12
And The Clues All Say
Jude
TJ looks freshly . . . showered. The ends of his hair are wet. He’s wearing a plain white T-shirt. It’s tight enough that I can spy the faint outline of his nipples. Dear God, did he wear that on purpose?
Well, of course, he did, you daft idiot! He didn’t put on a shirt by fucking accident.
My roommate strides over to the counter. When he reaches me, I catch a faint whiff of aftershave. It’s woodsy and clean. He wasn’t wearing that on Saturday night when we went to The Magpie. Did he buy it here in London or was it in his suitcase that he retrieved on Sunday? And how much of a perv would I be if I nipped into our bathroom some night, uncapped it, and inhaled his scent?
The answer smashes into me like a wrecking ball—a big pathetic perv.
I straighten my shoulders. “Are you coming here to gloat about The Goat’s Nipples?”
His brow furrows. “You mean The Goat’s Navel?”
Shit. “Yes, that’s what I meant,” I say, trying to recover as if I’d merely dropped a line on stage. “The Duck’s Navel, of course.”
TJ grins slyly, his lips twitching. “It’s the duck with the nips, Jude. You said so yourself,” he says, waggling his phone. “You a little distracted, buddy?”
Did he come here to torture me with that shirt and that aftershave and that hair? When he squares his shoulders, making his chest look even sexier, I resort to a full-on rescue mission and save myself with a slice of the truth.
“Actually, yes. I keep checking my phone to see if Harry has gotten word on the audition.” That’s not a lie. I did check my mobile an hour ago.
TJ’s face turns sympathetic. “Nothing yet?”
“Not a peep.”
“Well, when you get the good news, we need to celebrate.”
“How?”
“You know, get a beer or something. Something . . . friendly,” he says.
“Was that irony?”
“Literally,” he says with a smile. God, he has such a great smile, all straight teeth, and an easy grin. It’s not a know-it-all grin like some men wield. It’s a genuine one.
“Anyway, are you . . . looking for a book?” That’s a logical question, even if I really want to ask Where do you go at night and what do you do?
“I am.” He drums his fingers on the counter, then glances back at the handful of other patrons in the shop. They’re busy sifting through shelves, but I keep my eye on them in case they need anything. “Ever heard of this writer named Agatha Christie?” TJ asks.
I feign ignorance. “Not ringing a bell. Did she pen those bonkbusters about Hollywood royalty?” I snap my fingers. “Hold on, that’s Caroline Vienna. Oh, I’ve got it! Did Agatha write those tales of the teenage spy?”
The gold flecks in his eyes brighten and flicker. “I loved the Rhys Locke books when I was younger. I devoured them all. Did I ever tell you I came to this bookstore when I was thirteen?”
“No,” I say, surprised at how easily he reveals this and the gleeful look in his eyes.
“I spent hours here on a family trip. And you just named my favorite writers. Caroline Vienna and Alistair Edwin. I actually got a bunch of their books from this store,” he says, with a faraway gaze like he’s slipped into a memory—a very happy one. “So, it was . . . kinda interesting that you worked here.”
“A little kismet,” I say before I think better of it.
Because there’s no kismet with us. And what the hell? I don’t believe in kismet. I believe in work and putting in your time.
TJ gives a soft smile. “Yeah, it’s kind of cool that you work in this shop.”
“Are you going out tonight?” I blurt out.
His grin turns lopsided for the first time. His mouth is all kinds of crooked as he studies me. “I’m here right now. Why are you asking if I’m going out?”
I flap a hand at him. “Well, after you get your Agatha Christies. You look like you’re going out.” Ugh. I sound so flustered it must be obvious why I’m asking—because I’m a jealous, prying roomie.
“Nah. I just went to the gym after I went to—after I did some stuff.” There he goes again—not saying what he’s doing. “So I showered after I worked out.”
Great. Now I’m picturing him at the gym, pumping iron, and getting all sweaty.
Everywhere.
Sweat dripping down that chest, between his nipples, then onto his navel, then his happy trail.
“Cool. Cool. I go to the gym too,” I say.
Then I want to smack myself. I go to the gym? Have I ever talked to a man before? Let alone one I know? I need to lock up my mouth and throw away the key.
“Gyms are good,” TJ says.
I’ve got to save me from me. I point to the mysteries near the back of the shop. “Let me show you the Agatha Christies.”
“Thank you, but I don’t want to keep you from work,” he says, and maybe that’s a hint he wants to look at them alone.
