Page 94 of The Book Club Boyfriend
“Uh huh. Just one date and suddenly you’re skipping through Dallas like a Disney princess on espresso.”
“I’m notskipping.”
“You’re emotionally skipping.”
I laugh, then pause—because her words settle somewhere in my chest.
Itwasdifferent last night. I felt… lighter. And maybe a littleseen, which is terrifying in its own right. But who knows, maybe this is what growth looks like? Just getting out of your own head long enough to do something different.
Harper takes another bite of her croissant and eyes me carefully. “So… are you gonna see him again?”
“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “He kind of ended things abruptly.”
Her brows shoot up. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, we kissed. But after? He pulled back. Said he better take me home. Likehewas the one drawing boundaries.”
Harper stares at me, stunned. “Well damn. I think I like him now.”
I groan. “Don’t say that.”
“You already do,” she says, with a knowing look.
I flip her off, and she laughs, victorious.
After a beat, she says, “So what about the book?”
I sober instantly. “I… actually have an idea.”
She stills. “Wait, really?”
I nod, picking at the corner of my napkin. “It’s nothing like anything I’ve written before. It’s scary and soft and hopeful and maybe… a little bit romantic?”
Her eyes widen.
“I don’t even know where it came from,” I mumble. “It just hit me after the other night. But it’s so off-brand, it might tank everything I’ve built.”
She doesn’t hesitate. “Or it could be the best thing you’ve ever written.”
I glance up.
“I mean it,” she says gently. “You’re not the same person you were when you started writing those books. Maybe this is your next chapter.”
The lump in my throat is unexpected.
“I don’t know if I’m brave enough to write it,” I admit.
She reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “You are.”
And for the first time in a long time… Ialmostbelieve her.
The air’s crisp as I step out of the coffee shop, latte in hand, still thinking about Harper’s relentless optimism. The girl could put a positive spin on an IRS audit. I love her for it. I hate her for it.
Mostly, I wish I believed her.
The bookstore across the street catches my eye, but I keep walking, not ready to risk seeing a display of hockey-themed romance novels with my face awkwardly Photoshopped next to Chase’s. Instead, I duck into a boutique I don’t recognize—one of those beachy, boho places with soft lighting and too many mirrors.
A little bell chimes overhead as I enter, and the scent of jasmine and expensive leather hits me immediately. Everything in here is stupidly pretty. Delicate. Soft.
