The Virgin Replay by Lauren Blakely

Epilogue

Tom

A cat love story

Ah, humans.

The dilemmas they faced.

Like, moving.

Tom suspected they’d be relocating any day. The boxes gave it away. There were boxes everywhere in his home.

He surmised all that talking was over moving.

Perhaps they’d even discussed how the cat would handle moving across town.

Please.

People.

The cat could handle it fine.

Cats could handle anything.

Humans invested every little decision with such monumentality. And there was always so much talking, as if that were the solution to anything, when actually, that was rarely the case.

Typical of the lesser species.

Cats had already evolved well beyond humans. They could speak in a more beautiful tongue. They could communicate everything in hisses, meows, and well-placed purrs.

After all, the great gift of purring had made all the difference for Tom a few months ago when he’d discovered a certain someone. Just the thought of the Siamese next door made him kick up his motor.

She revved his engine, all right.

Lady Cat.

Talk about a sexy feline.

She had it going on with that tail—lush, long, and fluffy.

The second he’d spotted that majestic tail, one afternoon while his mistress was gone, his kitty heart beat faster.

Raced harder.

Tom had been snoozing in the sun on the windowsill—naturally—when she’d walked by across the garden rooftop.

The sight of such a lovely lady had rousted him from his seventh nap of the day.

He’d slinked under the half-open window to outside, eager to make her furry acquaintance.

Meow . . .

It was love at first tail.

She’d twined hers around his, and their purr boxes went wild.

He fell for her paw over collar.

Little did his person know what he’d been up to during the days and, truth be told, the nights.

When the woman departed for that thing she called work, leaving Tom with those sweet little orders to be good, to behave, he’d done the opposite.

He’d been a very bad boy.

Sauntering out the open window.

Sidling up to Lady Cat.

Getting to know the lovely Siamese better and better each afternoon and evening. They’d napped together.

Oh, dear God, those naps.

Afternoons in the sun followed by evenings under the stars.

They could sleep all day, it seemed.

Probably all night too.

Sometimes his person asked why he was so happy.

He’d tried to tell her that day when she was distraught. The day he’d rubbed relentlessly, pushing his body against her leg, purring louder than he’d ever purred before.

Love was the answer.

He’d found it in Lady Cat.

He’d wanted his person to find it too.

And she had, it seemed, in the big, tall man.

But now, if they moved, what would happen to the beauty Tom enjoyed all those rooftop trysts with?

Admittedly, the cat was worried.

Worry was unfamiliar to him.

Cats didn’t worry, except about where the next slices of tuna might come from.

But he was anxious too about that note that had arrived by a secret doorway whoosh a few hours ago when the woman was gone.

What did it say?

Was it an invitation from Lady Cat to slip away somewhere?

Later that night, the woman and the man stumbled into the home, giggling, whispering sweet nothings.

“Oh,” the woman said, stopping to pick up the note. “It’s from Lynn.”

The man beamed. “Is it what I think it is?”

“I hope so,” the woman said, opening the note then clutching her heart. “She’s ours, Chance. She’s ours.”

The man raised a hand in the air, victorious. “Yes!”

“The shelter approved our application to adopt Lady Cat.”

Meow?

What were they saying? What was the news?

The woman bent down, scratched his chin, stroked his head. “You want to come live with Chance and me and Lady Cat at his place?”

Please, let it be good news. He couldn’t bear to part with Lady Cat.

Perhaps there was a way for Tom and his love to have a few more hours together. He could only hope.

Later that night, he jumped onto the humans’ bed and purred, doing his best to tell them his wishes—bring the Siamese.

Please, oh kitty please.

Everything was easier if you purred more.

Didn’t they understand? If they were cats, they certainly would.

He spent the rest of the night pacing. He couldn’t even enjoy the boxes properly. Couldn’t even jump into them, let alone out again.

What would happen to his Lady Cat?

But in the morning, he heard the pretty meow he’d come to love.

“She’s here,” the woman called out. Tom opened one eye, perked up an ear, and leapt out of bed.

He’d fallen asleep after all. It happened to cats.

But now, he was wide awake and ready.

He stretched his lithe body, lifted his lush tail, and sashayed to the front door where the woman held—be still, his beating heart—the love of his furry life.

Roar!

Lady Cat was here.

The woman set her down, and it was love at first tail all over again.

Much like it had been for the humans.

* * *

A few days later, they moved into the man’s place where he puttered around talking to plants and cooking meals for his woman, and the two of them curled up together on the couch to watch comedies where they talked in funny voices.

