Page 86 of The Book Club Boyfriend
Scarlett stops in front of an item that contains two tickets to a wine tasting and a basket of bath salts. “That’s not a prize; that’s a cry for help.”
I chuckle.
We stroll along, stopping at a basket labeledA Night of Romance. There’s a candle shaped like a rose, a bottle of wine, and a leather-bound copy ofPride and Prejudice.
I glance at her, already smirking. “Tell me this isn’t your idea of hell.”
She arches a brow. “A scented candle, lukewarm cabernet, and a man with commitment issues? It’s practically my autobiography.”
I laugh, full and genuine. “You should write taglines for a living.”
“I do write for a living.”
“Right. Books about how I’m the enemy.”
“Not you specifically,” she says, then pauses. “But also notnotyou.”
I pretend to clutch my heart. “Wounded.”
“You’ll live.” She steps closer to the table, skimming a finger over the wine label. “Though, for the record, I’m more of a whiskey girl.”
“Of course you are.” I lean in just enough for her to notice. “Whiskey, biting sarcasm, and a total disregard for small talk. You’re my dream woman.”
She blinks once. Then twice.
A small smile pulls at her lips.
And maybe it’s the champagne, maybe it’s the suit, maybe it’s the way she looks tonight—flawless, untouchable, and yet somehow the mostrealthing in this whole room—but I swear, for half a second, she actually looks like she’s enjoying herself.
She turns to walk away, and I follow, still grinning like an idiot.
We stop in front of another auction item—this one a framed jersey signed by half the team. She eyes it with mild disinterest, as if she’s trying to pretend she doesn’t notice my name stitched across the back.
“You bidding?” I ask, nudging her lightly with my elbow.
She crosses her arms. “Please. I already have one just like it.”
I blink. “You do?”
She nods, expression smug. “I use it to clean my windows. Works great on streaks.”
I choke on a laugh. “Ouch. Ruthless.”
Seriously, women don’t speak to me like this. She’s unreal—mean, even. So why do I like it so much?
She shrugs, clearly pleased with herself. “Just trying to keep your ego at bay.”
I chuckle, then glance over at her. Her champagne’s almost gone, her shoulders are a little more relaxed, and for a split second, she’s not glaring at me.
Which feels like my cue.
I tilt my head, voice lower now. “So, when are you going to let me take you out on a proper date?”
Her reaction is immediate—a laugh, dry and sharp, followed by an eye roll that could knock over a grown man.
“Nice try,” she says, setting her glass down on a nearby table. “But I don’t doproper dates. Orimproper ones, for that matter.”
“Come on,” I say, playing it easy, letting my smile linger. “Just one night. No obligations. I’ll even behave.”
