Page 3 of The Book Club Boyfriend
I scowl. “I don’tonlywrite angry things.”
Harper hums like she doesn’t believe me, and okay,fair.
I’ve built an entire career on cynicism. But for the first time, I don’t know if I want tokeepwritingthe same thing.
I shake the thought away.
“This placedoesfeel… nostalgic,” I admit, kicking a rock by my foot. “The last time I was on this stretch of beach was the summer before my parents’ divorce.”
Harper softens. “You were happy there.”
I nod, throat a little tight. “Yeah. I was.”
There’s a pause, like she’s debating whether to push further, but Harper knows me well enough to let me sit with that thought.
“Well,” she finally says, “if anything can shake the creative cobwebs off, it’s that lake air. I fully expect you to be barefoot and having a spiritual breakthrough by week’s end.”
I snort. “I’ll settle for just gettingonedecent chapter down.”
“And no men. No distractions. Youpromisedme a summer of self-care.”
I scoff. “Trust me, I’m not about to start craving male attention out of nowhere. I’ll be in full-on hermit mode.”
Harper makes a satisfied noise. “Good. Call me if you need anything. And if you don’t send me atleastone sunset picture in the next twenty-four hours, I’ll assume you’ve been kidnapped and murdered and call the authorities.”
I smirk. The sunsets over the lake are glorious. “Understood.”
I hang up, shaking my head as I shove my phone in my pocket.
No distractions. No men. No drama.
Just me, my laptop, and the perfect setting to write my next bestseller.
What couldpossiblygo wrong?
Chapter Two
The Off-Season Playbook
Chase
The off-season is supposed to berelaxing.
It’s supposed to be the time when I get to kick back, sleep in, hit the golf course, hang with my bros, and not think about anything other than which beer to crack open first.
Instead? I’ve got team management breathing down my neck, a contract negotiation looming, and a PR problem that apparently needssolving.
I rub a hand down my face as I lean against the kitchen counter, staring at my phone. The screen is lit up with notifications—texts, DMs, a few missed calls.
A handful of them are from the team. My agent. A reporter I definitely donotfeel like talking to.
And a few? A few are from women whose names I probably should have saved but didn’t.
Icouldtext one of them back.
It would be easy. Mindless. A distraction from the weight pressing against my ribs, the quiet frustration I can’t seem to shake.
Instead, I sigh and push my phone aside.
