Page 91 of The Book Club Boyfriend
Too peaceful.
Because the more silent it gets, the more I hear my own heartbeat, loud and traitorous.
Chase looks over at me. “So… not the date you expected?”
“No,” I say softly. “It’s better.”
He smiles. Not smug. Not teasing.
Just… soft.
Real.
And in that moment, I’m not Scottie Calloway, self-proclaimed cynic and author of anti-love literature.
I’m just a girl sitting on a Jeep, next to a guy who sees me in a way I wasn’t ready for.
And worse?
I think I kind of like it.
We finish our shakes slower than necessary, both of us drawing out the moment like we know something about it matters. I don’t say that out loud, obviously, because that would require vulnerability and honesty and other horrifying things. But I feel it hanging in the air between us.
I’m not as immune as I like to pretend.
The night is warm, but not hot. Crickets hum in the distance. There’s a slight breeze and plenty of stars.
And Chase smells like cedar and clean laundry and something vaguely citrusy. It’s unfair how good he smells, especially when I’m trying very hard not to be charmed.
“So,” I say, because silence is dangerous. “You grew up in Michigan, you said?”
“Just outside Grand Rapids,” he says, sipping the last of his strawberry milkshake. “Small town. Lots of ponds, one decent diner, and a high school hockey team that thought it was the NHL.”
I smile into my straw. “Let me guess. You were the star.”
“I peaked early,” he says dryly. “Now I just get paid to smash into people and skate in circles.”
I laugh, but he’s watching me, expression a little softer now.
“What about you?” he asks. “Chicago girl, right?”
“Born and raised.”
“You ever miss it?”
“Sometimes,” I admit. “Mostly the food. And the lakefront. And… maybe who I was before everything got complicated.”
He leans back on his elbows, his long legs stretched in front of him. “That happen young? The complications?”
I glance up at the stars. “Yeah. Unfortunately, my childhood memories are tinged with lots of fighting. Before the divorce. Before my dad left and my mom stopped trying.”
He’s quiet, listening in a way most people don’t.
“That’s probably why I’m so… cynical,” I add. “It’s hard to believe in love when the people who were supposed to model it for you couldn’t get it right.”
He doesn’t rush to fill the space. When he finally speaks, his voice is quiet. “Between that and the end of your relationship… it left a mark.”
“It left a mark,” I repeat softly.
