Page 42 of The Book Club Boyfriend
“Two stacks of pancakes, side of bacon,” she says, jotting it all down. “And an order of fries—extra crispy—with a side of ranch.”
Scarlett and I blink at her.
“How’d you do that?” Scarlett asks.
“I have a knack for guessing people’s orders,” Doris says with a shrug.
“Works for me,” I say.
“Me too,” Scarlett adds.
“You want coffee?”
Scarlett nods.
“Black,” I say. “Decaf.”
Doris smirks. “Figures.”
Scarlett watches her walk away, both of us still a bit stunned.
“So,” I say, leaning back in the booth. “Do you usually read your book reviews, or do you tend to ignore them?”
She exhales through her nose, eyes narrowing slightly. “A mix of both, I guess. When a book first releases, I like to hear how people perceive it. What they think of the thing I spent months of my life working on. Then I tend to let it go. It’s not like I can change anything after the fact if everyone hates it.”
I lift a brow. “Then why let this guy get under your skin?”
Her lips press together, but I don’t miss theslight flicker of amusement in her eyes. “Valid. It’s just that he has a huge following, so it feels extra tragic. Like I was publicly roasted or something.”
“Yeah, well, people love running their mouths about things they don’t understand,” I say, lifting my coffee. “Happens in hockey all the time. Some dude with an X account and a Cheeto-dusted keyboard thinks he knows the game better than the guys who’ve spent their whole lives playing it.”
Scarlett hums, tracing the rim of her water glass. “And what do you do when that happens?”
“Easy.” I smirk. “I score goals and prove them wrong.”
She snorts, shaking her head. “Well, unfortunately, I can’t just body-check my critics into the boards.”
“Could be entertaining.”
“Pretty sure my publisher would frown upon it.”
I tilt my head, studying her. “You really care what they think, huh?”
Scarlett shifts in her seat, reaching for her coffee. “I care when they get itwrong.”
Before I can respond, Doris returns with our food, setting down two massive plates of pancakes, crispy bacon, and an order of fries. It’s weird, but it works.
She lifts a brow at the portion size. “You trying to bribe me with food, Remington?”
“Depends. Is it working?” I grin, picking up the can of whipped cream and the syrup and adding both to my pancakes.
She stares in horror. “Remington.”
“What?” I say innocently, adding just a little more for good measure. “Try it.”
We’re somewhere between breakfast and dessert.
“This is a calorie bomb.” She scoffs, giving her pancakes the same treatment when I pass her the whipped cream and syrup.