Then they curled up together on the bed to do other things.

Tom understood. Sometimes a man just wanted to snuggle up with his woman.

Tom did just that, cuddling with Lady Cat, as the man and the woman laughed, and sighed, and kissed.

And lived happily ever after.

THE END

Curious about TJ? His life is about to change when he has to fake a romance with an ex-hookup! Can he pull off a pretend relationship with the cocky, charming movie star he regrets? Find out in HOPELESSLY BROMANTIC! A preview follows.

Interested in Harlan’s romance? Be sure to order THE BOYFRIEND PLAYBOOK! You won’t believe what goes down when Harlan runs into a jilted bride from his past! You’ll find a preview below!

And Shane’s and Clementine’s romance comes in THE VIRGIN SCORECARD, a collection of sexy novellas.

Be sure to sign up for my mailing list to be the first to know when swoony, sexy new romances are available or on sale!

The Boyfriend Playbook teaser…

Harlan…

For the next few hours, I have a blast throwing strikes and gutter-balls alike with my friends until, one by one, they peel off. As the clock ticks closer to ten, it’s just Cooper—my quarterback—and me, and we chat as we make our way out, passing the bar inside the bowling alley where my gaze catches on a woman in a formal white dress.

That’s odd enough to rate a look, but something about her feels achingly familiar.

Possibilities nag at me all the way to the exit then won’t let me leave.

At the door, I tell Cooper I’ll see him at training camp. “I swore I saw someone who looked familiar. I’ll catch you later. I need to go check on something.”

He lifts his chin in a goodbye. “See you at camp.”

I turn around, the blonde profile triggering a memory that tugs me back to the bar.

Could it be?

Is that . . . her?

A tingle of excitement coasts over my skin at the mere possibility.

When I reach the bar, I take a deep breath and look in, then I shake my head in amazement.

The woman in white is none other than someone who, seven years ago, I desperately wanted to see again.

And she’s wearing a wedding dress as she orders another shot of tequila.

Grab THE BOYFRIEND PLAYBOOK!

And now, here’s Chapter One of Hopelessly Bromantic…

TJ

Things that suck—when your ex-boyfriend dates your . . . ex-boyfriend.

Things that don’t suck—when you finally find the inspiration you’ve been scouring the city for.

There. Right there.

The second I run into Flynn and Caine holding hands as they order tacos at a food truck in Central Park on a Sunday afternoon while I finish my jog, my first thought isn’t the obvious they’re talking about me.

Not even when Flynn spots me, lifts a hand in a perfunctory wave, then when Caine follows his lead, waving too.

Nope.

My first and most epic thought is—They’re talking about me and that would be such a brilliant idea for a book, like, say, maybe the one that’s massively overdue to my publisher.

See you later, exes.

I don’t end my run after all. I fly home on fleet feet to Chelsea, bound up four flights of stairs, flip open my laptop, and crack my knuckles.

It is on.

This guyhas a book idea at long last.

After all these months of blank pages, words are flowing through my veins.

I write and I write and I write.

Goodbye, trashcan full of proverbial crumpled up pieces of paper.

Hello, brilliant idea for my next novel.

After a whole lot of nothing in the creativity department for several long, painful, idea-free months—and months vacant of ideas are almost as bad as sexless months, a drought I also know far too well—this surely is my breakthrough.

At last.

A few days and countless cups of coffee later, I’ve got almost ten chapters.

I’ve ordered in most meals and forgotten others, too, because that’s how it works when the muse strikes. You don’t stop to snack on Swedish fish or shove salted-caramel pretzels in your mouth. You just do.

You serve the gods of inspiration. And have I ever served.

I’m like that crazed author in a movie, tapping madly away, the clack-clack-clack of keys the soundtrack in my apartment till I yank the pages from the typewriter and slap them down on my agent’s desk.

Okay, obviously I don’t write on a typewriter. I’m not a Luddite. Also that’s super wasteful when it comes paper.

But after a quick re-read on ye olde laptop, I send this bad boy to my agent.

Five minutes later, he replies with a hallelujah then tells me to swing by in an hour since he’ll have it read by then.

I pump a fist, then push away from the couch to take a shower. Even when inspiration strikes, I’d never leave the house smelling like, well, like people think writers smell.

My goal in life is to smell like a magazine ad looks, and I accomplish that in fifteen minutes, then get dressed quickly, tugging on jeans and grabbing a short-sleeve button-down I snagged at a thrift shop. Bonus that it shows off my arms. Double bonus? The cute illustrations of foxes that cover the fabric.

