Page 106 of The Book Club Boyfriend
But she heard it.
I did too.
The conversation moves on—back to hockey, and someone’s fantasy football disaster, and who clogged the hotel bathroom on our last road trip (Tyler, obviously). But my attention keeps drifting back to her.
She’s relaxed, laughing easily, holding her own like she’s been doing this forever. No pretense. No snarky armor.
Just her.
I don’t know when it happened. Whenthisstopped being a PR stunt or a challenge or a bet and started feeling like the most natural thing in the world.
But watching her now—shoulder brushing mine, eyes lit with laughter—I know one thing for sure.
She belongs here.
And I’m not just talking about tonight.
We linger longer than we meant to—Scarlett and Lucy are deep in a conversation about a viral video from book club, and somehow Will’s now trying to convince me Rip could be a professional dog model.
By the time we finally say our goodbyes and step outside, the air’s cooled down just enough to be pleasant. The restaurant’s twinkly patio lights stretch above us, and the soft hum of traffic fills the quiet.
I open the passenger door of my Jeep for her, but she doesn’t climb in yet.
Instead, she leans against the frame, looking at me with that unreadable expression she wears way too well.
“What?” I ask.
Scarlett shrugs. “Just… I didn’t hate that.”
I smirk. “You sound surprised.”
“I am.” She crosses her arms. “I expected to be overwhelmed by testosterone and locker room jokes.”
“Oh, there were definitely locker room jokes. You just missed ‘em while Lucy was asking about your latest literary masterpiece.”
Scarlett rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling now.
We stand there for a second longer, neither of us ina rush. Her arms are still crossed, her hair a little messy from the wind, and her eyes softer than usual.
“You’re good at this,” she says quietly.
I blink. “Good at what?”
“This. The team. The whole… people thing. You’ll make a good captain. They look up to you. They listen when you talk.”
My brows lift. “You thought I was just a dumb jock.”
“I still think that,” she deadpans.
But her tone is light, and I see it—the shift. The careful unraveling of her guard.
“I like seeing you like this,” she adds, a little more seriously. “Not flirting. Not performing. Just… you.”
It hits me right in the chest. The way she says it. The way she sees me.
Not for who I pretend to be.
But for who I am.
