Page 67 of The Book Club Boyfriend
I sit up straighter, swipe the notification, and open the message.
Scarlett:Okay, so maybe hockey’s not completely stupid. You guys looked good out there. It’s so fast-paced and more exciting than I realized.
I feel my grin before I can stop it.
Dash catches the look. “You sexting already? Damn, Remington, that was fast even for you.”
I ignore him, thumbs moving quickly.
Me:Tell that to the ref you screamed at in the third. Pretty sure you gave him a complex.
She types back immediately.
Scarlett:He DESERVED IT. Worst call I’ve seen in my life.
I can’t stop smiling like an idiot. I probably look like I just fell in love with my burrito.
“You texting your mom or your soulmate?” Tyler asks, stealing my queso.
“Neither,” I say, trying to sound casual. “Just a friend.”
“Sure,” Will mutters. “The same ‘friend’ who looked like she wanted to maul you through the glasstonight.”
“I think she wanted to maul the ref,” I say, taking another bite. “But I wouldn’t have minded.”
That earns a round of whistles and fake swooning from the table.
“She’s got you good,” Dash says, shaking his head. “I give it a week before you’re writing poetry in the locker room.”
I roll my eyes but keep my phone in my lap. Her texts come quickly, her commentary unfiltered, and every time my screen lights up, it’s like a shot of adrenaline straight to the chest.
And the thing is—I’ve had a lot of women flirt with me. A lot of numbers handed over, a lot of dates, a lot of “oh my God, you’re Chase Remington” reactions.
But none of them ever banged on the glass and screamed at a ref, then turned around and told me I was obnoxious.
She’s different.
And I don’t know where this is going yet.
But I know one thing—I’m not ready for the night to end.
Me:Hope you didn’t pull anything yelling at the refs tonight.
Scarlett:I’m just fine, I can assure you.
At the risk of the guys completely confiscating my phone, I fire off one last text before pocketing it.
Me:Not gonna lie, you were kind of terrifying in the best way.
After dinner, I head home, but there’s still nothing from Scarlett. I wonder if I said something to annoy her—probably.
I take Rip out and check my phone again while he does his business.
Still nothing.
It’s fine. I lie to myself.
I push the door open and step into the quiet, dark condo. Rip trots in ahead of me, nails tapping across the hardwood like he owns the place. Which, to be fair, he probably does.
