Page 8 of The Book Club Boyfriend
My stomach sinks.
“You wouldn’t happen to have any more oat milk in the back, would you?” he asks, flashing adimple.
Ashlyn perks up at Chase’s question. “Actually, Mrs. Carter had one in her cart, but I think she left without buying it.”
My stomach unclenches slightly.Okay, so there’s still one left. Good. I’ll just—
Chase turns toward the sweet old woman bagging her groceries nearby, flashes the kind of grin that probably got him out of detention as a kid, and says, “Mrs. Carter, right? You wouldn’t happen to still have that oat milk, would you?”
She blinks up at him, then smiles, absolutelycharmed. “Oh, yes, dear. Did you need it?”
“Wouldn’t sayneed,” he replies, voice smooth as butter. “But I sure would appreciate it. Haven’t been able to find the stuff anywhere.”
“Oh, in that case, take it,” she says, handing it over with zero hesitation. “I was just going to try it, but I don’t really need it.”
Chase takes the oat milk with afreakingwink. “You’re the best.”
Igapeas he drops it smugly into his cart, then looks at me like he just won an Olympic event.
I point an accusatory finger. “Youscammedan old lady.”
“Sheofferedit to me,” he says with a shrug.
Ashlyn, thetraitor, giggles behind the register.
As soon as I’ve paid, I exhale sharply, grab my bags, and march toward the exit.
Iwill notlet some overly confident,annoyingly attractiveguy disrupt my peaceful summer.
This is my sanctuary. My escape.
And I amnothere for distractions.
Even if they come with stupidly pretty blue eyes and a dimple that should honestly be illegal.
Chapter Four
The Girl Next Door
Chase
The rental is perfect.
It’s a charming two-story Craftsman with gray cedar shingles and crisp white trim, perched just high enough on the dunes to offer a stunning view of the lake. A wraparound porch, complete with a couple of wooden rocking chairs, faces the water, and there’s a private path that leads straight to the beach.
Inside, the space is designed for easy living—vaulted ceilings, large windows, and hardwood floors worn soft by sand-dusted feet. The kitchen is small but functional, and the living room features an overstuffed couch that looks as if it was made for post-beach naps.
I drop my grocery bags onto the counter and take it all in.
This is exactly what I need.
No packed schedules, no pressure from the front office, no cameras in my face. Just me, my dog, and an entire summer to clear my head before my contract negotiations ramp up.
I slide a few items into the fridge, then pause when I realize Rip isn’t glued to my side anymore.
“Rip?”
Silence.
