Page 132 of The Book Club Boyfriend
I nod. “No burnt pancakes there.”
We both smile, remembering our honeymoon. We barely left the bed—which was fine by me.
I look at her—ridiculous pink slippers, brilliant, a little terrifying—and smile like an idiot.
Rip barks once, clearly demanding a second breakfast.
Scarlett sighs. “Okay, fine. Let’s go out for pancakes. Butyou’recleaning that pan when we get home.”
I press a kiss to her mouth. “Deal.”
After getting dressed, we walk out the door—dog in tow, hand in hand, and one perfectly imperfect year down.
Forever to go.
Epilogue
Five Years Later
Scarlett
“Rip, no—that’s not food, that’s Aunt Evie’s baby!”
I lunge across my parents’ living room, trying to intercept our golden retriever before he can lick Owen Jr.’s face for the thousandth time. The baby—Chase’s nephew, officially the chunkiest, happiest six-month-old in existence—squeals with delight and grabs a fistful of Rip’s ear.
“Some babysitters we are,” Chase mutters, extracting dog fur from Owen’s chubby fingers. “We’ve been here twenty minutes and already lost control.”
“Speak for yourself,” I say, then immediately trip over the diaper bag, sending both myself and its contents sprawling. “Okay, yeah, we’re both disasters.”
Mymother watches from the kitchen doorway, trying and failing to hide her amusement. It’s Thanksgiving again—our new tradition of actually spending holidays together instead of avoiding each other like the plague. Dad’s in his usual chair, pretending to read the paper while obviously eavesdropping.
“You know,” Mom says, bringing over a tray of coffee, “when you were Owen’s age, you once ate half a houseplant while I was on a conference call.”
“That explains so much,” Chase says, earning himself an elbow to the ribs.
“I turned out fine,” I protest, finally managing to separate dog from baby. Owen Jr. immediately starts crying about the loss of his fuzzy friend.
“You wrote three bestselling books about not needing anyone,” Dad points out, lowering his newspaper. “Then married a hockey player and got a dog. ‘Fine’ is relative.”
“And now I’ve written six romances,” I counter. “The seventh comes out next month.”
“Seven romance novels?” Mom blinks. “I thought you were on five.”
“Time flies when you’re writing happily ever afters,” I say dryly, bouncing Owen on my hip.
He stops crying and starts blowing spit bubbles instead. “This one’s got a single dad hockey player. I wonder where I got that inspiration.”
Chase grins, reaching over to tickle Owen’s foot.“I better get royalties.”
“You get dinner. Same thing.”
“Your cooking has not improved in five years.”
“Neither has yours,” I shoot back.
My parents exchange a look—one of those weird, loaded glances that used to make me uncomfortable but now just makes me curious.
“What?” I ask, switching Owen to my other hip when he starts getting heavy.
