Page 1 of The Book Club Boyfriend
Chapter One
The Escape Plan
Scarlett
There’s nothing more ironic than a woman who writes about how much better life is without a man… sitting alone on her couch, eating peanut butter straight from the jar, and spiraling.
Not that I’m spiraling.
I’mcontemplating.Deeply. Existentially. Like one of those tortured, brooding artists who chain-smoke on their Parisian balconies and stare moodily at the rain—except I live in Dallas, it’s ninety-seven degrees outside, and my balcony overlooks an aggressively mediocre parking lot.
Also, I look like a dumpster raccoon.
My hair is in a half-fallen bun, I’m wearing a ratty old sweatshirt that saysLove is Deadacross the front (which, at the time of purchase, felt bothon-brand and hilarious), and the only thing I’ve accomplished today is discovering that if you eat enough peanut butter, your jaw actually gets tired.
All of this would be fine—comical, even—if I hadwritten a single damn word today.
But I haven’t.
Not yesterday, either. Or the day before that.
In fact, the last thing I wrote of substance was last year’sempowerment masterpiece,How to Die Alone (and Love Every Second of It), a bestselling manifesto on why women don’t need a soulmate to be happy. That book had my signature tone—sharp, insightful, delightfully scathing. It was everything my readers wanted from me. Everything mypublisherwanted from me.
And now?
Now, I amfailingto deliver.
I push the jar of peanut butter onto the coffee table with a frustrated sigh and stare at my laptop screen like it personally betrayed me. The cursor blinks. Taunting. Mocking.
There was a time when I could churn out chapters effortlessly, weaving together the kind of biting, liberating truth bombs that built my entire career.
It all started when, after a bad breakup, I wrote a blog post that went viral about the lie that is modern romance (If He Wanted to, He Would, But He Doesn’t, So Move On) and became a full-blowncultural phenomenon. Three bestsellers. A TED Talk. Daytime talk show circuits. Women in my DMs, thanking me for helping them walk away from toxic relationships.
Ithrivedon it.
Thought I was actually doing something good in the world.
But now?
I blow out a breath, glaring at the open document on my screen—working title:How to Want Nothing and Get Everything.
It was supposed to be my next big hit. The kind of book that reinforces my brand, secures another multi-six-figure deal, and further cements my reputation as the woman who doesn’t need a man, thank you very much.
Except… the words won’t come.
And I’m terrified to examine why that is.
I squeeze my eyes shut and shake the thought away becauseabsolutely not.This is what burnout looks like. A minor blip in my creative genius.
I just need inspiration. A fresh setting. A change of scenery.
Which is exactly why I’m escaping to Michigan for the summer.
It was Harper’s idea—my best friend, my agent, and the only person who gets away with calling me out on my bullshit. She practically packed my bags for me, saying I needed to “unplug and get out ofmy own head” before I snapped and wrote something so unhinged it would permanently tank my brand.
So, I’m going.
To a quiet beach town.