It’s a reminder, too, that I need to do my job. As he heads to the shelves, I go to the other customers, helping them find some travel books, a photo book of London, and a cookbook.
I challenge myself not to steal a single glance at my roommate until I’ve rung up all the customers. Even then, I don’t look. I march over to the romances and reshelve the books that some customers left on a nearby chair.
At last, my eyes stray to him.
Oh. I didn’t notice he had on his laptop messenger bag when he came in, maybe because I was too focused on that shirt.
I grab my phone from my pocket to have something else to look at, and check for messages from Harry while I’m at it.
And hello gorgeous.
An email from Harry flashes across the screen. The subject line makes my pulse spike—Callback.
“Fuck yes,” I shout, reading the note quickly.
TJ spins around, then strides over. “Did you get a callback?”
“Are you a mind reader?” I ask, giddy with the news.
“The smile and the fuck yes gave it away,” he says, then offers a hand to high-five.
“Monday at twelve.” I smack his palm.
Before I can let go of his hand, TJ yanks me in close for a hug. “Congrats. I knew you’d crush it.”
I say nothing because my throat hitches when I breathe in that aftershave. I shift my nose slightly, a thief nicking one more hit of that delicious scent.
With his arms around me, my mind races with after-dark possibilities. Bet he does too, because he murmurs something—something unintelligible. His incoherence makes the moment even sexier.
When TJ lets go, he’s slow and purposeful, his hands sliding down my arms.
Or is that wishful thinking? My eyes drift to his hands to verify. But everything feels warm and hazy, and I don’t know if he’s touching me deliberately or just letting go slowly.
All I know is my insides are melting.
When he breaks the hold, he says in a rough voice, “Do you want to rehearse again? This weekend?”
“Yes. I do. How’s Sunday?”
“Perfect.”
Then, he smooths a hand over my shoulder. I blink, trying to figure out what he’s doing.
“You just had a piece of something on your shirt,” he says, with a lazy shrug.
“I did?”
His eyes darken as he stares at my lips, then glances back up. “I just wanted to get it off.”
“Did you? Get it off?”
TJ shakes his head. “I don’t think so actually.”
“Better try again,” I say, inviting him to touch me once more.
He brushes a hand over my shoulder, and it’s maddening how good that feels. When his palm skims over me, my whole body vibrates.
“I think I got it,” he says, all husky.
“Well, I don’t know if you did,” I whisper, mesmerized by his touch.
“You’re right. I think I missed something here.” He lifts that hand, brushing his fingers over my hair.
Sparks burst inside me. I haul in a gasp.
For long seconds, we stare at each other. I’m caught in the heat of his gaze, the way we subtly angle our heads to lean in for a kiss.
But the bell over the door tinkles, and I wrench away. I’m pained by the separation but grateful for it too. I was this close to demanding greedy, hungry kisses.
A woman in a red dress walks in. A young girl wearing a tutu skips beside her.
“I should . . .” I begin, my voice hoarse.
“And I should get these books,” TJ says, sounding the same.
I head to the woman and child, letting them know I can help them if they need anything. I hope I don’t bear the tell-tale signs of an almost kiss, but I suspect my face is flushed.
I return to the counter as TJ arrives, several mysteries in hand, and a London guidebook too. I ring him up, and he says goodbye.
When the store’s quiet again, I still haven’t come down from the contact high, so I send him a text. I need to know something. I just do.
Jude:Was that a new shirt you wore tonight?
TJ:No. I’ve had it for a while. I haven’t shopped yet. I’m saving myself for you.
Jude:How sweet.
TJ:Well, I suspect I’ll need to conserve all my shopping energy to keep up with you this weekend.
I should stop, but I don’t. Flirting with TJ is the best time I’ve ever had.
Jude:I bet you’ll love shopping with me.
TJ:As much as you liked my plain white shirt?
Jude:So you noticed that . . .
TJ:Let’s just say it was as obvious as a duck’s nipple. Also, I told you some things are good in white.
Jude:You were right.
Later, when I return home, he’s not there. But the reader and bibliophile in me adds up the clues—the messenger bag with his laptop, the books, his unsaid things. I know what he’s up to.
A pang of frustration wedges in my rib cage. I wish he trusted me enough to tell me. I wish, too, I understood why I so badly want him to admit his plans.
But rather than analyze, I decide I’ll do my damnedest to get it out of him on Saturday.