Page 99 of The Book Club Boyfriend
“Exhausting,” I say. “California, Arizona, back-to-back games. But good. We won both.”
“Look at you. A functioning adult with a winning streak.”
“Shocking, I know.”
She gives me a look.
Ishrug, trying to downplay it. “Yeah, I felt good on the ice. Fast. Focused.”
She studies me for a second. “You’ve been playing really well lately. I read that stat thing online. Your coach said something about how you’ve stepped into a leadership role.”
I glance away, caught off guard by the pride in her voice. “Yeah, well. Trying not to screw it up.”
“You won’t,” she says simply, like it’s a fact.
I glance over. “You sure about that?”
“Pretty sure.” She pops the last bite of her taco into her mouth.
Next, she asks about my parents, and I ask about the first book she ever wrote. She tells me about her writing process—equal parts caffeine, panic, and Google Docs. I tell her about the time I accidentally texted my coach instead of my dog-sitter and invited him to stay in my guest room.
It’s easy.
We navigate between deeper topics and amusing ones like it’s nothing.
By the time we’re done eating, the sky outside has darkened. She’s sitting beside me now, close enough that her bare leg brushes mine every time she shifts. My hand is draped along the back of the couch, fingers itching to reach for her.
She catches me staring, and her lips curve. “What?”
“Nothing.” I shrug. “You just…fit here. Better than I thought you would.”
Her smile falters for half a second, then softens. “I’m not staying the night, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
I laugh. “Didn’t say you were. Although Rip would be thrilled.”
At the sound of his name, Rip lifts his head and promptly rests it in Scarlett’s lap with a dramatic sigh.
“Betrayal,” I mutter.
Scarlett scratches behind his ears. “You’ll live.”
I lean forward, nudging her foot with mine. “Want another churro?”
She hesitates for a second, then nods.
I go grab them, and when I come back, she’s tucked under a blanket, Rip still using her as a pillow, and she looks so ridiculously at home that something shifts in my chest. A little jolt, like maybe I’m not just falling for her—I already have.
I hand her the churro.
She arches a brow. “Is this how you woo women? Flammable dinners and pre-packaged desserts?”
“It’s a high-risk, high-reward strategy.”
She takes a bite. “Well. You’re lucky I have low standards.”
I smirk. “Noted.”
We fall into a comfortable conversation, with the sound of Rip snoring and the soft hum of music.
