Wait. What?
That’s oddly specific. I try to figure out what he means, but I can’t Inspector Poirot my way through this because I’m still sparking from his touch.
Instead, I say, “I’ll take it.”
After a quick tube ride and a detour for his favorite crisps that are “right up there with thrifting, biscuits, and a book,” we swing over to a shop in Kensington. Jude hunts through the racks until he finds a short-sleeved green button-down with tiny eggplants all over it. He cackles in delight as he holds it up for me to inspect.
“Really?”
Jude rolls his eyes. “You’re out of the closet. You can totally wear eggplants.”
“That is not the issue.”
“It’s not too gay if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Dude, that’s not what I’m asking.”
“Dude,” he mimics. “Then what are you asking?”
“I meant really, as in, you really like it?” I ask softly, genuinely.
Jude parts his lips like he’s about to speak, then he seems to think better of it, pausing for a few beats. “It’s perfect for a writer. It’s cheeky and a little sarcastic. Like you.”
Perhaps he’s right. When I look in the store’s mirror, I look like who I want to be. Not just a financial journalist in staid blues and whites and grays, but a man who can create. A guy who can spin a yarn. The author penning his first novel.
Wheeling around, I meet his gaze. “You’re right. This is my style. Thank you,” I say.
He beams. The wattage on the spotlight goes up again, and so does the needle on the swoon-o-meter.
At the final shop of the day, I’m fading, but Jude possesses not only a second wind but a third and fourth, as well. He motors from rack to rack, grabbing a black shirt with cartoon cacti, a yellow shirt with a print of tiny green avocados, and one more with baseball bats.
“Yes! This one is perfect for my American friend,” he says, thrusting the baseball print my way.
I smile. “It is. Especially since my brother plays Major League Baseball.”
He blinks in confusion. “What?”
“I didn’t tell you this?”
Jude scoffs. “You hardly tell me anything about yourself.”
He’s . . . not wrong.
But this is about my kickass brother, not a window into my heart’s desires. “Chance is a relief pitcher for the Cougars—”
“The Major League Baseball team in San Francisco. That’s amazing.”
“He’s got a killer cut fastball, and he’s ice on the mound. I bet he’s going to be their closer any day now. He’s also my identical twin,” I say.
Jude’s jaw comes unhinged. “Your identical twin? You’re taking the piss out of me, aren’t you?”
“It’s one hundred percent true.”
He points at me. “There’s actually another man out there this fine-looking?”
A smile takes over my face. “He’s straight.”
“I don’t fucking care. That’s not the point. The point is there are two fucking men on this planet who are, what? Six-ten, and built like hot redwood trees?”
“We’re six-three,” I say, but I can’t shake my smile.
And since I don’t want to turn off his spotlight, I decide to blow his mind some more. Grabbing my phone, I click on my photos and show him a pic I took of Chance and me at the airport a week ago. “We shot this selfie before I left New York for London.”
Slack-jawed, Jude stares at the screen, shaking his head. “Dear God. You two must have been a pair of lady-killers and gent-killers growing up,” he says.
“I was not. I assure you. I barely got any action in college.”
“I refuse to believe that.”
“It’s the truth,” I say, putting my phone away.
“Are you bad in bed?”
I snort-laugh. “No.”
“Are you sure? Every man thinks he’s good in bed.”
There’s a playfully dirty challenge in his tone. We are not in the safe flirting zone anymore. This is the red zone, warning lights flashing everywhere.
I race toward danger, ignoring the hell out of them. “I could prove it to you sometime,” I say, feeling reckless thanks to that spotlight.
Then Jude does that thing. He scrapes his teeth over the corner of his mouth, and I go hot everywhere. “I wish you would,” he says, all low and rumbly, driving me crazier than he did the night I met him.
Make that ten times crazier.
“Yeah, me too,” I whisper, our eyes locked.
We don’t move. We’ve reached a crossroads. Will I kick the flirting up another few degrees, yank him into the dressing room with me?
Or will he?
I do nothing, the standoff extending, the heat between us flaring until a customer wanders into the store, breaking the spell.
I grab the shirts from Jude, shut the door to the dressing room, and shove my back against the wood like I’m fighting off enemies outside of it.
The enemy is my own willpower, weak right now.
I breathe out, hard.
Holy shit. I was this close to dragging him in here, slamming him against the wall, and punishing him with a kiss to prove I could make his bones melt.
Because I could. I know I could. Because I want Jude Graham more than I’ve ever wanted any man. And I would kiss him and touch him and fuck him in a way that made him feel like the most wanted man ever.
And it would electrify him.
Like he electrifies me.
But the thing is—Jude does so much more than simply turn me on.
Thanks to his energy, excitement, and enthusiasm, this has been the best day I’ve had in ages.
That’s why I won’t tell him I’m writing a novel. I’d be exposing a piece of my vulnerable heart to him. Jude’s already hellbent on figuring me out. He delights in it. He’s been trying to get me to share writerly things with him today. Maybe even to admit what I did this morning at the coffee shop, why I read Agatha Christie, how I want to steal “The Duck’s Nipple” to use it in my book.
But telling Jude my dreams is dangerous. It could lead to closeness.
He already knows my habits, what I eat, when I exercise, and yeah, what I sound like when I come in the shower.
He knows my taste in books, music, and home decor. He knows I had no style and that I like the kind he just found for me.
I’m sure he knows, too, that this is both lust and so much more than that for me.
If I let him into my head, I would become completely infatuated.
I prefer slightly infatuated, like I am now.
But Jude deserves something.
After I buy the shirts and we leave, I silently practice what I want to say. Something I once thought he’d have to get out of me with his tongue.
“Jude,” I say, my tone serious once we’re walking down the street.
He stops in his tracks. “Yes?”
I exhale and choose sincerity over style. “It’s Terry Jerry.”
15
What’s in A Name?
TJ
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