I’m dying, fucking dying, to ask William that, as well as the other questions about the guy who hasn’t left my head.
How is TJ doing? How often do you talk to him? Did he finish his book? Does he miss me as much as I miss him?
Instead, I smile and give William an offhand shrug. “Wouldn’t that be something?”
Olivia pulls me aside, whispers out of the corner of her mouth, “Are you okay? Do you need to text me and tell me you hope TJ’s watching it?”
I give a small laugh, wishing it weren’t so obvious, but glad I have someone to talk to. “Do you think he’s watching it?”
“Oh, love, you don’t want me to answer that.”
“But I do,” I say since I want her to say, of course, he is.
She shakes her head. “But I won’t, and that’s what you really need from me.”
“I know,” I say with a sigh. “I hope he’s watching it.”
Mostly, I hope he’s still writing his book. When I’m at the bookstore, I check trade reports in the publishing business to see if he sold his book even though I know it’s too soon. Still, I do it anyway.
And I read all his articles, though I don’t give a flying fuck about media and marketing conglomerates and holding companies and agencies and blah, blah, blah. I read them anyway, just to know what he’s up to. Reading his pieces makes me feel connected. But that’s part of my problem. My little obsession.
“Time to watch,” Olivia calls out.
I settle into the booth. The pub has arranged to stream the show on a big-screen TV so we can watch the first episode together.
“Go, Jude! Go get your android,” Alex calls out during a flirty scene between Lyra and me.
A little later, William gets in on the cheerleading. “Give her some tongue, mate.”
“Are you blushing?” Olivia asks, swatting my shoulder.
“Maybe a little,” I say.
“Snog her, Jude! Snog her so hard,” Olivia shouts, whistles at the telly, then turns to me with an evil grin. “Did that make you blush more?”
“Nothing you say makes me blush.”
“That only makes me more determined to try,” she says, and when I return my focus to the show, everything feels surreal.
All I want to do is reach out to TJ and tell him about tonight.
It happened, stud. It really happened, and I’m fucking proud of it, and I hope you are too.
But I don’t do that.
On the way home, I’m a little quiet. Olivia links her arm through mine. “Hey.”
“Hey you.”
“I hope he watched it too,” she says.
I give a faint smile. “Thanks. I needed that.”
“I know. I can tell you miss him extra tonight. Makes sense and all. He helped you get the part.”
“He did. And I want to thank him.” It feels good to admit that.
“I bet he’d appreciate it. I bet he’d love hearing from you.”
My heart beats a little faster. “He would. That’s the problem.”
She squeezes my arm like she’s giving me a shot of her own strength. “But you’re not going to reach out. Right?”
“I want to. But if I do, I think I’d get obsessed again, Liv.”
TJ made my obsession easy with his wit, his brain, and most of all, his unwavering support. He could have been my rock.
Maybe that’s the real heart of the issue.
I go home to my stick-in-the-mud roomie, and I spend an hour typing and erasing messages to TJ.
Can you believe it?
How the hell are you?
You helped me get this role, yes, I thought of you when I kissed her, and yes, I think of you every day.
But right when I’m this close to hitting send on all of them, my agent emails with a note that says, Booked you a small part on a TV show!
That feels like a sign.
Go forward, not back.
And so, I do.
I stop reading his articles. I don’t check the trades. Then, I do the hardest thing—I delete TJ’s number. It’s too tempting having him on my phone. I know myself. Some night, I’ll have too much cheap champagne. I’ll get the grand idea to say hello. I’ll act on the impulse to contact him.
I have to save him from me. And, most of all, I have to save myself from me.
Soon enough, all that cold turkey does the trick. I move on.
Fine, fine. I don’t always make the best decisions when it comes to my heart over the next seven years. Or my career.
But I do one thing exceptionally well—I stop chasing the past.
Part Two
Seven Years After London
* * *
And then he looked me up . . .
28
Pretending to Be Wicked
Jude
* * *
I can’t possibly keep all these books in my little flat in Bloomsbury. But I can damn well try.
My brother has other plans. Heath hunts through my shelves, grabbing friend after friend. “Seriously, do you truly need this copy of a Rhys Locke book you’ve read fifty times and also own in e-book?” He grabs the delicious mystery of the stolen sapphires.
“That’s my comfort read. I do too need it,” I point out, then grab the pristine paperback, wrench it away from him. I hold it close, precious thing that it is.
Heath shakes his head and grumbles. “I’m gifting these to the library. Rhys Locke is popular, and you’re obsessed with keeping his books in perfect condition. Ergo, they’ll make a lovely donation. So will most of these.”
I sink onto the couch, flinging a hand over my eyes. “Just take all my darlings. I can’t even look.”
“Excellent.” He chuckles without remorse, then riffles through some of my absolute favorites.
“You can’t possibly need three copies of The Importance of Being Earnest. Plus, don’t you have it memorized? You played Jack Worthing once.”
True, but that’s not why I love that play. “I like Oscar Wilde. A lot.”
“Understandable. But you don’t need this in triplicate.” Heath crooks his finger on another copy, the one with a man in a suit on the cover.
“That one is fine to donate,” I say, watching his every move.
He reaches for the edition with the two men in top hats. I shake my head vehemently. “Take the red and white one instead.”
I grab the book with the top hats. “I’m keeping this one.”
Forever.
If someone wanted to take it, they’d have to pry it from me in my grave, and I’d fucking haunt them for the rest of time.
Heath lifts a very brotherly eyebrow. In that arch, he asks a silent question. Why is this one so special? Then he makes a guess. “Did Arlo give this to you?”
I shudder, like a wave of nausea rolls through me. “No. Arlo did not give me books.”
“Reason number seventy-eight why he’s an ex,” Heath says drily.
“Please. There are easily more than one hundred reasons why he’s history,” I say.
But really, a few big ones. The bastard of an ex-boyfriend used me to get my agent and then slept with him.