Isn't It Bromantic (Bromance Book Club #4) by Lyssa Kay Adams

            “I know that,” Vlad grumbled. He paused again when the waitress showed up with their breakfasts. Vlad scowled at his egg-white omelet.

            “But Tony isn’t changing,” Malcolm said when the waitress walked away. “He’s clinging to his page-one fear. You have to give him some kind of midpoint plot twist to open up a new path.”

            “And then he has to take it,” Mack said.

            “He cannot risk it yet.”

            “Risk what?” Malcolm asked. “His heart?”

            Vlad nodded, poking his eggs with his fork.

            “Jesus, dude, have you learned nothing from the manuals?” Mack snorted. “A man’s heart is the only thing truly worth risking.”

            “But also the most dangerous,” Vlad fired back.

            “Look,” Mack said. “You have two choices. Tony needs to tell her how he feels, or he needs to accept that she’s going to slip through his fingers, and you will have written the shittiest romance novel ever.”

            Vlad stuck out his bottom lip. What he thought earlier, that he’d welcome their help, he was wrong about that. This sucked.

            Malcolm steepled his hands beneath his chin. “Midpoints are a chance for characters to start rewriting their own stories. Let Tony start to rewrite his.”





CHAPTER TWELVE





Elena returned home—correction, returned to Vlad’s house—just before noon with more party supplies. It was probably cowardly to ask Colton to take Vlad to his appointment, but she needed some space to think.

            Last night, she’d finally gotten a response to her text asking for a favor. Call me when you can.

            She had convinced herself to wait until tomorrow to call him back, but when she returned home—correction, returned to Vlad’s house—and realized he was still gone, she knew there was no reason to put it off any longer.

            Neighbor Cat was waiting at the door when she walked in, so Elena let her in. The cat followed her upstairs and into her bedroom. Elena shut the door to her room and, hands shaking, dialed the number for a man she hadn’t spoken to in years. It was nearly eleven o’clock in Moscow, and she knew he’d still be awake. Journalists like him always were.

            The phone rang in her ear twice before an impatient voice answered in Russian. “Elena?”

            Relief at the sound of his voice was as potent as a stiff cocktail. She sank to the bed. “It’s me. I’m sorry to call so late, but with the time difference—”

            “I was so happy to get your text. God, it is good to hear your voice.”

            “You too.”

            “How is America?”

            Elena let Neighbor Cat crawl into her lap. “Good. Good. I mean, for now.”

            “For now? What does that mean?”

            She should’ve known Yevgeny would pick up on that. He was a journalist. He missed nothing. “You said to call you if I ever needed anything.”

            “Yes, of course. And I meant it.”

            “I hope so. Because . . .” She sucked in a fortifying breath. “Because I need a job.”

            Her words were met with nothing but the sound of a newsroom in action somewhere in the distance. Editors shouted. Televisions blared. Reporters joked and cursed. He was still at work. Because of course he was.

            “Yevgeny—”

            He interrupted her again. “So it’s true, then. There were rumors, but I refused to believe them.”

            The sweat on her brow chilled as icy fear wormed through her veins. “Rumors? What rumors?”

            “That you wanted to come back.”

            The fear turned her voice to a rasp. “Where did you hear that?’

            “This is Russia, Elena. Very little is secret. And you think I haven’t kept tabs on my own goddaughter?”