Page 54 of The Book Club Boyfriend
I turn away and try not to let his aftershave fry my last functioning brain cell. I adjust the mic clipped to my collar, still in awe of the sheer volume of hopeless romantics on the other side of the curtain.
I exhale and plant a hand on my hip. “Romance novels have never enhanced one person’s life. Not one. I can guarantee it. Reading about some bull-riding Fabio or a single dad Navy SEAL and then coming home to your real-life chonky, farting husband who’s asking, ‘What’s for dinner?’ Ludicrous.Nope. Not here for it. Not buying what you’re selling.”
“Scarlett!” Vivian skids around the corner, her eyes wide with horror. “Your mic is on!”
Oh. No.No, no, no, no, no.
I freeze, my blood going ice cold.
“Stage in thirty seconds!” someone yells.
My stomach drops to the floor.
Chase chokes on a laugh beside me. “You really know how to make an entrance, Calloway.”
I am going to kill him.
We walk out onto the stage to thunderous applause, and I’m fifty shades of mortified. The lights are blinding, the crowd massive, and the only thing keeping me upright is sheer adrenaline and Chase’s annoyingly steady presence beside me.
He steps up to the mic first, flashing his trademark smile. “Hey, everyone. I’m Chase Remington, right wing for the Dallas Stampede and apparently a newfound lover of books.”
Low laughter ripples through the audience.
“And I’m Scottie Calloway,” I say, trying not to wince. “Thanks for having us.”
Someone in the back yells, “We heard you backstage!”
The entire room erupts.
Chase leans toward me and murmurs, “Smile, Calloway. You’re charming as hell when you’re on the defensive.”
I send him a death glare, but somehow, he keeps things moving. He’s good at this. Damn him. He tosses out jokes, mentions his favorite book from the club so far, and even manages to redirect the crowd’s attention away from me and my mic mishap.
The moderator asks us both, “What’s your favorite romance trope?”
“None of them,” I grumble.
Chase flashes his signature smile at the crowd,like they’re in on some secret with him. “Enemies to lovers, obviously.” Then he smirks directly at me.
Do not commit murder. Do not commit murder.
We settle into a rhythm, him bantering, me offering sarcastic counterpoints, and for a while, it almost feels like fun. Or at the very least, like I might survive this encounter.
Then the Q&A starts.
A woman stands, maybe mid-thirties, holding the mic with both hands. She’s got a sweet face and a pink Stampede hoodie on.
“Hi,” she says, smiling nervously. “This is for Scottie Calloway. First of all, I love your work—I really do. But… I just wanted to say, I’ve been married six years. My husband and I? We’re both a little chonky. And yeah, sometimes he farts during movies. But there’s something kinda nice about being comfortable enough to let one rip here and there. He also holds my hand when I’m anxious and warms up my car on cold mornings. And romance novels? They remind me why I fell in love with him in the first place.”
The room goes quiet.
She swallows, steeling herself to continue. “I know they’re fiction. I know they’re not real life. But they make me happy. They give me hope. And… I don’t know. That’s not so bad, right?”
She sits.
And the room explodes in applause.
I just… sit there.
