“Thanks, Hols.”
“Let’s have lunch tomorrow, okay? We’ll strategize over kale and tofu and tea.”
“Sure,” I agree, and she hangs up.
I want to believe this is a misunderstanding. I want to believe it’s a coincidence. But every detail adds up to I got fooled again.
William let slip on Tuesday night that TJ came to LA for business.
TJ bought a one-way ticket.
TJ arranged his schedule for a meeting while I was at a shoot.
The worst part? He wooed the guy the night he came to my show and gave me those fucking blueberries. And then I blew him.
I stare daggers at the photo of him during intermission at my show, romancing my work right out from under me. And he didn’t say a word to me.
Just like Arlo didn’t say a word when he was wooing my agent and then stealing my role. Talk about déjà vu.
This is Arlo all over again. My boyfriend used me to get to someone else.
And the irony of it all? TJ’s not even my boyfriend.
The front door clicks open, and I seethe like a volcano.
“Hey, baby, I’m back,” TJ calls from the foyer. “Want to get kale for breakfast, and I can tell you something? I have a funny picture to show you.”
Ha. I have a damning picture to show him.
Slowly, I head out of the bedroom, my jaw tight. My eyes lock on him as he pushes the front door closed. His T-shirt clings to his chest, and I don’t fucking care.
I hold up my phone, and the volcano erupts. “Why the fuck did you really come to LA? Because it sure as hell seems like it wasn’t for me.”
40
Your Dream Guy
TJ
* * *
Jude holds the phone like a cross-examiner holds damning evidence. His eyes are steel—no, guns—and they’re aimed right at me.
My neck prickles. I have no idea what he’s getting at, but when he shoves the phone near my face, I groan.
The shot of Walsh and me is a neon Vegas billboard advertising all the misunderstandings in the world.
“I can explain,” I say, and with those awful words, I sound like every cheating jackass in history.
With a twist of his lips that’s not a smile, Jude gestures to the living room. “By all means. You have the floor. Don’t leave out a tawdry detail.”
Holy shit. I’ve never seen him like this. “I wanted to tell you last night about the deal.” Wow. That sounds bad. Even though last night my plan seemed brilliant.
He arches a doubtful brow. “Did you now? Were you going to tell me, over, say, sushi and bowling? Was that your plan?”
“Yes, but it all came together quickly. I didn’t even sign the term sheet until this morning.”
He tilts his head. “Awww. Did you sign it while I was sleeping? So fitting, since you’ve hidden the whole bloody deal from me. You fucking knew on Monday morning when you were talking to your agent. You said I’ll believe that when it happens.”
I shake my head. “We were talking about the Amsterdam thing.”
“Right.”
My chest caves. “Jude, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I just didn’t think it would amount to anything, and once it came together, I wanted to tell you.”
“That’s awfully convenient. But oh, hey, did you know they fucking backburnered my project for yours?”
A black cloud of regret swirls over me. “Shit, babe. I’m sorry. I had no idea.”
“Don’t babe me. You brought them a project pretty much identical to the one they wanted to talk to me about. You brought them Christian Laird. You knew he was part of the project they were talking to me about developing. But you swooped in and gave them a queer rom-com. You probably already adapted the book for film and TV. Oh, except yours has two Americans and zero Brits. Thanks, TJ.”
I grab at facts to try to explain this to him. “I didn’t bring them Laird.”
“Well, he’s on it. Funny how that works.”
This looks so bad. But it’s not, and I have to prove it. “A few weeks ago, my agent told me my publisher was pursuing him to narrate my audiobooks, but he didn’t think it would happen.”
“Well, what do you know? It happened. You got Laird. I got nothing.”
But this isn’t a zero-sum game. “That’s not how it works.”
“Oh, really? I thought Hollywood wasn’t your thing. On Sunday, you literally said, Not everyone’s goal is to work in Hollywood. It’s not mine.” Jude makes my words sound so damning. “Care to revise that now, stud?”
“It wasn’t my goal. I swear. It all happened so quickly.”
He rolls his gorgeous blue eyes. Today, though, they look mean. He’s never looked mean before. “So you finagled this deal with a Hollywood A-lister at the center of it at the same time you were busy reuniting with me. Romancing me like one of your heroes, in fact. My God, it’s all so obvious in retrospect. You were playing a part the whole time. How did I not know you were such a good actor?”
Jude doesn’t pull punches. He hits hard, square in the jaw, and I’m reeling. “I told you why I did that, and you did the same thing.”
“Hardly to the same degree. Plus, the next day, we made an agreement. No bullshit. And what did you do? You fucking bullshitted me. I told you about my meetings. I told you about this project. I told you about Laird, and you pretended you understood. You gave me that whole comparison is the thief of joy shit.” He shakes his head in pained disbelief, more hurt than angry, and I hate that he feels this way.
“That was all true.” The sun keeps rising, casting bright rays through the open deck. The warmth feels all wrong. A hurricane should hit the beach right now. “I didn’t come here to do anything but see you.”
He’s unmoved. “Your one-way ticket? Right, sure. Oh, and didn’t you tell William you were here for business?”
I groan, scrubbing a hand over my beard. “Jude, I didn’t know if you wanted me to say anything about us to William.”
“Us? What does us even mean to you—except when it’s convenient.” He snorts bitterly, not hearing a word I’m saying. “Everything you say is so fucking convenient you could have scripted it.” Jude turns that spotlight on me only it’s cold now, a search light rather than a warm stage light. “It all adds up to the fact that you used me.”
I hate the look on his face. The hurt in his eyes. The anger in his voice.
I edge toward him like he’s a wounded animal who’ll bite if I touch him wrong. “I didn’t use you. I would never use you. I wanted to tell you last night. I wanted to share this with you and get your opinion.”
He brings a hand to his heart. “That’s so sweet. But hey, why not get my opinion on, oh, say, Sunday night, when you courted Webflix at my play?”
Does he not get it? “Oh, that would have been classy. Hey, Jude, congrats on your amazing performance, and oh, by the way, I met a Webflix exec during intermission, and isn’t that cool?” I stop to take a breath. “I didn’t want to steal the limelight from you.”
“Well, guess what? You did anyway, TJ.” His shoulders relax, and his expression softens and I feel a glimmer of hope that we can fix this horrible misunderstanding. “But if you’d been honest with me from the start, this wouldn’t matter. You could have told me.”