Page 113 of Book Boyfriends
“Then why are you here?” I narrow my eyes.
“To own my actions and assure you that I was wrong. You are not a poor imitation. You are your own woman. Just as Lady Cecily is. It was not only cruel for me to say so, but misguided. The idea that even for a moment you would think that you are somehow less than because of my words gutted me.”
“Youshould be gutted,” Davis hisses. “Not only did you play mind games with her heart, but after she realized you aren’t worthy, you insulted her. I know men like you; you can’t have something for whatever reason, so you ensure nobody else has it. But Georgia isn’t a fucking toy for you to play with.”
Jaw clenched, Davis’s icy stare locks on James. Something a little predatory drifts between the two men. Not from James, but more from Davis, who appears like a wolf protecting his pack. Dangerous doesn’t waft off Davis. However, if I unleashed him, I don’t doubt he’d strike on my behalf.And again, I like that way too much.
“It’s okay, baby,” I murmur, stroking his arm.
His posture eases.
“You are correct about me, Davis.” James nods, his throat bobbing.
I assess him. The dark circles under his eyes. The slump of his shoulders. The downward curl of his lips. James is the picture of remorse. Not to mention his confession calls out his actions. He doesn’t just offer apologies but acknowledges what he did and how sorry he is for it. Not becausehis actionshurt me, but becausehehurt me.
Every argument with Will flashes in my memory. This honest contrition is so opposite of Will’s blanket “Sorry for that’s” or “Sorry you feel that way.” Those were rare, however. An apology from Will always twisted into everything being my fault.This wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t pushed me to move in. She gave me what I was looking for, what was missing with you.
“Why this sudden change of heart?” I ask, gesturing at him.
“As you can imagine, your brother gave me quite the tongue lashing after my deplorable behavior yesterday. As did Lars and Owen,” he says.
“So, you’re only apologizing because of them?” Anger coats my accusation.
“No!” Frowning, he pulls out a copy ofThe Duke’s Darlingfrom his suit pocket and holds it up. “Because of this.”
My face pinches. “What does my book have to do with this?”
“After the tongue lashing, I brooded in the guest room?—”
“You mean sulked,” Davis grumbles.
“Brooded.” James glowers. “The copies of your books were there. I reread Lady Cecily and my story… And your gentleman”—he gestures to Davis—“was spot on. I engaged in the same manipulation of Cecily as I did to you. Good men do not toy with a young lady’s heart for their own gain. I love Cecily, but she deserves better, as do you.”
“Yes,Ido. We both do.”
Lady Cecily ending up with the wrong man is my doing. The last twenty-four hours has me questioning the story I wrote. Thebook follows the typical historical romance pattern of a rakish duke’s redemption. My obsession with a story, where the rake chooses the plump bookworm, blinded me to any alternative. It doesn’t take my Master’s in Social Work to assess thatThe Duke’s Darlingmay be less abouthisredemption and more about my own. A redemption where not only am I chosen, but the power is in my hands to decide if I’ll take him back.
“While you’re responsible for your actions here, you may not be in the book. I wrote the story,” I offer, my shoulders slump with a long sigh.
His expression turns sorrowful as he shakes his head. “I’m not entirely sure how any of this works, but even if you are the author, it is still my story,myactions.”
Davis squeezes my middle. “Like you said, the story spoke to you.”
Chewing on the corner of my mouth, I take in both their words. So much of what I know about my stories is topsy-turvy now. I talk about them speaking to me. Didn’t I just spend two hours this morning listening to Patrick and Elsie’s characters? How much of the stories I write is me, and how much is them?
“I don’t know how any of this works either,” I confess.
“What I do know is that it appears that this time, at least, the better man won the lady.” James juts his chin toward Davis.
“This isn’t a game, and Georgia isn’t some prize to win. She’s so much more than that.” Davis glares.
I press into him. “It’s okay. I know that.”
He kisses my temple.
Gaze cast down, James shakes his head. “She should never have ended up with me.”
“I didn’t,” I say, my head tilts.
