on the list for New York.

He replied this morning.You can never have enough blankets, color, coffee, books. Or sex.

The texts bring a smile to my face and a spring to my step and cock, but the trouble is I don’t feel as settled or certain as I’d hoped.

“Here’s your Ethiopian drip,” the barista says, sliding me the mug. I thank him.

Coffee in hand, I head outside, grab a table, and pop open my laptop.

But before I dive back in, I noodle on my zigzagging thoughts today. Is asking Jude to be my boyfriend enough?

No, you dipshit.

The answer smacks me on the back of the head like a big brother.

Boyfriendship is just the start. We have so much more to figure out—like what to do when the agency wants us to part ways.

But we can sort that out in New York this weekend. I’ll see Jude tomorrow, and we can start then.

As I take a drink of my fuel, I slide into the role of The Handyman, Script Doctor style.

I laugh silently, still incredulous.

Is this my life?

Yup. And I hope Webflix loves my revisions. I fucking love this story. I fucking love these characters. And I fucking love that Webflix asked me to fix the script.

While I was fixing the dialogue, I discovered another problem. The Webflix adaptation started in the wrong place, skipping the prologue entirely.

Oh, just the moment when, you know, the heroes meet for the first time.

I returned to the book on that too—a scene in the past when the guys meet in an art supply shop, hit it off, exchange names and numbers. But before they can start a romance, Jackson realizes—oops!—Liam is his best friend’s brother.

My readers loved the meet-cute and the subsequentoh shit he’s off-limitsmoment.

So, I added the meet-cute, adapting it straight from the prologue. Sipping my coffee, I read it for the fiftieth time. But I want to hear the lines out loud before I share this latest revision with Robert’s team.

There’s only one person I can ask to run these lines with me. I call Hazel on FaceTime.

My work wife answers right away, and I recognize the framed coffee cup behind her. She’s at our regular haunt in Chelsea, and I miss both Big Cup and her. Holding up a finger, she slings her bag on her shoulder and leaves the shop, walking down the familiar tree-lined block in New York.

“This might sound a little silly,” I begin.

She snorts. “Nothing sounds silly to a writer. Hit me up.”

“Would you read this scene with me?”

She’s not even fazed. “Which guy do I get to be?”

“You can be Liam.”

“He’s such a soulful hottie, and I love his flirty side.” She makes a gimme gesture with her fingers. “Where is it?”

“Sending now,” I say, then drop the scene into an email.

She stops, sits on a stoop that’s straight out of Carrie Bradshaw’s hood, then scans the scene. When she reaches the end, she adopts a deeper man’s voice, and we begin.

Interior: Art Supply Shop—Day.

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