Looking hip, I head uptown on a late spring morning in Manhattan. I push through the revolving glass door of Nathan’s building, eager for his feedback.

It’s gonna be good.

Bring it on. The welcome back, TJ. The we know you’re late on your deadline, but we love you so fucking much. And you’re brilliant and incredible, and you’re clearly already penning a fantastic follow-up, so go write more.

A minute later, I exit the elevator on the eleventh floor. From behind the reception desk, Zoe waves excitedly at me, her chunky bracelets jingling and jangling against themselves, revealing bits and pieces of the tattoos of vines that line her arms. “TJ, I wrote five thousand words last night,” she says, wildfire in her eyes. “You’ve inspired me.”

See?

Everything is new again.

Everyone is creating.

“It’s in the air, Zoe.” I hold up a hand to high five. “Keep it up.”

“I will. Also, Nathan said to just wave you in.”

How about that? I don’t even have to wait to see the dude. I knew it. He loves the premise of my new book too.

But when I reach his corner suite, he’s still seated at his desk.

Staring at the screen.

Scratching his head.

Weird.

I expected him to be standing in the doorway, blowing on a trumpet, hailing my return.

Parking my hands on my hips, I clear my throat. “Hello? Where is the parade? The ticker tape? The marching band? I’ll wait for them but, man, I normally expect you to be a little faster.”

Nathan lifts his gaze from his screen.

His face is completely inscrutable, his dark eyes behind his black glasses a total closed book.

But I’m undeterred.

I won’t let a little thing like an agent’s unreadable face get me down, though I kinda wish Nathan would say something. I do like praise. It’s oxygen.

I wag a finger at him. “Wait. I know what you did. You got me a singing telegram, didn’t you? One of those Magic Mike strippers is going to jump out in just a second and tell me how awesome you thought the pages were.” I cross my arms. “I’ll wait.”

With a beleaguered sigh, Nathan takes off his glasses, sets them down on his desk, and scrubs a hand along the back of his neck. “For the record, if I ever order you a stripper, it’ll be a cop.”

“Sweet. I ordered one the other night after a burger and a beer. It was basically a perfect night,” I deadpan.

A small smile lifts the corners of his mouth. “That.” Nathan stabs his finger against the computer screen. “Why isn’t that in this?”

My brow furrows, and I step into his office, head to the cushy blue chair across from his desk, and park myself in it. “Why isn’t what in what?”

“That kind of humor. That kind of wit. Stripper jokes. Humor. Badinage. Wit. Banter.”

My face goes blank.

At least, I think it does. I can’t see my face obviously.

But it feels blank from the shock of his comment. I flap my hand in the direction of his computer. “That’s all in there. That’s really fucking funny. And full of heart. How could you not see it?”

“Is it?” Nathan clears his throat and reads from the screen. “Ten Rules for Dating My Ex. Chapter One. Tanner. The first rule of dating? Don’t go out with a dude with a one-syllable name. I learned that the hard way the other day.”

“That’s a good rule. See? Flynn. Caine.” I drag both out like their names are a warning. “If only I had known that before I got involved.”

“Allow me to read more.”

“Please do.” With a smile, I kick back in the chair, happiness washing over me. I’ve always loved when people read to me. There’s little I love more than being told a good tale.

Well, pizza and sex. I like them both better.

Not in that order though.

I listen contentedly as the hero sets up his dilemma—Lessons learned from the front lines of dating, since it’s a battlefield out there.

When Nathan trails off at the end of the second page, I scoot forward in the chair.

Doesn’t he like it?

Oh shit. Does he . . . hate it? Are my words complete and utter garbage?

“TJ,” he says heavily, and, uh-oh, that sounds less like a seal of approval and more like a veto.

Worry wiggles down my spine. “Yes?”

“There’s no romance in here. This is a breakup book.”

I bristle. Like I’ve never bristled before. He’s wrong. He’s just wrong. “Did you read all ten chapters? It’s a set-up for a romance. He’s just . . . well, Tanner is just . . .” I cast about for words to describe my hero’s situation. “He’s recapping the lessons learned from past breakups. Licking his wounds and all.”

Nathan stares at me like his eyes are a bullshit detector. “Yes, I get that. Loud and clear. But where’s the romance?”

It’s . . .

It’s in . . .

Isn’t it in there?

My mind flips back to the pages I wrote. “I’m sure it’s there. It has to be. I meant it to be.”

He shakes his head, his expression rueful. “The first ten chapters are about his breakup. There’s zero romance. Zero dates. Zero set-up. I don’t even know what the trope or the plot is. Is it enemies to lovers? Friends to lovers?”

