Page 14 of The Book Club Boyfriend
A pause. “Is he famous?”
“I don’t know.”
“What’s his name?”
“Chase something,” I grumble, recalling the man who tried to steal my peanut butter swirl. “He plays for Dallas.”
“Please hold,” Harper says, and I hear her clicking on her keyboard. She’s practically attached to her laptop. “Oh, what do we have here?” She makesa breathy sound. “He justlookslike a good time.”
I growl. “Can you not!?”
“Fine… how’s the writing going?” she asks, amusement lacing her tone.
I sigh, tilting my head back to soak in the sun. “Well, let’s see… I’ve successfully consumed an entire family-sized bag of pretzels, started and abandoned three different playlists for inspiration, and stared at a blinking cursor long enough to be declared legally insane.”
“So… not great?”
“Not great,” I confirm.
Harper hums, ever patient. “Scottie, it’s a process. The reclaiming of your creative self doesn’t happen overnight. You’re not a vending machine where you press a button and get a book. Give yourself time.”
I exhale, rubbing my temple. “I don’thavetime, Harp. I have a deadline.”
“What you have,” she corrects, “is a brain that’s been running on empty. Give it a minute, girl. Sit in the sun. Put your toes in the water. Have a cocktail. The words will come.”
Maybe she’s right; it has only been three days.
I drag my gaze to the gentle waves rolling against the shore a few blocks away, the Lake Michigan breeze carrying the scent of fresh water and sand. Itispeaceful here. And it’s been… nice.Mostly. Thankfully, I haven’t had any more run-inswith my irritating next-door neighbor. I did see his cute dog yesterday morning napping on the deck.
“Maybe you’re right,” I admit, strolling past an old-fashioned candy shoppe I’ll definitely circle back to later. “I’ll work on the relaxing thing.”
“Good. And if that fails, try doing something that makes younotthink about the book. Go for a walk. Read something fun. Flirt with a cute hockey player. Justbefor a little while.”
“Harper, I can’t just—”
“Yes, you can,” she interrupts. “Trust me. Do something that reminds you why you love stories in the first place.”
I sigh, adjusting my bag over my shoulder. “Fine. But I gotta go. I’m in town running errands.”
“Just promise me you won’t stress yourself into an early grave, okay?”
“I make no promises.”
She snorts. “Have a cocktail, Calloway.”
I roll my eyes and hang up, slipping my phone into my pocket as I step inside the town’s small bookstore.
The place is straight out of a Hallmark movie—soft amber lighting, wooden shelves packed with books, a tiny café in the corner where a barista in a vintage apron is frothing milk for a latte. The scent of coffee and paper surrounds me, and despite my best efforts, a small part of medoesfeel a little lighter stepping inside.
Harper’s words float through my head again.
Something that reminds you why you love stories in the first place.
I trail my fingers along the spines of the books on the nearest table, allowing myself to justbefor a moment. I enjoy their colorful covers and vibrant designs…
And then I hear it.
A deep, familiar voice.
