Hopelessly bromantic, p.1
Hopelessly Bromantic, page 1
Hopelessly Bromantic
Lauren Blakely
For Kayti. For Tuesdays. And Sundays. And Fridays. And every other time I demanded a brainstorming session and you showed up with your very big brain. And your can-do spirit. And a knife ready to slash all the bad ideas.
Contents
Also by Lauren Blakely
About
Hopelessly Bromantic
Prologue
Part One
1. What Kind of Lap Dances Does He Like?
2. Just in Case
3. We Meet Again
4. A Great Dick with A Great Dick
5. All That Presuming
6. A Big Bite of One Thing
7. The Consolation Prize
8. This is the Perfect Diversion Tactic
9. The Time I Swallowed A Frog
10. I’m Addicted to the Goat’s Navel
11. Mysteries Can Have Hot Sex
12. And The Clues All Say
13. Merit Badges
14. The Society of Often and Well
15. What’s in A Name?
16. Holy Beard-ability
17. It Will Be A Wonderful Death
18. This Will Solve Everything!
19. The Roomie Pact
20. My Kingdom for A Do-Over
21. Confessions of An Aftershave Thief
22. About Last Night
23. An Analysis of Pet Names
24. The Case of The Disappearing Pages
25. Some Other Guy
26. Yes Man
27. My Little Obsession
Part Two
28. Pretending to Be Wicked
29. The Dating Vaccine
30. The Reunion Guidebook
31. All The World’s A Stage
32. The Good Times Zone
33. Just Call Me Detective
34. Things I’ve Done
35. Déjà Vu All Over Again
36. The Spotlight’s on Me
37. Reading Between the Lines
38. Swimming With the Sharks
39. Show and Tell
40. Your Dream Guy
Epilogue
Also by Lauren Blakely
Contact
Copyright © 2022 by Lauren Blakely
Cover Design by TE Black.
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. This contemporary romance is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. This book is licensed for your personal use only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with, especially if you enjoy sexy romance novels with alpha males. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.
Also by Lauren Blakely
Big Rock Series
Big Rock
Mister O
Well Hung
Full Package
Joy Ride
Hard Wood
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Hopelessly Bromantic Duet (MM)
Hopelessly Bromantic
Here Comes My Man
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Happy Endings Series
My Single-Versary
A Wild Card Kiss
Shut Up and Kiss Me
Kismet
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Rules of Love Series
The Rules of Friends with Benefits (A Prequel Novella)
The Virgin Rule Book
The Virgin Game Plan
The Virgin Replay
The Virgin Scorecard
* * *
Men of Summer Series
Scoring With Him
Winning With Him
All In With Him
* * *
The Guys Who Got Away Series
Dear Sexy Ex-Boyfriend
The What If Guy
Thanks for Last Night
The Dream Guy Next Door
* * *
The Gift Series
The Engagement Gift
The Virgin Gift
The Decadent Gift
* * *
The Extravagant Series
One Night Only
One Exquisite Touch
My One-Week Husband
* * *
MM Standalone Novels
A Guy Walks Into My Bar
One Time Only
The Bromance Zone
The Best Men (Co-written with Sarina Bowen)
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The Heartbreakers Series
Once Upon a Real Good Time
Once Upon a Sure Thing
Once Upon a Wild Fling
* * *
Boyfriend Material
Asking For a Friend
Sex and Other Shiny Objects
One Night Stand-In
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Lucky In Love Series
Best Laid Plans
The Feel Good Factor
Nobody Does It Better
Unzipped
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Always Satisfied Series
Satisfaction Guaranteed
Instant Gratification
Overnight Service
Never Have I Ever
PS It’s Always Been You
Special Delivery
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The Sexy Suit Series
Lucky Suit
Birthday Suit
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From Paris With Love
Wanderlust
Part-Time Lover
* * *
One Love Series
The Sexy One
The Only One
The Hot One
The Knocked Up Plan
Come As You Are
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Sports Romance
Most Valuable Playboy
Most Likely to Score
* * *
Standalones
Stud Finder
The V Card
The Real Deal
Unbreak My Heart
The Break-Up Album
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The Caught Up in Love Series
The Pretending Plot (previously called Pretending He’s Mine)
The Dating Proposal
The Second Chance Plan (previously called Caught Up In Us)
The Private Rehearsal (previously called Playing With Her Heart)
* * *
Seductive Nights Series
Night After Night
After This Night
One More Night
A Wildly Seductive Night
About
My first day in London feels ripped from the pages of a rom com when I meet a charming, witty guy in a quaint bookshop. We vibe like crazy, and our chemistry is almost too good to be true because...It is.
Turns out he’s my new roommate, and I’ll be living with the English hottie in a tiny flat that’s barely big enough for a mattress. Time for a few simple rules -- don’t walk around the flat wearing only a towel, don’t spend our nights together exploring London, and don’t crack open my secrets for him.
Even as I smash all those rules, I try to resist the swooniest guy I’ve ever known. But after a taste of his lips I give in, telling myself one night and we won’t fall in love.
Except, it might already be too late for me.
Too bad in the morning I discover that hiding my true feelings is the least of my worries, compared to what fate has in store for us.
Hopelessly Bromantic
Book 1 in the Hopelessly Bromantic Duet
By Lauren Blakely
* * *
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Prologue
Some Guys Are Just Like That
TJ
* * *
Present Day
* * *
Seven years ago, when my boss hit me with the news that he was sending me to London for the next twelve months, I could picture my nights unfolding like a dirty fairy tale.
After working my ass off all day, I’d hit the music bars, check out cool new bands, and meet hot guys. They’d charm me with their accents, and I’d charm them with my wit, and we’d bang till Big Ben struck morning O-O-O-and-one-more-O’clock.
