Page 49 of Book Boyfriends
“No… I didn’t… It’s just a migraine,” I bite out. “I’m going to go lie down. Sorry.” Hand on my forehead, I start toward the carriage house.
“I can escort you,” Lord James murmurs, moving beside me and taking my arm.
“Jim… How about you grab a seat?” Jackson hops up, his tone full of warning, and moves to my side. “I’ve got Georgia.”
“I don’t?—”
“That way I can grab Wentworth and watch him for the night, so you can sleep this off,” Jackson cuts in, his tone warm even if it reeks of the same placation one would give a child.
At this moment, I can’t fight him. Not when the migraine sinks into me with gnarled claws, squeezing away my ability to process. And I need to be focused to figure this all out. After all, in the next six days I’m dating the potential Mr. Georgia Lane, as Jackson would say. Only, while my brother has medoing my own version ofThe Bachelorette, I’m going to try to figure out how to get all three back to their stories. If I don’t, I’ll need to choose one of them in hopes that the other two will be transported back to their realities. And if that doesn’t work…
Don’t do that, Georgia. It will all be okay… I hope.
CHAPTER TWELVE
TWICE BAKED LOVE
I’m going on a date with Owen Baker.Standing in front of my mirror, my hair pulled into a flirty high ponytail, the thought plays on repeat inside me. How many times had I daydreamed about Captain Wentworth whisking me into his arms and carrying me off from one of my bad dates? No doubt several of my readers fantasized about the cinnamon roll small-town baker doing the same. Only Owen Baker isn’t who I am fantasizing about.
“Bad Georgia,” I mutter to myself. Tonight, my focus should be on my book boyfriends.
Instead of my typical Wednesday night curled up with a book and Wentworth, I’m off for the first of myJust Writedates. Over the next six days, I’ll go on a date with each book boyfriend. Between each date, we’ll interact only as a group. Jackson believes the strategy keeps this whole thing fair, not tipping the “contest” to any one man’s favor. Despite what my brother teases, this isn’t a contest; this is our lives.
Smoothing down my dress’s skirt, I suck in one last breath and take in my reflection in the mirror. I am the picture of the female main character in a small-town romance. The sapphire blue fabric hugs my breasts and flows out in an A-line silhouette.Ballet flats in the same color as my dress and tiny teacup-shaped dangle earrings top off my outfit. With a swipe of glossy pink lipstick, I smack my lips and offer a “guess this is happening” smile.
“Time to go on a date with a fictional man.” I chuckle as the knock rattles my front door.
Slipping my lipstick into my purse, I grab it and head to the door. Jackson insisted that each man pick me up rather than meeting me at the location. He thinks it adds to the romance. All I’m thinking about is where are we going, and how we’re going to get there. None of my book boyfriends have real licenses, identification cards, or anything that ties them to this world. No job. No family. Nothing in this reality, outside of a connection to me and a hope of a possible future.
“Hi!” Opening the door, I infuse as much pep into my greeting as possible.
“Hi,” Owen says, his eyes skim down my body and back up to my face. “You look lovely.”
I should swoon. Flames should arc through me from the heat of his attention on me.Nothing.
“Thanks!” I force my smile just a little bigger, channeling Hope’s cheerleading persona from high school.
“You’re…welcome?” One blond brow arching, Owen offers an unsure grin.
Maybe not so much pep. It’s freaking him out.I clear my throat. “Ready?”
“Yeah.” He nods, holding out his arm for me to take.
One of the benefits of the neighborhood I live in is that it’s a short ten-minute walk to Old Tustin. Shops, cafes, restaurants, and even an improv theatre fill the mix of Spanish, Victorian, and Mid-Century buildings that make up downtown. The conversation, mostly about my workday and the homemadechicken pot pie he’d made for Jackson and my other suitors to have for dinner, flows easily between us.
Owen is sweet. With artic-blue eyes, short-cropped blond hair, and a warm, open smile contrasted against a strong jawline, he’s the stereotypical rom-com lead. But the moment he rests his palm on my lower back to guide me toward our destination, my body has no reaction. No butterflies. No hitched breath. None of the cliches I write about in my books are present.
We stop in front of a white brick building, a decadent aroma drifting from inside.The Secret Ingredientis embossed in gold script at the center of a large picture window. Inside, several couples stand chatting at one of the six mini kitchen islands throughout the space.
“A cooking class?” I guffaw.
His mouth flexes into a lopsided grin. “It’s a baking class, actually. Biscuits to be exact. It’s not an original date idea for a baker, but I thought you’d enjoyactuallybaking with me, instead of just writing about it.”
“I thought Lars was the snarky one,” I tease.
“Between him and Jackson, I think their Jedi Master-level snark is rubbing off on me.”
“We’re baking biscuits?” My gaze jumps between him and the ingredients visible through the window.
