Page 50 of Book Boyfriends
“Gluten free,” he adds, seeming to track what I was checking. “The whole class. I double checked before I made the reservation.”
“Very sweet.”
His thoughtfulness should wobble my knees. My brain communicates this, but my heart and vagina aren’t listening.
Grabbing our aprons, we wash our hands and claim our assigned kitchen counter. Five other pairs; three couples, and two sets of besties, make up the class. The instructor guides usthrough the art of baking biscuits. It’s part baking class and part sage life lessons.
“Sometimes we make mistakes in the recipe that can be fixed with other ingredients, saving what we’ve made. Sometimes those mistakes require improvisation to find a new path forward, creating something not expected, but just as good,” the instructor says, sprinkling GF flour onto the counter in front of him to roll out his dough. “Sometimes, we can’t fix an error and must start again. The beauty of that is we learn, so we don’t make that same mistake. Just like in life.”
Nodding, I soak in his words while shaping the dough. The tacky, pliable coolness in my palms allows me to shape it into a ball. It’s not a perfect ball, not like the one Owen molds in his hands. Of course, his would be perfect. The nimble and automatic ways his hands work as we prepare our biscuits demonstrate that he’s a man who knows what he’s doing. A man who knows the destination and how to get there, even if, at this moment, it’s just to ensure the perfect biscuit.
With a long sigh, I crush my doughball to start again.
“It doesn’t have to be perfect, Georgia.” Warmth radiates from Owen’s expression.
“I know—” I frown, rolling the dough in my palms. “But it does have to be right.”
“Right is rarely perfect.” He sprinkles flour on a rolling pin and begins to roll out his dough, his mouth quirked into a teasing grin.
“Like Selena and you.” I smile.
Owen and Selena’s romance is one of second chances. In many ways, their story leans into the stereotypical small-town romance cliches. The high school valedictorian turned big city businesswoman returns home to run into the boy she still pines for. With eyes only for his former high school girlfriend, Owen never noticed the type-A personality president of the debateteam, Selena—at least not inthatway. Not until she slipped in a mud puddle in front of his bakery after returning for her brother’s wedding.
“Yeah.” He wipes flour off his hands before grabbing a biscuit cutter, the spark of wistfulness glinting in his eyes. “Not at first. I believe she threatened to sue me for the slickness of the sidewalk in front of my bakery.”
A scoff pops out of me. “It was such a silly meet-cute. She could have just taken that conference call on her phone from her brother’s florist shop rather than run to her car in her heels in the middle of a downpour to take it.”
“Nah.” Amusement teases at the corners of his mouth. “It was perfect. Selena all focused, making a mistake, and then blaming someone else… Only to apologize ten minutes later. She’s quick to frazzle, but even quicker to apologize for it. It was part of her journey. To not just learn that she makes mistakes, but to forgive herself for them.”
“Huh.” I cock my head to the right. “Most people think her story arc is about her embracing her softer side. At least, that’s what reviewers think.”
“They’re wrong. The softness comes with it, but Selena carried so much responsibility for managing her fragile mother, who broke down after her dad’s death and, even for her siblings, who had their own reactions. Your book is about forgiveness. Not just Selena’s forgiveness of her mother for the emotional abandonment, but for herself.”
Realization revs up my pulse. “You read your book.”
“Jackson has copies on his bookshelf. I read mine and I’m halfway through Lord James’s now.”
After Owen found the copies of their stories on my bookshelf at my apartment, I took them back from him. It’s not a secret. All three know that they have endings already written. They just don’t know the details. Not about Owen showing up in front ofSelena’s office building just as she walks out, her things in a box after quitting her job. His big romantic gesture mere minutes after she’d decided to go back to Sugarville.
It may be cruel to keep their endings from them – at least the details – but my reasoning at the time seemed sound.What if I can’t get them back to their stories? What if I do, and somehow knowing their ending messes it up?
“Do you think it’s a good idea to read them?”
“Who knows?” He shrugs. “What I do know is you’re talented. You tell a good story.”
“But it’s not just a story.” A knot tightens in my stomach with the knowledge that these aren’t just stories, but lives; Owen, Lars, and Lord James’ lives, with three very real hearts that love three women.
“Not just stories,” he breathes.
“I’m sorry I took you from her. From your happy ending.” Emotions make my words come out in a shaky, almost gargled quality.
“I’m not.”
My questioning stare snaps to his.
“I love Selena. That will never change, but I don’t know if I’m meant to be part of her story or a portion of it.” His declaration is as soft as it is certain.
“What does that mean?”
