Page 55 of The Book Club Boyfriend
Stone-faced and quietly reeling.
All my carefully constructed arguments, all my witty retorts, every armor-plated piece of logic I’ve used to defend my worldview—it all wobbles.
Like a game of Jenga about to go sideways.
I try to say something. Anything. But the only thing I can manage is a tight-lipped nod.
Chase leans toward his mic. “I think what Scarlett meant earlier—when she was mocking farting husbands—is that she just hasn’t met the right one yet.”
Laughter again. More applause. Of course, Chase knew exactly what to say to diffuse the situation.
And now, of course, everyone is looking at us like we’re one of thosewill they or won’t theycouples from a slow-burn rom-com.
I want to slide off this stage and never be seen again.
As we wrap things up, Chase turns toward me one last time.
“Well,” he says, his voice pitched just loud enough to carry. “You didn’t set the place on fire. I call that a win.”
I shoot him a look. “Don’t tempt me, Remington.”
But my voice comes out shaky. Because I’moff my game. Way off.
And he knows it.
His smirk softens. Just slightly.
And somehow, that’s even worse.
Because for the first time in a very long time… I don’t know if I’m the one in control.
Chapter Seventeen
Ship Happens
Chase
Scarlett’s still red in the face as we step off stage, her jaw tight, arms crossed like she’s physically holding herself together.
I’ve seen people rattled before—hell, I’ve been rattled plenty of times—but this? This is a woman trying really hard to pretend she’s fine when she’s absolutely not.
It does something inside me. Some weird nagging feeling that I can’t place, but don’t like.
She doesn’t say anything, just beelines toward the backstage hallway like she’s trying to outrun her own embarrassment.
I follow her. Not because I’m an idiot, though the jury’s still out. But because I don’t like the way her shoulders are pulled tight, like she’s bracing for another punch. She’s been dodging me all night—hell, all summer. But tonight? She let a crack show.
And maybe I’m not supposed to care. But I do.
When I catch up to her by the green room door, she stops but doesn’t turn around. “Don’t say it.”
“Say what?” I ask, holding back a smile.
“I don’t want to talk about the hot take from hell. I just want to forget this entire night.”
“That’s fair,” I say gently. “But can we talk about tacos?”
That gets her. She glances over her shoulder, narrowing her eyes. “Tacos?”
