Page 62 of The Book Club Boyfriend
“What I need is a miracle,” I mutter under my breath.
We’re seated a few minutes later, our feet soaking in warm water, the world blissfully quiet except for the occasional chime of an unsilenced cell phone and the faint sound of Enya in the background.
“You’ve been quiet,” Harper says, eyeing me over the rim of her glass. She’s already half-done with her mimosa.
I stare at the bubbles in my foot bath. “I don’t know if I can do this.”
She blinks. “The pedicure?”
“The book.”
Harper sets her glass down, serious now. “Talk to me.”
I sigh, dragging a hand through my hair. “It’s not coming. I keep trying to write the book I think people expect from me—strong, independent, anti-love—but it feels… hollow. Like I’m just recycling old arguments. Nothing feels honest.”
She frowns. “You’re putting way too much pressure on yourself.”
“I’m under contract. I don’t get to take my sweet time and find inspiration while I twirl around in a meadow somewhere. I need words. Now.”
Plus, quite frankly, I tried that already. That was the whole idea with the Michigan beach town. It didn’t work. If anything, it only confused mefurther… meeting Chase.
Harper leans back, thoughtful. “What if you stopped trying to write the book they expect from you?”
I glance over. “And do what instead?”
“Write the book you need to write.” She shrugs. “Screw the brand. Screw the critics. What do you want to say?”
I open my mouth to answer—and promptly shut it.
Because I have no idea.
That’s the most terrifying part.
She studies me for a second, then smirks, just a little. “Also, not to add fuel to the existential crisis, but if you end up falling for the hot hockey player you claim to hate, I’m never letting you live it down.”
I narrow my eyes. “That’s not happening.”
“We’ll see,” she says breezily, lifting her mimosa again. “Might make a good plot twist, though.”
“Can you be for real right now? I’m having a crisis, Harp. And you want to taunt me?”
She leans closer, eyes locked on mine. “I think you’ve got this,” she says, voice softer now. “You’re brilliant, Scottie. Even if you can’t see it right now.”
I don’t reply. Just lean back and close my eyes.
Later that night, I’m sitting on my couch in pajamas, laptop balanced on my knees, staring at ablinking cursor and resisting the urge to throw it across the room when my phone rings.
Harper.
I answer on the second ring. “Please tell me you don’t already regret that glitter polish.”
“You were right,” she says, no greeting.
“Wait, what?”
“About the book. About how you feel stuck. I’ve been thinking about it all afternoon, and I was wrong to push. I gave you bad advice. You don’t need to force yourself to fit into anyone’s expectations.”
I blink. “Are you okay? Is this some sort of early apology for when you inevitably get arrested for trespassing again?”
