Page 17 of The Book Club Boyfriend
“Well, in case you’re wondering, I did not come here for a tan. I came here to work.”
I lift a brow. “Sure. That’s why you’ve been frolicking around in the sun like you’re in a Nicholas Sparks movie.”
Scarlett glares. “I was reading on the deck.”
“Readingwhatexactly? A steamy romance? Taking notes?”
Her lips press together, and I canseethe effort it takes her not to throw the book in her hands directly at my face.
“Not all of us spend our free time indulging in unrealistic fantasies,Remington.”
And since I lack self-control, I lean in just a fraction, dropping my voice. “Shame. Maybe you could use a good fantasy or two.”
Scarlett’s breath catches for just a second—a flicker of something—anger? Yep, definitely anger.
My mom’s words replay in my head—they’re mad at something else. You just happen to be in the line of fire.
“Oh! We just got a new shipment of the Stampede book club picks,” the clerk says cheerfully, oblivious to the storm brewing between us. “Want me to show you?”
I really had no idea she was still standing here.
Scarlett looks about ready to bolt, so obviously, I don’t give her the option.
“Actually, yeah,” I say, flashing the clerk a grin. “Maybe they’ve got a good enemies-to-lovers rec?”
Scarlett huffs a quiet noise of disbelief beside me. I hear it. I feel it.
“I figured you’d appreciate the genre,” I add, shooting her a knowing glance. “Since, you know, we’re living it.”
Her nails dig into her book. “We are not living anything.”
“Sure,” I say easily, grinning. “Tell yourself that.”
She sucks in a breath like she’s about to unleash hell on me, but then the clerk pipes up, holding a romance novel in each hand. “Ooh, we’ve got a few classics! Would you rather something with a slow burn or more of a forced proximity angle?”
Scarlett looks horrified. I swear I hear her soul trying to leave her body.
“I think we’re good,” she says quickly, shaking her head.
“Actually,” I interrupt, stepping over to the register, “I think I found what I came for.” I lift the dust-covered book in my hand and head for the checkout counter.
Scarlett blinks at it. Then at me. “You—”
“Buying your book?” I finish for her, flashing a grin. “Yeah.”
Her eyes narrow. “Why?”
I shrug, pulling out my wallet. “What can I say? It speaks to me.”
I finally glance down at the title.
How to Die Alone (and Love Every Second of It).
I grin. “Dark. I love it.”
Scarlett crosses her arms, her nostrils flaring, which, of course, makes me even more smug.
I whistle as I slide the book toward the clerk, grab a random bookmark, and run my black AmEx card through the card reader.
