Page 50 of The Book Club Boyfriend
I used to love this. The solitude. The freedom of it. My walls are lined with books, my pantry is stocked with my favorite overpriced organic snacks, and my espresso machine is the closest thing I have to a committed relationship. It’s perfect.
Except it’s not.
My deadline is creeping closer, but I can’t seem to force the words out. Every sentence I type feels hollow.
Because if I put pen to paper—if I actually push ahead on this book—I have to answer a question I don’t want to touch with a ten-foot pole.
Do I even believe in what I’m writing anymore?
A sharp knock on my door makes me jolt, but when I check, it’s just a package. Something I ordered from Amazon. A pair of Spanx for tonight.
I grab the package, toss it onto my coffee table, and check the time.
5:16 p.m.
The book club event is at seven.
Which means I have less than two hours before I have to sit next to Chase and pretend I don’t want to strangle him with his own mic cord.
The thought alone sends a ripple of something through me—annoyance, frustration… something else I refuse to name.
Because the truth is?
I wish he wasn’t such acompletejerk.
Because if he weren’t, I might have to admit he’s…
Ugh. No. Not going there.
I shove the thought away and head to my bathroom. My reflection stares back at me, hair knotted in a messy bun, dark circles under my eyes.
I sigh and turn on the shower.
If I’m going to walk into battle tonight, I might as well look the part.
An hour and a half later, I step out of my car, heels clicking against the pavement as I stride toward the event venue. The second I walk through the doors, I catch my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling windows. The navy wrap dress is a good choice—sharp, sophisticated, shows just enough leg to bedangerous. My glossy hair frames my face in soft waves, and the lipstick I picked? A bold merlot color.
Idolook like a woman ready for battle.
I roll my shoulders back and take a breath.
I can do this.
I can sit next to Chase Remington, debate romance novels, and not let him get under my skin.
I can ignore the way my stomach tightens when I think about seeing him again, how even now, my pulse kicks up a little in anticipation.
Ican.
And Iwill.
Because at the end of the day, this is just another PR stunt.
And Chase Remington?
He’s just another opponent.
I expected a small crowd—a handful of die-hard book club members, maybe some Stampede fans who just wanted to see a hockey player fumble his way through a discussion about romance.