I cringe at the last one. Whip my head back and forth. No way would I write friends to lovers—not after what went down with Flynn.

“Opposites attract? Forbidden romance? Fake romance.”

My stomach churns.

Dammit.

I slump down in the chair, drop my forehead into my hand. There isn’t a shred of romance in Rules for Dating My Ex. Shoulders sagging, I drag a hand through my hair. “I don’t know what the hell to do, Nathan,” I say, confessing what I think he already suspects. “Everyone’s expecting this epic love story like Top-Notch Boyfriend. That was easy to write. I was . . .”

But I can’t finish the sentence.

I’ve written books before Flynn.

Hell, I wrote nine.

But none that big, that powerful, that swoony as the ‘epic guy meets guy and falls head over oxfords in love’ story that was Top-Notch Boyfriend.

The romance that vaulted me from midlist to bestseller.

That made my apartment possible, my life possible, my freedom from worries possible.

But only if I can pull off another.

Nathan’s intensity vanishes. In its place is concern. “Yes, you were in love, TJ. It drove you to write. To feel. To dig deep into your soul for your art. But it didn’t last and that sucks. I get it. I’ve been there before.”

I turn away, peering out the window of his Amsterdam Avenue offices, staring at the city below. Millions of people in this naked city. Some days, it feels as if everybody here knows what happened. The guy who inspired the story that topped bestseller lists and made me a mint dumped me publicly, painfully, and with disastrous consequences for my career.

I jerk my gaze back to Nathan. “Fine. I’ll try again. Another approach. I’ll—”

“—You’ll introduce the trope in Chapter One,” he says, laying it out there, crisp and business-like. “You’ll bring the other hero on page in chapter two. And how about a kiss by chapter eight?”

My jaw drops. “You have the whole thing plotted out, man?”

His grin makes it clear this isn’t his first time at the rodeo. “I know a thing or two about what makes for a good book. I’ve also read all yours. That’s what works—that kind of strategy. Make this one work.”

My agent pulls no punches. With intense eyes, he delivers the final verdict, pointing to the screen. “This anti-romance isn’t what anybody actually wants to read in your romance novel, King TJ.”

It’s like a shot to the heart, especially when he uses the name my readers have given me. Lovingly given me. But lately, they’ve all been knocking on my social media doors, asking for the next book that’s been delayed, and then delayed some more.

Soon, if I don’t deliver, they’ll move on to the next writer.

Someone who actually puts out more books.

And it hurts so much because . . . that excitement I felt while writing was classic brain trickery. My mind fooled me into thinking this story was good. My fingers were flying, so I figured I was spinning solid gold.

When I was spinning solid gold shit.

I drag my hands through my hair, heaving out a sigh of admission. “What do I do?”

“You’ve written ten books. All with great reviews. One of them was a massive, huge, fireball of a hit, that turned your backlist into money trees — incidentally that’s my favorite kind of tree. So, can’t you just do that again? Write another good love story?”

His question is a reasonable one. I should be able to. There’s no logical reason why I can’t pull it off. “Absolutely. I just need to focus on what they all had in common. The magic ingredient.”

Nathan’s eyes say you’ve gotta be kidding me. “Could it be . . . oh, I don’t know, you believed in romance back then? You were fucking romantic. You went on dates. With Caine, with Flynn, with Dante, with Gabriel.”

“Feel free to just list all my exes. The reminders are great for my confidence,” I say drily.

He pays me no mind. “And you took them to baseball games, or to play pinball, or to go thrifting or do game nights. You felt the mojo. You were getting out there.” He gestures to my arms. “From the looks of it, the only place you’re going these days is to the gym.”

My eyes stray to my biceps. The guns are bigger than they were a year ago. But nothing wrong that that. Lots of dudes like fit guys. “Gym equipment doesn’t break your heart.”

“But rock star writers who don’t deliver their next novel break mine,” Nathan says, clutching at his chest. “You don’t want to do that, do you? Or, say, break your contract?”

“You know what the alpha lawyer hero in The Size Principle said—Contracts are made to be broken,” I say, offering a lopsided grin, like that’ll cover up the case of my missing inspiration. “Maybe my next hero should be a detective, a cool-as-a-cucumber private eye, who’ll track down my muse.”

“Art imitates life, so if that’s what it takes . . .” Nathan stands, strides around his desk, looking all sharp in his slacks and his tailored shirt, setting a hand on my shoulder. “Listen, you’ve got a contract and a deadline. There are only so many ways I can do a song and dance for Brooks & Bailey,” he says, gentle this time.