My sex life would be nothing like it was in college, which was a lot like a drought—a famine from which, two years post-graduation, I’d only recently started to emerge.
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But Ye Olde London? It would be a beefeater feast.
And sure, yeah, a great work opportunity. Obviously. And I wanted that because I had goals. Big ones.
Little ones too.
First, I wanted to stop at the bookstore on Cecil Court I went to on a family trip when I was an awkward teenager. While my parents hunted for a guidebook, I browsed the paperbacks, and for the first time in my life, I visualized my name on a cover. I left there with an armload of books . . . and a dream.
The bookshop was one of the first places I went when I arrived in London seven years ago. I wanted an auspicious beginning to my year abroad. Full circle and all that.
But that time, when I reached Cecil Court, it wasn’t a paperback that sparked my dreams.
It was a man.
This bloke had more charm and appeal than any hero I could write into a novel.
But he wasn’t simply between the covers of a story, where I could mastermind the ending. He was vibrant, real, and the most thrilling time I’d ever had. Soon, my London life was full of him.
And—spoiler alert—this guy in the bookstore was going to upend my world, not once, but twice.
Some guys were like that. They stayed with you, even when you wanted them out of your head.
And they left, even when you wanted them to stay.
Part One
Seven Years Ago
And so it begins . . .
1
What Kind of Lap Dances Does He Like?
Jude
* * *
This is the greatest vacuum cleaner ever. There has never been a better one in all the land. It’s literally going to change your life.
I repeat those notes from my agent before I head into the audition room—a drab, windowless shoebox of a place above a strip club on the outskirts of Leicester Square.
I’ve got no problem with the business of exotic dancing. But all things being equal, I’d rather audition for a new commercial above, say, a Tesco or an insurance office.
But a gig is a gig is a gig.
I put on my best smile as I give the casting director my name. “Jude Graham with Premier Talent. Harry Atkinson reps me, and it’s a pleasure to be here.”
The casting director looks up from her tablet, question marks in her eyes. “Harry? I thought he was—” She makes a slashing gesture against her throat.
“I hope not. I saw him a week ago. Very much alive. And also, not headless.”
“Ah, must have been someone else,” she says.
Yes, I’ve noticed the epidemic of talent-agent beheadings in London lately.
“Sorry for whoever that might be,” I add.
She smiles faintly, the thick coat of plum lipstick cracking. “All right, show us you’re in the market for a Cleaneroo.”
Somehow, she manages to keep a straight face when she says the brand name—something I’ll be required to do in three, two, one . . .
I become a cheerful, British businessman returning home to his flat after a hard day at the office. “Sweetheart, I swear the floors have never been prettier. Did you get that new Cleaneroo?”
Could this script be any more 1950s?
“Thank you,” the casting director says, revealing zilch about how I did.
“Thank you for having me,” I say with a gentlemanly nod as old-fashioned as this script.
Shit.
That was more of a bow. I meant to be jaunty, not obsequious. No matter. She didn’t even notice. She’s dragging her chipped red fingernail on the tablet screen, already done with me.
I grab my messenger bag and make my way down the rickety stairs in the back of the building, heading out through the strip club. A brunette dancer weaves past me, pink thigh-high boots jacking her up several inches, white seashells covering maybe half her breasts. An unlit cigarette dangles from her lips as she gives me a once-over. “Fancy a lap dance? Half off for you . . . I like blonds,” she says.
“Thanks, but I’m on a lap-dance fast,” I say, making my way to the exit.
Once I hit the street, I call my agent. “Why do these Cleaneroo people think you’re dead, Harry?”
He chortles. “Ah, that’s so typical of Vicki. When I don’t send her anyone for a while, she assumes I’ve kicked the bucket.”
That’s not the most reassuring answer. But last year, Harry did book me a sweet spot that’s still paying the bills, so I let rumors of his demise slide. “Maybe let her know you’re still alive?”
“Oh, I already told her, Jude. She just called.”
I perk up. That has to be good. “Did I get a callback already? I can turn around right now. Or is it even better? Did I get the job?” Antiquated gender stereotypes aside, I wouldn’t mind the money.
“She said you look too much like Apollo. The Greek god.”
What the hell does that mean? “Is that a good thing?”
“Of course it is,” he says, too chipper to trust. “But they think you’re too good-looking to peddle a vacuum. Like, no one believes you’d think about anything besides abs or kale smoothies, let alone cleaning. So it’s a compliment, in a way . . .”
I sigh. “And, also, kind of not.”
“It’s a double-edged sword—your godly good looks.”
I’m not sure what to say to that. “Should I forgo showers for a few days ahead of time for the next audition?”
He laughs. “Chin up. We’ll find some more commercials for you soon. But in the meantime, the body spray people just sent a residual.”
“Well, there’s that double-edged sword too.” I played a complete douche in that advert, spraying Hammer Body Spray on my armpits before I sauntered into a nightclub. “Thanks, Harry.”
I hang up and check the time. I’m not due at An Open Book for a half hour, but I might as well head over. Too bad the Cleaneroo commercial flopped—I rearranged my schedule at the store today to do that audition. C’est la vie.
I pop in my earbuds and tune into Carrie Fisher’s memoir—someday, I’d like to have a secret affair with someone like Harrison Ford—as I make my way to Cecil Court. I turn down the next street, and there’s no way I can miss the strapping man on the corner, staring up at the TK Maxx sign. He looks perturbed and, also, really fucking hot, with a strong jaw and thick dark hair.
A brooding sort of stuntman, he’s all casual in jeans and a black T-shirt, no pretenses.
Time to take out my earbuds right now.
He sighs in frustration, flings a hand at the store.
“It’s literally the British equivalent of T.J. Maxx,” he mutters.
