Page 1 of Book Boyfriends
CHAPTER ONE
NOT A BOOK BOYFRIEND
Iwish I were on a date with Captain Wentworth.Davis Mackenzie isnoCaptain Wentworth. In fairness, none of my dates ever hold a candle to my dream book boyfriend. They don’t have to be top-tier Austen male romantic leads, but at least in the ballpark of the book boyfriends that cause my pulse to race. In the pages of my favorite romances are the perfect men. Men who do battle, traverse distant lands, and say all the pretty words while still ensuring their lady is well-sexed.
In real life, I’m sitting across from Davis. He’s thirty-six, single, and breathing. Just my type. At least, that’s what my younger brother Jackson must think.
“It’s fascinating, Georgia. It all happened on Bainbridge Island,” Davis says, his focus fixed on his phone.
“The island off Seattle? What happened there?” I cock an eyebrow, which he’ll not notice since his vision appears permanently fused to his phone.
We’re twenty minutes into this meet/cute orchestrated by my younger brother, and the only connection here is between him and his phone. Even my breasts, served up on a platter thanks to this gravity-defying pushup bra, aren’t dragging his attention.
“Joel Pichard and Bill Bell founded pickleball in 1965 on Bainbridge Island,” Davis goes on about the one topic that’s dominated this blind date: pickleball.
I’m not anti-pickleball, even if I am not a sporty girl. It would just be nice to talk about anything else or for him to ask about me. Right now, it would be nice if he’d look at me.
Note to self: never again accept a date with someone Jackson has raved is ‘just my type’.I bite the inside of my cheek, attempting to force my face into a serene expression.
My younger brother means well. Everyone means well. Our soon-to-be-a-dad, older brother, Rem. My best friend, Hope. Colleagues from work. They all want me to have a relationship that lasts beyond the first date.
This isn’t the best first date but it isn’t the worst. It’s not like the guy who robbed me after I went to the bathroom or the one who asked for the server’s number in front of me.
At least Davis is attractive. If you’re into neat, dark stubble brushed across a strong jawline, thick raven hair, and ashen eyes rimmed in gold which peek out from behind trendy black-framed glasses. With his height, which I clocked at just over six foot, and the lean physique visible beneath a blue short-sleeved button-up, he has the “hot nerd” look that sends a tingle to my lady bits. It’s almost enough to wash away the simmering annoyance at the tick of checking his phone every three minutes.Almost.
“You’ve never played pickleball?” Right eyebrow arched, he looks up.
Well, that got his attention.Grinning, I lean against the chair’s cushioned back. “Nope.”
“How is that possible?”
“I’m more of an indoor kind of girl.” I sip my pineapple cider. Its crispness explodes on my tastebuds. At least, for this blasé date, I’m at Fisher’s Landing, my favorite—and the only—localgluten-free brewery with their unrestricted menu of tidbits and ciders for my consumption.
“There are indoor courts,” he says, his stare—again—drags back to his phone.
Seriously, dude?“Do they now?” My tone skews flippant.
I could be flirty and bat my lashes. The only promise I made to Jackson was to go on this date, and here I am. I don’t have to feign flirtation for someone whose focus is elsewhere. I may be single, but I’m not desperate. It’s far better to be lonely than unhappy. It took a devastating heartbreak and the last five years to drill that lesson into my head.
He leans against the chair’s high back. “Maybe on date two, I can introduce you to the sport. On an indoor court, of course.”
Second date?I almost choke on my drink. Beyond our shared basket of steak fries, there’s no commitment. Drinks are all I promised my brother. This happy hour meeting is for Jackson’s sake, not mine. An evening in with a good book and takeout is far superior to the squeeze of these Spanks, and this black mini-dress Hope talked me into.
But I promised…At least, I get french fries. Bad dates—really anything—are always better with french fries. I rarely get a chance to indulge in the salty treat while I’m out, due to my celiac disease. Most places lack a dedicated fryer or kitchen to ensure gluten-free options. That oversight often results in stomach cramps, migraines, and too much bonding time with the toilet for me.
“Have you been here before?” I pluck a fry from the basket.
“Nope.” His long fingers tap against his phone screen.
“It’s a favorite spot for my best friend, Hope, and me.”
He simply nods.
“Do you have a best friend?”
“Yep.” His focus remains tethered to his phone.
With a tap of my kitten heel against the chair’s leg, I force my mouth into an almost painful smile. “Besides pickleball, what kinds of things do you enjoy doing?”
