“Very,” I say, low, just for him.
“Good,” he says, then strides to the front of the store and chitchats with a customer. The whole time he ushers her around, my neck is warm, my head is hazy, and I feel like this is happening to some other guy. Like this is just a figment of my jet-lagged brain.
I flip open the book, turn it to one of my favorite scenes, and hear the lines in Jude’s voice.
It’s never sounded better.
A few minutes later, Jude returns, sliding up by my side to read over my shoulder, his breath near my ear. “I hope you have not been leading a double life, pretending to be wicked and being good all the time. That would be hypocrisy.” He stops before I melt, because yeah, that’s the best I’ve ever heard this play. “Do you like Oscar Wilde?”
“Very much so,” I say, trying to stay cool. “You?”
“A lot,” he says, and neither one of us is talking about the Irish poet.
But I feel Wilde would approve of everything I’m about to do.
“Go out with me tonight, Jude,” I say, as a tangle of heat rushes down my chest, curls into a knot in my belly.
“I was hoping you’d ask. But . . .” He pauses, and my stomach plummets. This is when he’ll disappoint me. “I have to work till nine. Can you meet at nine-thirty?
That’s it? That’s the but? I would meet him at three in the morning. At noon. Now.
I keep all that eagerness to myself. “Yeah. Want to meet at a pub? Get a beer? That sounds so very English.”
“And it also sounds so very good,” he says. “Where are you staying?”
“Not far from here. My hotel’s near Piccadilly Circus.”
“Meet me at The Magpie.”
“I’ll be there.”
He points to the book. “Is this the edition you came for? The one with the two men in top hats?”
“It’s perfect.”
“Did you really want the book?”
I swallow roughly, meet his eyes, speak the whole truth. “I really want the book,” I say, and it’s not a lie. It also might have a double meaning.
As he heads to the counter, I follow him. I feel like I’d follow him anywhere, and that’s a dangerous thought. But now’s not the time for analyzing.
Now is a time for doing.
Jude rings me up, slides the card reader across the counter, then takes out his phone. After I swipe my credit card, he says, “And I believe you were going to give me your number, TJ.”
As I slide him the card reader, he gives me his phone. I keep my head down, so he can’t see the size of my smile as I tap in my digits then swivel the device back to him. Seconds later, he sends me a text.
* * *
Jude: Mark my words. I’ll figure out what TJ stands for. I have my ways.
* * *
TJ: Just try them on me.
* * *
Then, since it’s always good to leave them wanting more, I take the Wilde and go. As I walk off, I can see the rest of my days and nights in London in a whole new way.
4
A Great Dick with A Great Dick
Jude
* * *
I’ve had dates that started worse.
There was the guy who turned out to be my second cousin, though we thankfully learned of our interconnected family tree branches before we smacked lips. Then, there was another guy who informed me the second I sat down at the table that he liked to take cold baths before sex.
Give a bloke some food before you reveal your fetishes. I mean, that’s just polite.
But let’s not forget the man who cried the instant I arrived at the café. I don’t even know why. He just blubbered for thirty minutes till I called him an Uber and sent him home.
With that precedent, a night out with a hot, but exhausted American likely won’t crack the top-three worst dates. But when I catch sight of TJ through the window of The Magpie, yawning wide enough to fit a double-decker bus, I suspect the evening won’t end the way I imagined—with mutual finishing.
Well, there are other uses for mouths.
I go into the packed bar and head straight for his booth, where he’s reading the book he bought. “Usually, it takes a few beers before I bore my dates, so I’m ahead on that count,” I say.
“Sorry about that,” TJ says with a tired laugh as he sets the Wilde aside. “But I assure you, boredom is not the issue.”
“It’s past your bedtime?” I suspect that’s why he’s zonked.
A sheepish look flits across his tired eyes. “That obvious?”
“Yes, but you said it was your first day in London.” I slide onto the dark wood bench across from him. On the wall above us hangs a vintage poster of London from a century ago.
“Who’s the detective now?” TJ counters.
“It’s a useful skill,” I say drily, tapping my temple. “Remembering, that is.”
“Sure is. And hey, if it helps, I haven’t slept in more than twenty-four hours. But thanks for the heads-up that you’re dull.” TJ points to the door. “I’ll just make my great escape right now.”
“I don’t think you’re going to slip away just yet.”
His eyebrows dart up. “And why is that, Just Jude?”
“Oh, I have a nickname already?”
“You made it easy.”
I’d like to make a lot of things easy for him. Like, say, having me when he’s not knackered. “And you’ve made it hard for me to figure out your real name.”
“But you like it that way. Hard,” he says.
I shrug coyly. “I do enjoy a hard man.”
He chuckles, then he holds up a finger for a pause. “One sec.” Grabbing his mobile, he quickly taps something out on the screen.
I peer over the table, intrigued. “Are you taking notes on our conversation?”
“It gave me an idea—what you just said.” He finishes typing and sets his phone down, a little amused with his own notes.
That ratchets up my curiosity. “And, are you going to keep that idea all to yourself, like your real name? Or will you share?”
TJ gives a sly smile. “Depends on what I do with it,” he answers in a tone that says Let’s leave it at that.
Fair enough. I don’t need to push him on his notetaking. People reveal things when they’re ready. But I want him to reveal something to me. I have a hunch about it, but I’ll have to get the answer out of him in a roundabout way. “Great table. Did you get here a while ago?”
“Yeah, I did,” he says, scratching his jaw like he’s playing at “laidback” too. “I mean, I didn’t know how long it would take to walk here from my hotel, or whether the GPS directions are right, or whether The Magpie would be crowded since it’s a Saturday night. So, I showed up a bit early.”
The way he overexplains is endearing, and confirms my hunch that he was as eager to impress me with a good table as I was eager to find him earlier. Call me a glutton for compliments, but I do like knowing when someone’s into me. I can blame my ex for that, I suppose.