He breathes out hard, shuddering lightly.
“A very, very good guess,” I say, then clink the glass to his. “I’ll toast to writers who do their research.”
TJ clinks back, his voice all warm and rumbly as he says, “To actors who act on an impulse to look someone up.”
I have so many more questions for him: Now that you’ve conquered the book world, do you have new dreams? Does music unlock you? Does coffee make you happy? Does wandering the city thrill you? Do you still take your time before you speak like you’re writing the words first in your head? Do you still know how to say just the right thing when a guy needs a supportive word? Most of all, do you still feel the connection too?
But any of those would reveal too much, and once you reveal yourself, people have a way of betraying you.
Instead, I play the catch-up game. We talk about Olivia, and I tell him about her voiceover career, how she’s spending time in New York now. He tells me about his brother, who’s become one of the top closers in the Major League.
“I watched the last game of the World Series,” I say, and this topic feels a little more real, since he was always so proud of his brother. “Saw him strike out the Miami Ace batter in the final at-bat.”
“That’s so cool, the idea that you were watching it, Jude,” he says, his voice rising in excitement. “Did I ever tell you I used to catch for him in the backyard when we were growing up?”
Yes! This is working. We are working. I feel like we’re thrifting again, and it’s the day he told me he’s an identical twin. The day he opened up for real.
“No, you never did.”
“I spent hours upon hours catching fastballs. When he signed a new contract a few years ago, I teased him that he should give me ten percent of his salary. He joked that I should give him some of my royalties since he used to listen when I read him stories.”
I am ravenous. This is what I want from TJ. This side of him, when he shares his true heart. “You read him stories growing up?”
“Sometimes. When I came home from London the first time, I wrote a couple stories after we visited Buckingham Palace. One was about the queen’s late-night antics, plotting heists as she ate Cap’n Crunch. I read him that one. Others I didn’t read to him, like the one where the prince was having an affair with one of the palace guards in the library.”
I laugh. “The prince dallying with the guard. You were writing a forbidden romance back then.”
“And a royal one too.” He smiles. “I haven’t done that yet. Written a royal hero.”
“Do you want to?”
“Maybe I do,” he says, sounding enthused, and I kind of want to talk shop all night, find out what inspires him these days.
“Then you should. But it better be hotter and dirtier than what you wrote when you were thirteen. Incidentally, I love that you had gay affairs in your stories way back when.”
He gives me a curious look. “You knew I was thirteen when I wrote that?”
Did I reveal too much? That I remember so many details? Fuck, this is exhausting, playing a part with him. “You told me that you were thirteen the first time you went to London,” I say plainly, since I can’t dance my way around this with flirt.
He lifts his champagne, takes a drink, but I swear he’s hiding his smile around the drink. Why is he doing that? Is he glad I remembered but won’t let on? But when his smile disappears, I wonder if he’s holding back tonight too?
Maybe we’re both putting on a show. I want to be real with him, but for now, I stay on safer shores—talking about other people. “I watched the World Series with Olivia and William. He was in London then.”
“He’s made it big time, hasn’t he? I love their new album, and I love that Lettuce Pray is all the rage,” TJ says, a note of pride in his voice over the barista who made good.
Does that matter to him? Is he looking for a man who’s his equal in success? “Do you keep in touch with him?” I ask, keeping it light, though I don’t feel light at all.
He doesn’t say anything at first, just levels me with his deep brown gaze. Studies my eyes. The gears are turning in his head as he looks at me, and I have another answer to one of my many TJ questions—he still writes in his head before he speaks.
“We text from time to time. William’s a friend, Jude,” TJ says, emphasizing that last word like he wants to impress this key detail on me. “He’s only a friend.”
And I’ve gathered all the necessary intel. TJ’s still into me. And I’m so fucking into him. So much that I want to get to his room, unlock him with touch, and break down his walls.
“Good,” I say, and it feels like the most honest thing I’ve told TJ all night. “That’s really good.”
He runs his finger along the base of his glass, looking at me the whole time, his gaze darkening. “Jude?”
Hope rises in me, as well as desire. “Yes?”
“I don’t want to talk about William,” he says, and he sounds just like he did that night in London when it rained hard and he kissed me on the street in the storm.
I seize the chance, reach for his hand on the table, cover it with mine, then ask him a leading question. “What do you want to talk about?”
32
The Good Times Zone
TJ
* * *
It’s hard to think when Jude touches me, and I’m pretty sure he just asked me a question.
What do I want to talk about? I want both to talk and to stop all this talking. I want to rip off this mask and keep wearing it too.
I want to say You make me feel so good and I can’t even explain it. I can’t even rationalize it. Except, I picked champagne because that’s how I feel every time I’m with you.
Trouble is, I don’t know what Jude wants from me beyond his text earlier tonight—that he wants to get laid. I don’t truly know if he wants me the same way I want him.
But the last person in the world I want to experience an ounce of rejection with is Jude since he’s never hurt me, and I like it this way. We only ever make each other feel good.
That’s the zone I want to stay in. The good-times zone.
I keep things firmly centered on him when I glance at his empty champagne glass, then answer his question at last. “You. I want to talk about you. Do you want another drink?”
“Do you think I want another drink?” he counters.
I look at his hand on mine, and it’s proof. “No. I don’t think you do.”
“A drink isn’t what I came for, TJ.” He slides the pad of his thumb slowly, ever so slowly, between my thumb and forefinger. This should not be so erotic, but the burn in his eyes and the ownership in his touch heats me up.
I turn my hand over, curl my fingers through his, cataloging this moment, how it feels to touch him again. It feels incredible. “I didn’t come for a drink either. Want to get out of here?”
His smile is slow and dirty. “I thought you’d never ask.”
The hotel room is very Santa Monica. An orange wall. A teal-blue bedspread. A glass brick wall separating the bathroom from the rest.