Page 16 of Book Boyfriends
But that can’t be.
Those are characters from my books, people I made up, not real people. Although, they are carbon copies of the three book boyfriends I’d spent months crafting. It’s as if they’d been pulled directly from my imagination.
Owen Baker is the owner of a small town bakery. Granted the last name and occupation weren’t my most clever idea.
Lars Hunt, the grumbly-voiced wolf pack alpha.
Lord James, the suave, slightly snooty, but very dashing duke.
“It’s not real. None of it,” I murmur to myself, taking in the quiet.
No muffled voices from the other room. No lingering scent of Lars’ woodsy aroma, sensation of Lord James’s firm chest against my back, or image of Owen’s sweet smile.
“It can’t be real. This has to be the booze.” My face scrunches, and I wince at the sharp twinge. How much Prosecco had Hope poured into my orange juice? The way I felt, the answer was way too much. “Stop drooling over fictional men.”
Whether it’s a hallucination or real-life stalkers impersonating my characters, my stomach shouldn’t swoop at the thought of these three men.Maybe I have been single toolong.Well-adjusted adults don’t fixate on real versions of book boyfriends who break into their houses and bake muffins.
Those muffins did smell good, though.“Stop it,” I chide myself.
Scooting from beneath a snoring Wentworth, I sneak off the bed. His undisturbed slumber lulls me into a sense of safety. I’d like to think if I truly were in danger and this wasn’t just a tipsy delusion from too many mimosas, he’d be at the ready. The way he obediently sat in front of Owen, begging for treats, gives me pause.
“Maybe I should call Rem, just in case.”
The anxiety that prickles beneath my skin overpowers any hesitancy to call my older brother. No doubt this would feed into his narrative about me being unsettled. Settled people don’t imagine book characters coming to life and being in their apartments.Still…
I tip my head toward the bedstand, finding it empty besides one of my moleskin notebooks, a Captain Picard bobblehead, and a small replica Tiffany lamb. My phone, which normally sits there, is nowhere in sight.
With quiet footsteps, I move to the door and place my ear against it. Just to confirm this is only a booze-fueled dream and not the start of my very own episode of a True Crime or Why-Choose Dark Romance. Ignoring the clench in my core at the idea of the latter, I lean into option A. The thump between my eyes tips the scale to thinking this is all booze-induced.
The door creaks open and I tentatively poke my head out. My nose wrinkles at the faint aroma of vanilla and cinnamon. A plate of muffins rests on the coffee table. James sits, his muscular frame properly straight, on the couch, aReal Men Read Romancemug in his hand. Lars leans against the windowsill, his gaze fixed outside as if standing guard. And Owen is folding my laundry.
“Whatthe…” I mutter, eyes blinking.
“Our lady has awakened.” Lord James rises and offers a bow.
Lars faces me, and Owen raises his head. All three men’s gazes are trained on my face.
Lars sniffs. “Still a rabbit.”
“You’re real,” I yelp, heart racing. Jumping back, I slam the door.
Crap!There isn’t a lock on the door. I press my body against it, praying they don’t break it down. My gaze jumps around the room for something–anything–to use as a weapon or a barricade. All I see is a sleeping Wentworth sprawled atop my bed.Terrible guard dog!
My focus drops to the pink ruffled bed skirt. “Justice’s Arm,” I let out a shaky breath.
Thanks to Rem’s overprotectiveness, a baseball bat is tucked beneath the bed. He’d given it to me the day we swapped living spaces. “I’m just a backyard away, but use Justice’s Arm until I get there,” he’d directed, handing me the battered wooden bat. How funny that a man who worried about my safety on the other side of the backyard is the same man who wants me to move out.
“Focus, Georgia. You’re either having a breakdown or are about to be murdered by sexy book boyfriend look-a-likes.”
Jaw clenched, I reach for the bed, trying to remain against the door. There might as well be an entire backyard between me and it. In the time it may take me to get the bat, they could breach the flimsy door standing between me and them. The bat may help me fight them off, but I don’t want to risk hand-to-hand combat with three men.
A gentle rap sounds at the door. “Georgia, it’s Owen.”
“This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening.” Head shaking, I close my eyes. Somehow, I’m six again believing that if I close my eyes the nightmare will vanish. Only, instead of a monster, I want three very attractive men to disappear.
“My lady, I assure you we mean no harm,” Lord James coaxes, an air of command in his smooth timbre.
“She’s still scared,” Lars says. “It’s all over her.”
