Page 57 of The Book Club Boyfriend
“He’s also mad I took away his freedom to wander into other people’s yards.”
She gives me a slow, unimpressed blink. “He only liked me for my peanut butter.”
“Same.”
Her mouth drops open, and I grin.
The navy dress she’s wearing hugs her waist and shows just enough leg to make my brain short-circuit. She’s a walking contradiction—gorgeous, infuriating, and totally off-limits—and I’m screwed six ways from Sunday because she doesn’t even know what she does to me.
“See?” I say, nudging her knee with mine under the table. “You’re laughing. Told you this place is magical.”
She rolls her eyes, but there’s a reluctant smile tugging at her lips. It’s the kind of smile she doesn’t realize she’s giving me. The kind I want to earn again and again.
She taps her straw against the glass. “So. Hockey.”
I lift a brow. “You want to talk about hockey?”
“Not particularly. But I know it’s your thing.”
I shrug. “It’s been good. Season kicks off soon. Training starts next week.”
“You ready for it?”
“Yeah,” I say. Then add, “Sort of.”
She catches the hesitation, sharp as ever. “Sort of?”
I shrug again, more careful this time. “There’s just… pressure this year. With the captaincy on the table. Contract negotiations. All that.”
“You’ll get it,” she says like it’s a fact. “You’re good at what you do.”
I stare at her for a second too long, thrown off by the simple certainty in her voice.
“Thanks,” I say, quieter than I meant to.
She nods, eyes flicking away like she’s realizing she said too much.
I don’t bring up her book. I don’t mention the critic or the pressure she’s under. She already looked like the world was sitting on her chest tonight, and I’m not going to add to it.
So instead, I tip my glass toward hers and say, “Totacos and tequila.”
She lifts hers, smirking. “And farting husbands.”
“May we never become them.”
We clink glasses, and just like that, the tension starts to bleed away.
And even though this wasn’t part of the plan—and she’ll probably go back to pretending to hate me tomorrow—tonight? It feels like a win.
For both of us.
I’m standing in my kitchen, holding a cup of coffee I haven’t actually managed to drink, scrolling through my phone while Rip chews a slipper in the corner like it personally offended him.
The internet has… opinions.
Big ones.
I swipe through post after post, each more unhinged than the last.
