Page 120 of The Hopelessly Bromantic Duet

Foolish for falling in love with him again.

Foolish for thinking he was the one.

Foolish for putting on rose-colored glasses with him. The one guy I thought would never hurt me has punched below the belt. The Jude Graham I knew would never have done this. But he’s now so clearly Jude Fox.

Even if he’s sorry, and even if I’m sorry, this fight is a sign.

Jude will always devastate me.

He’s doing it now and he’ll do it again in a week, a month, a year.

I can handle the hurt in this moment. But if he breaks my heart down the road, when I’m even deeper in love with him, it will wreck me forever.

I strip the anger from my voice. “I’m sorry too. Sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. Sorry I handled this badly,” I say, then draw a deep, soldiering breath. “And I’m sorry that I can’t be in this with you.”

His lips part. He shakes his head adamantly, refusing to accept that. “What do you mean?”

His words are a plea, and it’s hard to resist. I want to drop everything, take him in my arms, and say,Let’s forget this happened.

But I’ve got to look out for future me, so I gird myself and do the hard thing. “This isn’t what I wanted when I came to LA. Goodbye, Jude.”

I grab my bag, leave for the airport, and I don’t look back.

Not even when he calls me a few days later and leaves a message asking to please talk. Not even when he texts begging for the same.

I don’t answer. I don’t reply.

We. Are. Over.

EPILOGUE

IF FOUND, PLEASE RETURN

Ten Months Later

Jude

A taxi trudges by on Fifth Avenue, and Holly shakes her blonde head then tuts.

“Jude, darling...” A sigh comes next, a blown-out breath that saysI can’t believe this picture of you is in the paper,andI certainly can’t believe you’d let this kind of salacious mess happen after everything we’ve accomplished in the last ten months.

But this picture—this fucking picture of me in a supposed salacious mess—isn’t what everyone thinks it is. “I can explain,” I say, and déjà vu sweeps over me.

Someone I was once in love with breathed those words to me in a beach house in Venice. And here I am at a sidewalk café in New York City, my new home, saying them to my agent.

“Of courseyoucan explain it,” she says in the friendly tone that always tricks me into thinking she’s the lovable aunt type.But she’s actually a lion, with sharp teeth she hides behind a Hollywood smile. “But I can too.”

She swivels an iPad around and stabs a finger against the offending photo on the screen. I cringe again. That really does look bad with a capital B. “This, in the business, is what we call a PR crisis,” she says.

“It is. It definitely is,” I say, hoping the agency isn’t going to explain it away by dropping me. When Holly took a new job at CTM a few months ago, she brought most of her clients with her, me included. But CTM is not only the biggest and most successful talent agency in the world, it’s also more buttoned-up than Astor. CTM has its own reputation to maintain as entertainment royalty and is notorious for tossing out bad sheep clients. With nerves rushing through me, I ask the uncomfortable question.

“Does this mean we’re . . . through?”

She laughs. “Don’t be silly, love. We’re certainly not going to drop you when you’re the talk of the town thanks toIf Found, Please Returnbeing all the rage in film right now.” That’s sort of reassuring and sort of not. “And PR crises have PR solutions.”

I square my shoulders, smile, letting her know I’m game for literally anything. “Whatever it is, I’ll do it.”

Holly pats my hand then lifts her teacup, looking ever so proper. “Good. Because here at CTM, we pride ourselves on looking out for our clients’ best interests.”

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