Page 23 of The Book Club Boyfriend
“What, the Dallas pools don’t do it for you?”
She shakes her head, a wry smile tugging at her lips. “Chlorine and screaming kids aren’t quite the same as this.” She gestures at the lake. “I forgot how... big it feels.”
“Yeah?”
“The only water I deal with in Dallas is my bathtub,” she says dryly.
Great. Now I’m thinking about Scarlett in a bathtub. I need to focus on literally anything else right now: hockey stats, golf scores, my grandmother’s potato salad—anything.
I force my attention back to her face, where it’s marginally safer.
She takes another sip of her drink. “Out here, you can’t control anything. Waves come when they want. Seaweed attacks at will.”
“Truly savage,” I agree, fighting a grin.
She shoots me a look but continues. “I used to be good at this. The whole... letting go thing.”
“What changed?”
She shrugs. “I guess I got better at holding on.”
The admission is small, but something about the way she says it—like she’s not sure if that’s a good thing or not—makes me pay attention.
“Maybe you just need practice,” I offer. “Startsmall. Like not death-gripping the beach towel.”
She looks down at her hands, which are indeed clutching the towel edges, and laughs. “Baby steps?”
“Exactly. Today seaweed, tomorrow... who knows what you’ll be capable of.”
“Let’s not get crazy,” she says, but she’s smiling now, and her grip on the towel loosens.
“For what it’s worth,” I say, “you looked pretty invincible out there. Even with the seaweed vendetta.”
She huffs a laugh, and some of the tension eases from her shoulders. “I looked like a deranged sea creature.”
“A very attractive deranged sea creature.”
This time, her laugh is genuine as she tips her head back, exposing the graceful curve of her throat. I struggle to keep my eyes off the droplets of water still clinging to her skin. “Your compliments need work, Remington.”
Harper begins to ask about dinner plans, interrupting the moment. But as Scarlett stands up, brushing sand off her legs, she pauses. “Thanks,” she says quietly. “For not making it weird.”
“Anytime, Calloway.”
Chapter Eight
Drinks, Drama, and a Dangerous Amount of Eye Contact
Scarlett
The shower helps—not just to rinse the lake off my skin, but to give me a solid five minutes of peace—five whole minutes without Chase Remington’s smug face flashing in my brain. Five minutes where I don’t have to think about how his hands felt on my waist when he “saved” me from a vicious seaweed attack or how irritatingly strong and steady he was, like he actually enjoyed swooping in to rescue me.
I wrap myself in a towel and step into the bedroom, where Harper is sprawled on my bed, flipping through a magazine as if she lives here.
“Tell me why we’re going back over there again?” I ask, toweling off my hair.
Harper smirks, flipping a page. “Because they invited us.”
“I don’t recall agreeing.”
