Page 87 of Book Boyfriends
“Nah.” Hope bends and pats his head. “He’s going to be my snuggle buddy while I watch food porn on TV and then my excuse to get rid of your brother after he hovers too much and I make him take Wentworth to the park.”
“Again, book boyfriends?” Rem wildly waves his hands.
Hope pats his cheek. “Wait until I tell you about the witchcraft consultant.”
With a quick hug to a smugly pleased Hope and a confused Rem, I pet Wentworth, grab a pastry, and head out. Opening the back gate, I smack into a hard body, strong hands coming up and gripping my arms to steady me.
“James…” I almost gasp, my breath whooshing out of me from the impact.
“Georgia,” he drawls.
“I didn’t know you were coming over.” I step out of his hold, my gaze dragging down his lean physique clad in a muscle-hugging T-shirt and shorts. “Are you coming with us? I thought it was just going to be Owen and Lars playing with Jackson and Davis.”
“Owen sends his apologies. He was called away to work.”
Shoot, I forgot.Good Girl’s Grub is catering a local fundraising event this afternoon. With Hope slowing down, Owen must be covering for her today.
“I shall take his place in today’s tourney.” James places his hand on his chest and offers a quick bow. “I am here to collect you. Lars and Jackson are in the carriage…uh…vehicle.”
We just stand there and stare at each other. The charge that used to electrify the air between us is missing. Whether that’s due to his pushiness, snide comment about me not knowing that this isn’t a game, or my feelings for Davis, that hum in my bloodstream from our first meeting is quiet.
Certainty courses through me, straightening my spine. I am not this duke’s darling, and he is definitely not mine.
“Are you displeased to see me?” His mouth drags down. “Of course, you are.Perhaps, I acted the callous brute the last time we met.”
“You insinuated that I think this is all a game.” My gaze narrows, and I cross my arms over my chest.
“Apologies… It may not be your intention, but there is a bit of a game in this with each of us vying for your heart.”
The protest dies on my lips. His accusation is nothing but the truth. In my attempt to help these men, I allowed it to become a game. The unrealistic nature of this entire thing is blinding me. As “game” as Owen, Lars, and James have been, what choice did they have from the moment they’d poofed from their worlds to mine, they haven’t had any real choice in this. As worried as I was about leading Davis on, didn’t I just do that to them?
Shoulders slumped, my arms fall to my sides. “It appears I’m the callous one. I didn’t mean to… I am so sorry for all this. You all deserve so much better.”
“I know it was not your intention. Perhaps you were a bit carried away with this whole thing.” He reaches out, his palms soothing along my arms. “It’s understandable. Please know that I bear no ill will. In fact, I think Jackson may be the true culprit.”
“Jackson is just trying to help.”
“I know,” he says quickly. “This situation is hard for me. I am not entirely sure who I am and what I am supposed to be here. I think it brings out the worst parts of myself.”
“I am sorry for all of this,” I repeat again, regret shaking my voice.
“I know you are, dear Georgia.” His mouth curves up. “I believe we both were carried away. I know I do get that way when I truly want something. Though, from what I gather from Owen, it’s howyouwrote me.”
He’s right. It’s how I wrote Lord James, after all. His character is single-minded about everything. First, his thirst for vengeance, and then, about Lady Cecily. As much as Lars and Owen’s real life selves surprise me, James appears most true to his on-page persona.
“I should amend that statement. It’s notasomething that I want, it’sa someone. Please know that has not changed. As unsure as this entire situation is, the one thing I am certain of is how I feel about you. I want you, Georgia,” he murmurs, his green eyes crackle with desire.
“James, I am so sorry for everything. For my wish. For all of it… But I don’t want to be with you.” I step back.
“Pardon?” His brow puckers.
“I am so?—”
“No,” he snaps, causing me to flinch. “Are you choosing Lars, because I will warn you that he and your brother are…friendly.”
“I know about them,” I say, softening my tone and body language to help calm him. It’s a technique I use with upset patients or their loved ones at SPN. I’m not scared that he’ll hurt me, but the storminess shadowing his features gives me pause.
“It can’t be Owen.” Hands on his hips, he puffs out a hard breath.
