Page 45 of The Book Club Boyfriend
“The writing,” he says. “Why do you think you’re stuck?”
I scoff. “If I knew that, I wouldn’t be stuck.”
“Maybe you’re overthinking it.”
I roll my eyes. “Wow. Thank you, Dr. Remington. Clearly, I just needed a hockey player to mansplain writing to me.”
He chuckles, unbothered. “I’m just saying—if you’re struggling, maybe don’t make it so hard on yourself. Just sit down and write.”
I stop walking.
He takes another step before realizing I’m no longer beside him. When he turns back, I cross my arms over my chest. “Oh. Oh, just sit down and write? That’s your advice?”
Chase shrugs. “Yeah?”
I stare at him for a long beat. “That is possibly the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”
His smirk grows. “You sure? ‘Cause I’ve said a lot of dumb things.”
I scowl, planting a hand on my hip. “You think writing is easy, don’t you?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But you do.”
He tilts his head, weighing my words. “I just think if something’s important to you, you do the damn thing. Whether it’s easy or not.”
Something in my chest twists. Annoyance. Frustration. The tiniest shred of self-doubt.
I shake it off.
“You don’t get it,” I say flatly.
Chase watches me, too perceptive for his own good. “Is it something more? Like you’ve lost your love for writing?” I open my mouth. Shut it. My pulse kicks up. “You have, haven’t you?”
I don’t respond.
Because I don’t want to say the words out loud.
Because if I do, that means they’re real.
The book. My career. Everything I’ve built.
What if I don’t believe in it anymore?
The thought makes my stomach churn.
He studies me for a long beat, then shakes his head. “I think that’s your problem, Calloway.”
My spine stiffens. “What?”
“You’re scared.”
I scoff. “Of what?”
He takes a slow step toward me, eyes never leaving mine. “That you don’t believe in what you’re writing anymore.”
“Where are you getting this stuff?” I force out a laugh, but it comes out flat, off-sounding.
