I tell William goodbye on my way out of Coffee O’Clock, and then a block later, it’s sayonara to the journal pages as I tear out the ones I wrote on and toss them into a dumpster behind a curry restaurant.
“Goodbye, disappearing pages,” I say, then tuck the journal, now a little thinner, in my bag.
I’ll keep the gift from my brother as a memento, but not as a record of my heart.
Back at our flat, I drop my messenger bag on the couch. Jude strides into the kitchen, dragging a towel over his hair. He’s dressed in jeans and an aqua T-shirt that Eggplant Helen would surely approve of—nice and tight. It hugs his chest and snuggles his arms.
I believe the word for it is scrummy.
He tosses the towel on the back of a kitchen chair. “Good morning, TJ. Let me guess. You already went for a run, broke your personal best on the bench press, showered, shaved, and wrote a treatise on green energy.”
I shrug, running a hand across my stubbly chin. “I didn’t shave.”
His eyes flicker, following my hand. “Keep that up,” he says, and I make a mental note that he has a beard fetish. He puts the kettle on, then says, offhand, “So, you got a lot done while you were out of the flat?”
“I was at the coffee shop for a while.”
How cliche would it sound if I said I was working on my book there? The most cliche.
But being a stereotype isn’t my only reason for keeping my book a secret.
Spinning around, Jude lifts a brow in curiosity. “You were?”
“Well, treatises and all. Coffee shops are perfect spots for those,” I say drily.
“Of course. All that broody energy,” Jude says.
While he finishes making his tea, I dive into more of Murder on the Orient Express. When he’s done drinking, he washes the cup and sets it down on the rack with a certain Jude-like panache.
“All right. Are you ready for the greatest shopping adventure ever?” Jude flashes a smile, and it’s red-carpet-worthy. I could see him giving that to photogs and melting them with it.
Yup, that’s the start of the answer to why I don’t open up to Jude. His smile could devastate me. He could devastate me. So I protect my secrets from him and protect my heart that way too.
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” I say.
“Then, as our great leader says, ‘In matters of grave importance, style, not sincerity, is the vital thing,’” he says.
“The Importance of Being Earnest?”
“Of course,” he says as he opens the door.
It’s a fitting quote for today.
14
The Society of Often and Well
TJ
* * *
Out on the street, Jude waggles his phone. “Here’s the plan. I’ve mapped out my five favorite thrift shops in the city, plugged them into Google Maps, and designed an itinerary.”
I mime my head exploding. “I never would have pegged you for such a planner.”
“I’ve also planned for food. I included the best cafés near each shop and my favorite place for crisps in the whole city. Have I blown your mind even more?”
“My mind wasn’t the thing I wanted you to blow,” I say—low-hanging fruit and all.
“I think it’s a good thing when both cocks and minds can be blown. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Damn, this man. I have to work to keep up with him. “I stand corrected. Both should be blown. Often and well,” I say.
“Let’s start a society with that noble goal in mind. We’ll call it . . .” He scratches his chin.
But I’ve got this. “The Oscar Wilde Society of Often and Well. We can say that in polite company.”
“Brilliant,” he says, and he leads me down a few more blocks until we reach a thrift shop.
A sign swings above the door, spelling in bright pink and blue letters: Out of the Closet.
“I bet this store would want to be in our society,” I say.
“As a matter of fact, there’s a funny story behind it,” Jude says.
I wiggle my fingers, a sign for him to serve up the goods.
“A married couple runs it,” Jude begins. “Benji and Clive met at a party. In the coat closet. They were fetching their jackets at the end of the party, but their jackets got mixed up because they were so into chatting with each other, but both were a little nervous about making the first move. Since it was a phone-free party, they each had each other’s mobiles in their jacket pockets when they left. And so, even though they went their separate ways, thinking they should have gotten each other’s number, fate was looking out for them. They called each other, switched the mobiles, switched the jackets, and went home together.”
“And they lived happily ever after out of the closet,” I add, grabbing the door and holding it open for him.
Jude gives me an approving nod. “Such a gentleman.”
As he walks in ahead of me, I take a moment to ponder how we’re doing. If I were grading myself so far, I’d go with an A. Sure, Jude and I are flirting, but this level of flirting is safe. Despite one close encounter, we’ve made it through a week, and we can make it through fifty-one more.
Yup, I’ve got this.
Jude says hello to Benji and Clive inside the shop, then guides me to a rack of shirts. As he flicks through each one, he says, “I love thrifting. It’s right up there with chocolate biscuits and a good book.”
“I can tell you like it. Why, though?”
Jude swings his gaze to me, his blue eyes sparkling. “Thrifting is like a treasure hunt—finding just the right outfit. Something that doesn’t look like it came from—” He stops, snaps his fingers. “What’s that store in the States everyone loves?”
“Target,” I answer.
“Exactly. When you thrift,” he says, stopping at a black shirt with tiny skulls on it, “you can not only find bargains. You can also find something unique.”
He yanks the black shirt from the rack then holds it against my chest. “Like this. I see you with a certain style. It starts with short sleeves. Something nice and tight in the chest. You ought to show off this body, but in a way that’s not showy. That’s simply . . . clever.”
I love literally everything he just said. When Jude turns his spotlight on me, I’m helpless.
“Do you want me to try it on?” I ask.
“Yes. Fuck yes.”
I get a breather in the dressing room, a minute or two to shake off the swoon as I try on the shirt.
I step out of the dressing room to a cheering squad.
Jude leads the brigade, but Clive and Benji are by his side, clapping too. “Hot stuff,” the guy in glasses says.
The one with the shaved head wolf-whistles. “You look fine.”
I dip my head, a little embarrassed.
“No, no, no, no, no,” Jude says as he strides over to me while the two husbands return to the counter.
“No, as in, you don’t like it?” I ask, unsure.
“No, as in don’t be embarrassed, TJ. This is your style. This is you,” he says.
Jude steps a few inches closer, adjusts my collar, then brushes his fingers along my shoulders, taking a lot longer than necessary to smooth out the fabric. “And I could see you wearing it while you’re strolling around London, stopping at a park bench, reading Agatha Christie,” he says.