Page 4 of Book Boyfriends
“Romance.”
“Really?” He snorts.
Brows knitted, my smile flattens. “What’s wrong with romance?”
“It’s all hitched breath and happy endings.”
“It’s about people. What drives us?—”
“Into bed,” he guffaws with a dismissive wave of his french fry.
“If you’re doing it right.” I lift a brow.
“There’s more to life than sex.”
“Said no man ever,” I retort with a huffed laugh.
Challenge flashes in his eyes, and his mouth flexes into a teasing grin. “Someone’s judgmental.”
“Says the man that judges an entire genre of novels that he’sneverread.”
His forehead creases. “What makes you think I’ve never read a romance novel?”
“Have you?”
He leans back. “Well…”
“Just as I thought.” I pick up my drink.
He grabs another fry from the basket. “Romance has just never appealed to me. I prefer to read things with more substance.”
A scowl forms on my face. “But you’ve never read a romance.”
“I know what I like. I don’t need to try something to confirm that.” He dips his fry and then bites it in half.
“But we’re not talking about you liking it, we’re talking about younotliking it… About you denigrating an entire genre, one that makes billions annually, without having read a single romance novel. You don’t need to try peanut butter to confirm you like Nutella, but you do need to try it to confirm you don’t like it.” I motion wildly between us.
The corners of his mouth quirk. “Your brother says you’re choosy.”
“Excuse me?” Face scrunched, I tilt my head.
“Do you go on a date with every man who shows interest?” He dips his half-eaten fry back into the ketchup.
“Of course not. What does that have to do with anything?”
“If we follow your logic, how do you know you wouldn’t like to date them if you don’t go on a date with them?” He gestures with his fry before tossing it into his mouth.
My jaw slackens.Is he serious?These are two different things. Not to mention, staring longingly at his phone for mostof this date and only asking me questions about myself to dismiss or insult me doesn’t screamI’m interested.
“You may be missing out on someone who gives you hitched breath and the happy ending you crave.”
“Who says I crave those things?” I purse my lips. “What has my brother been telling you?”
“A few things… Also, you write romance, and I’m sure you have an entire bookshelf filled with swoony page-turners.”
My mouth opens and then closes. He’s notwrong. But he doesn’t get to paint me as the lonely spinster—the patriarchy’s word, not mine—who writes happy endings and dreams of the day she gets hers. Even if he’s sort of right.Emphasis on sort of.
“There’s nothing wrong with wanting a happy ending.”
