Page 41 of The Book Club Boyfriend
“Anything I can do?”
She hesitates, fingers tightening around the doorframe, and for a moment, I think she might actually let me in. Let me help. But then she shakes her head. “Sorry, no. I’m just…frustrated.”
I lift a brow. “With?”
She sighs and rubs a hand over her forehead. “There’s this book critic who posted a scathing review.”
I frown. “Like, online?”
“Yeah.” She lets out a humorless laugh. “Called me bitter, unoriginal, and exhausting. Suggested maybe I should stop writing about relationships altogether since I clearly hate them so much.”
My jaw tightens. “Tell me who it is. I’ll find him and kick his ass.”
That gets a real laugh out of her—a small, tired one, but areallaugh.
“You’re gonna fight a literary critic, Remington?” she teases, swiping at the corner of her eye.
“Damn right I am. All I need is a name.”
She shakes her head, but there’s a tiny ghost of a smile there now. The tension in her shoulders eases just the slightest bit, and for some reason, that makes my chest feel lighter.
Things have shifted between us the tiniest amount since the night of the power outage—since the night I shared about Owen and she told me about her parents’ divorce.
There’s a pause, then—before I can overthink it—I say, “Come on.”
She frowns. “Come on where?”
“Let’s go get something to eat.” Food always makes me feel better, and I’m out of other ideas.
Scarlett stares at me like I’ve lost my mind.
“It’s midnight.”
“There’s a twenty-four-hour diner like ten minutes from here.” I shrug. “Are you really going togo back inside and stare at that stupid review all night?”
She chews on her bottom lip. I canseeher hesitating, debating whether or not to let herself say yes.
And then, to my surprise, she does.
“Fine,” she mutters, stepping back inside to grab her shoes.
We take my rental Jeep; Scarlett fiddles with the radio while I drive. She finds a classic rock station and leaves it. It’s from Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon. She has good taste.
“Serious question,” I say. “Would you ever want to go to space?”
“Not my vibe. I like the earth and think I’m good here.”
I nod. “That’s fair.”
“Plus I would probably barf,” she announces.
I chuckle.
The roads are quiet, and we reach the diner in minutes. It’s the only place still open in town, a neonOPENsign flickering in the window as I pull into the lot.
Inside, it’s all checkered floors and vinyl booths, the faint hum of a jukebox playing an old country song in the corner. The scent of coffee and grease fills the air, and Scarlett slides into a booth across from me, eyeing the laminated menu.
A waitress with a nametag that saysDorisstrolls over, not even bothering to ask for our order.
