Page 2 of The Book Club Boyfriend
Alone.
And if all goes according to plan?
I’ll come back recharged, re-inspired, and ready to write anothericonictakedown of love and its false promises.
But first?
I’m going to wallow for at least another hour because even a self-sufficient, independent woman is allowed to have a dramatic moment before she figures her life out.
***
The second I step out of my car, the wind off the lake rushes over me—cool, crisp, and carrying the unmistakable scent of water and freshly cut grass. The air tastes different here, cleaner somehow, with that mineral tang that only comes from the Great Lakes. Beneath my feet, the gravel driveway crunches, still damp from morning dew. In the distance, I can hear the rhythmic whoosh of waves against the shore, punctuated by the cries of gulls circling overhead. The late afternoon sun filters through the massive oaks, creating dancing shadowsthat remind me of being thirteen again, watching this same light play across my mother’s face as she laughed on the porch.
I close my eyes, inhale deeply, andfinallyfeel like I can breathe again.
This isexactlywhat I need.
A break. A reset. A summer of solitude in a charming beach town with a rental house that, based on the listing, is basically a Pinterest dream.
I open my eyes, and yeah—this place isglorious.
A charming white cottage, tucked between towering oak trees, with a wide front porch that practically demands you sit and drink coffee in an oversized sweater. But therealselling point? The sprawling back deck that faces the lake, perched high enough to give a perfect view of the endless blue horizon.
It’s breathtaking.
I pop open my trunk and grab my suitcase and duffel, but before I can drag them up the porch steps, my phone buzzes.
I groan. I already know who it is before I check.
“Harper, I literally just got here,” I answer, tucking my phone between my ear and shoulder.
“And?” she demands, like she’s been holding her breath waiting for an update.
For the love…
I glance around, taking in the quiet, the stillness,the absolutepeaceof it all. “I hate to admit it, but… you were right. It’s perfect. Just like I remember.”
She makes a triumphant noise. “Itoldyou. You need this, Scottie. You need to unplug, get out of your own way, and let this placehealyou.”
I roll my eyes. “Okay, that’s dramatic.”
“I’m serious! You’ve been in acreative death spiral, and frankly, I’m terrified of what you’ll write if you don’t take a second to recalibrate. Like, I don’t know, a manifesto on why everyone should commit tax fraud instead of dating?”
“That’s notentirelyoff-brand for me.”
She groans. “Justrelax, okay? Swim in the lake, read something for fun, donotgo on a weird feminist rage spiral about love—”
“I don’t rage. Ieducate.”
“Scarlett.”
I sigh dramatically. “Fine. I’ll relax. Maybe even be one of thosechillpeople who post scenic Instagram stories with captions likejust vibes.”
“Youarea writer. Maybewritesomething?”
“Hey, I have every intention of—”
“Not somethingangry.”