“Yes, I know my publisher has given me three extensions already,” I say plainly, still embarrassed that he had to ask for them.

“This isn’t like you. You popped out books like you were making kettle corn at the farmer’s market back when you were the swinging stud of New York. When you were dating all over town. How hard can it be to start dating again? Especially with those arms,” he says with a wink.

“Romance and me are on a timeout,” I mutter, admitting the sad, stark truth.

He cups his ear. “What’s that? Oh, that’s the sound of the buzzer on your timeout. It’s time to get back in the game, TJ. Get on a dating app. We don’t even have to use Grindr anymore. We can do Tinder. We can do anything. Hell, you can do Boyfriend Material and level all the way up,” he says, and I cringe. “Is that such a bad idea?”

“Do you have any idea what would happen if TJ Hardman was available for any reader or listener to bang? I’d be the talk of social media. Of every gay romance reader group. No way. I can’t just put myself out there on an app.”

Nathan smiles, the nefarious grin that only a true shark of a literary agent can pull out. The man gestures grandly to himself. “Then I shall be your app. Be ready this Friday at eight o’clock for a date at the St. James Theater, home of the Sweeney Todd revival.”

Is he for real? I eye him suspiciously because, of course, that is a very suspicious statement. “You’re married to a Tony-winning actor. The lead in that show. I’m not going out with you to see your husband.”

“Happily married, I might add, and Tremaine is fabulous in Sondheim. But I also work at a talent agency that reps writers, directors and actors. That means, King TJ, you can just think of me as your dating app, since we’ve got someone for you.”

Shark? He’s more like a bionic shark descended from Neptune himself and crossbred with a fire-breathing dragon of the sea. “We’ve? Who the hell is we?”

He taps his chest. “Raphael and moi.”

“Raphael, the agent down the hall who reps actors and movie stars?”

He points at me like I’ve won a prize on a game show. “Give this man a cookie!”

I groan. “What are you and Raphael cooking up?”

The wicked glee spreads to Nathan’s irises. “Does the name Jude Fox ring a bell?”

It rings all the bells. Namely, the chimes from eight years ago when I met Jude in London.

But why the hell is Nathan is bringing up Jude? “Yes, I saw If Found Please Return at the arthouse cinema a couple months ago,” I say, since I don’t need to let on I’ve seen Jude up close and personal too.

“He was fantastic in that flick. And he’s been nommed for an award.” Nathan grins diabolically. He might as well twirl a handlebar mustache.

“All right. No more monologuing like a villain revealing how he did it. Just gimme the deets,” I say.

Nathan points at me. “You need some inspiration in the form of dating, and guess what? Jude needs something too.”

Yup. Called it. Bionic Shark with Evil Genius Brain. “Let me guess. He needs a . . .” I make a rolling gesture with my hand as I wait for Nathan to finish the connect-the-dots game he’s playing.

“Jude needs a very appropriate fake boyfriend. And his agent and I have chosen you.”

Wait a hot second. I take umbrage at one thing. “How the hell am I appropriate? That doesn’t sound like a compliment.”

“It is, TJ. You’re America’s Sweet and Hot Romance Writer. You’re the perfect antidote to his last beau. And listen, the way I see things is you can either keep not writing your book, or you can go on some dates and find some inspiration again, and write the book that everyone’s waiting for you to pen.” He takes a deep inhale, sounding wholly satisfied. “Which option sounds more appealing? Door number one or door number two?”

That’s an excellent question.

But I’m choosing door number three. “Getting my balls waxed by a first-timer at a shady clinic with one-star reviews,” I say.

Nathan doesn’t blink. “And I imagine that’s how Brooks & Bailey feels every time you don’t deliver your book.” He gestures to his phone, waving airily at it. “If you have a better suggestion, I’m all ears. If not, let me know what I should tell Raphael.”

That Jude should have shown up for our date eight years ago.

That he’s only gotten better-looking over the years.

That I have no interest in fake dating a former fling.

And yet . . . the clock doesn’t stop ticking on my deadline.

I meet Nathan’s stare head on. “Friday at eight works for me. I’ll meet him at the St. James Theater.”

Nathan grins, returns to his desk, and sits down. “Great. And I think you’ll find it more enjoyable than scrotal depilation. But hey, that’s ultimately for you to decide. And since we should probably hash out some of the details before you make your dating debut, I’ve conveniently arranged a little coffee date for you in thirty minutes time.”

Sharks have nothing on my agent.

Find out what happens next in HOPELESSLY BROMANTIC!