I perk up. That has to be good. “Did I get a callback already? I can turn around right now. Or is it even better? Did I get the job?” Antiquated gender stereotypes aside, I wouldn’t mind the money.
“She said you look too much like Apollo. The Greek god.”
What the hell does that mean? “Is that a good thing?”
“Of course it is,” he says, too chipper to trust. “But they think you’re too good-looking to peddle a vacuum. Like, no one believes you’d think about anything besides abs or kale smoothies, let alone cleaning. So it’s a compliment, in a way . . .”
I sigh. “And, also, kind of not.”
“It’s a double-edged sword—your godly good looks.”
I’m not sure what to say to that. “Should I forgo showers for a few days ahead of time for the next audition?”
He laughs. “Chin up. We’ll find some more commercials for you soon. But in the meantime, the body spray people just sent a residual.”
“Well, there’s that double-edged sword too.” I played a complete douche in that advert, spraying Hammer Body Spray on my armpits before I sauntered into a nightclub. “Thanks, Harry.”
I hang up and check the time. I’m not due at An Open Book for a half hour, but I might as well head over. Too bad the Cleaneroo commercial flopped—I rearranged my schedule at the store today to do that audition. C’est la vie.
I pop in my earbuds and tune into Carrie Fisher’s memoir—someday, I’d like to have a secret affair with someone like Harrison Ford—as I make my way to Cecil Court. I turn down the next street, and there’s no way I can miss the strapping man on the corner, staring up at the TK Maxx sign. He looks perturbed and, also, really fucking hot, with a strong jaw and thick dark hair.
A brooding sort of stuntman, he’s all casual in jeans and a black T-shirt, no pretenses.
Time to take out my earbuds right now.
He sighs in frustration, flings a hand at the store.
“It’s literally the British equivalent of T.J. Maxx,” he mutters.
He’s loud enough for me to hear and American enough for my happy radar to beep. I happen to be a connoisseur of American accents.
I stop a few feet from him. “It is, indeed,” I agree. I’ve heard that about this shop, and I’m so bloody helpful to lumberjack-like men.
He turns, giving me a full, close-up view. Those eyes. Fuck me with a ten-inch dildo—they are a dreamy chocolate-brown with gold flecks.
I am not walking away.
I will continue this conversation for as long as I possibly can, or until I learn what kind of lap dances he likes. “It’s our discount shop. It has a little bit of everything,” I say.
He doesn’t answer right away. Maybe he’s straight. Sadder things have happened to me today.
“What do you know?” he asks in a voice that sounds like he just got out of bed after having sex.
I like that image—a lot.
His dark eyes flicker, perhaps with dirty deeds. Maybe he’s got the same images running through his head that I do. “I might be in the market for a little bit of everything,” he adds. “Where should I start at TK Maxx?”
How about letting me show you around?
But best to make certain he’s into the same things I am before getting too flirty. “Depends on what you’re looking for. They have surprisingly fashionable dog clothes, excellent popcorn, and also home furnishings,” I say, starting with a bit of charm.
His lips tilt into a bit of a grin as if I’ve entertained him. “Good to know, in case I get a late-night craving.”
I’ve got a craving right now, all right.
The American gestures to his shirt. “But I’m on the hunt for a new shirt.”
I wave a hand at his firm chest. “You might want to try Angie’s Vintage Duds around the corner if that’s your thing. They have cool retro tees and stuff,” I say while I cycle through tactics to get his number.
To satisfy my craving.
“Thanks. Maybe I’ll hit up Angie’s. You never know who you might meet your first day in London.”
He shoots me a smile.
Trouble is, it’s only a friendly one, not quite a come-and-get-me one.
I’m getting ahead of myself. I should get on my way because I don’t usually hit on men on the street. Maybe the thing to do is leave him a clue and put the ball in his court.
“True. You never know.” I pause for a moment, then . . . What the hell. You’re only young once. “By the way, I’m Jude. I work at a bookshop on Cecil Court.”
With that, I turn and get on my way, and I don’t look back.
Not until I reach the end of the street. Then, I can’t resist one more glance his way.
He hasn’t moved, except to turn his face toward me, watching me walk away.
A kernel of warmth spreads in my chest, and I know later, at the shop, I’ll be staring at the door, hoping he walks in.
A few minutes later, as I reach Cecil Court, I realize what a daft idiot I am.
I didn’t tell him which store I work in, and there are only twenty bookshops on this street. I check my watch. I can make it to Angie’s to correct my mistake and still be on time for my shift. Spinning around, I walk quickly to Angie’s. But as I peer in the window for a few long seconds, I only see the purple-haired woman who works there. I give her a wave, then head off.
Sigh. Another tiny heartbreak today, since I’ve a better chance of selling a Cleaneroo than seeing the American again.
2
Just in Case
TJ’s Travel Journal
London, Day One
* * *
My life was not a rom-com today.
It’s been more like a manifestation of Murphy’s Law. Everything that could go wrong on my trip to London did go wrong. The flight was cramped, turbulence hit an 8.0 on the Richter scale, then the airline lost my luggage. On top of that, the hotel said it wouldn’t have my room ready for another few hours. I was tempted to crumple into a jet-lagged ball of stinky misery on the rundown lobby floor. I smelled like a ripe, day-old T-shirt, and I felt like a zombie. The front desk attendant took pity on me and sent me to a nearby store to buy some new clothes.
THANKS, FATE, FOR CHOOSING THAT EXACT MOMENT TO SEND ME THE WORLD’S MOST BEAUTIFUL MAN.
When Jude gave me his name then walked away, my life was distilled into two choices:
Go to every single bookstore on Cecil Court and find him.
Or miss out on what felt like the first chapter in my new life here in England.
Wait. There was a third choice. Get my ass over to the thrift store he recommended, buy some new clothes, and then beg, borrow or steal for a shower if I had to.
I was not going to let this chance pass me by.
Cecil Court, here I come.
3
We Meet Again
TJ
* * *
When I wander down the little lane in Covent Garden, it’s as if I’ve traveled to my personal paradise. Shops line the quaint alley full of books—my favorite things after sex and pizza.
I could get lost and never want to be found. Except I do want to find Jude. What are the chances he’ll be in one of these shops right now?