Chapter Sixteen
Not Buying What You’re Selling
Scarlett
After spending a month in Michigan, coming back to my condo feels… off.
Too quiet.
Too empty.
Too much space for my own thoughts.
It barely feels like home anymore. It should. It’s where my career exploded, where I built a life exactly how I wanted it—on my terms, with no distractions, no messy emotions, no heartbreak.
I used to love this. The solitude. The freedom of it. My walls are lined with books, my pantry is stocked with my favorite overpriced organic snacks, and my espresso machine is the closest thing I have to a committed relationship. It’s perfect.
Except it’s not.
My deadline is creeping closer, but I can’t seem to force the words out. Every sentence I type feels hollow.
Because if I put pen to paper—if I actually push ahead on this book—I have to answer a question I don’t want to touch with a ten-foot pole.
Do I even believe in what I’m writing anymore?
A sharp knock on my door makes me jolt, but when I check, it’s just a package. Something I ordered from . A pair of Spanx for tonight.
I grab the package, toss it onto my coffee table, and check the time.
5:16 p.m.
The book club event is at seven.
Which means I have less than two hours before I have to sit next to Chase and pretend I don’t want to strangle him with his own mic cord.
The thought alone sends a ripple of something through me—annoyance, frustration… something else I refuse to name.
Because the truth is?
I wish he wasn’t such a complete jerk.
Because if he weren’t, I might have to admit he’s…
Ugh. No. Not going there.
I shove the thought away and head to my bathroom. My reflection stares back at me, hair knotted in a messy bun, dark circles under my eyes.
I sigh and turn on the shower.
If I’m going to walk into battle tonight, I might as well look the part.
An hour and a half later, I step out of my car, heels clicking against the pavement as I stride toward the event venue.
The second I walk through the doors, I catch my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling windows.
The navy wrap dress is a good choice—sharp, sophisticated, shows just enough leg to be dangerous.
My glossy hair frames my face in soft waves, and the lipstick I picked? A bold merlot color.
I do look like a woman ready for battle.
I roll my shoulders back and take a breath.
I can do this.
I can sit next to Chase Remington, debate romance novels, and not let him get under my skin.
I can ignore the way my stomach tightens when I think about seeing him again, how even now, my pulse kicks up a little in anticipation.
I can.
And I will.
Because at the end of the day, this is just another PR stunt.
And Chase Remington?
He’s just another opponent.
I expected a small crowd—a handful of die-hard book club members, maybe some Stampede fans who just wanted to see a hockey player fumble his way through a discussion about romance.
What I did not expect was a packed house.
The venue is buzzing—women of all ages chatting excitedly, clutching copies of books to their chests, sipping on themed cocktails from the cash bar.
I scan the crowd, mildly horrified.
It’s not just big. It’s huge.
Do these people know I don’t actually like romance novels? That I, in fact, built my entire career writing about why women don’t need men?
And yet, they’re here.
For this.
For us.
God help me.
Before I can turn around and fake an emergency, a woman with sleek dark hair and a professional no-nonsense energy approaches me, clipboard in hand.
“Scarlett Calloway,” she says smoothly. “I’m Vivian Carter. Stampede PR.”
Oh. Right.
I shake her hand, trying not to let my nerves show. “Nice to meet you.”
Vivian’s gaze sweeps over me, sharp and assessing. “Glad to have you on board for this. I have to say, the online buzz has been fantastic. The whole ‘enemies to lovers’ angle? The fans love it.”
I blink. “I—wait. What angle?”
Vivian just smiles. “Don’t worry, you’ll catch on. Chase is already here, by the way. I’ll take you to him.”
Chase is already here.
I swallow, ignoring the way my stomach twists.
I haven’t seen him in weeks. Since the fight we had at the dog park.
I’ve spent the last week telling myself that our time together was just a blip, a brief lapse in judgment on my part. That whatever… thing had been happening between us was just proximity, a result of being neighbors in a small town for too long.
But now, standing here, surrounded by hundreds of people waiting for us to take the stage, I know the truth.
I’m not over it.
And the second I see him—I know I was lying to myself.
Because wham!
The air is sucked straight from my lungs.
Gone are the board shorts and flip-flops.
Gone is the too-casual, beach-bum Chase.
The man standing across the room is all sharp edges and tailored lines.
The charcoal-gray suit fits his frame unfairly well, emphasizing every broad, muscular inch of him.
He looks even broader and taller than I remember, with his shoulders stretching against the suit jacket.
His hair is freshly cut, styled just enough to be polished but still just a little messy in the front, like he ran his hand through it before walking in.
And the scruff?
Gone.
Completely clean-shaven, revealing a strong, chiseled jaw that makes my brain short-circuit for a second.
Not fair. Not fair. Not fair.
He turns just as Vivian and I approach, his sharp blue eyes locking onto mine. And damn him—his whole face lights up like we’re old friends, like I didn’t storm off and avoid him for an entire week.
“Scarlett,” he says, his voice warm and familiar.
I freeze.
Vivian is still talking, but I don’t hear a word she says.
Because Chase Remington—annoying, cocky, insufferable Chase—is looking at me like he enjoys the fact that I’m flustered.
And worse?
He’s right.
I am flustered.
I clear my throat, struggling to pull myself together. “You clean up well, Remington.”
His lips twitch, and he steps closer, his voice low. “You look… incredible.”
Oh.
Okay.
A real compliment.
Not teasing. Not sarcasm.
Just—real.
I blink up at him, caught off guard by the shift in tone, the sincerity in his eyes. Before I can come up with a snarky comeback to the weird little flutter in my chest, a woman in a glittery blue dress cuts between us.
“Oh my gosh—you’re Chase Remington, right?” She beams up at him, already pulling out her phone. “Do you mind if I get a picture? My sister and I are huge fans. She’s gonna freak.”
Chase blinks, then gives her the megawatt smile I’ve come to associate with his media face. “Of course. I’m happy to.”
He shifts easily into charm mode—arm slung casually around her shoulders, dimples flashing, head tilted just right for the selfie. He even laughs when she playfully pokes his chest and says, “You really are built like a tank.”
And it’s stupid.
It’s so stupid.
But something tightens in my chest.
I glance away, folding my arms across my body like that might help shield me from the weird jolt of… whatever this is.
Jealousy?
God. No.
I don’t get jealous. That’s not who I am. I’m the poster girl for independence. The queen of emotional detachment. I literally built a career on the idea that needing a man is a social construct and feelings are, at best, wildly overrated.
But now?
Now, I can’t stop watching the way Chase’s eyes crinkle when he smiles. The way he’s so easy with strangers. The way he slips effortlessly into people’s hearts like it’s nothing.
I hate it.
I hate that he’s good at this.
I hate that I’m suddenly wondering how many other women he’s smiled at like that. How many others he’s made feel special.
And I really hate that I care.
The woman thanks him and floats off with her selfie like she’s won the damn lottery. Chase turns back to me, that same grin still hovering on his face—until he sees mine.
“You okay?” he asks, brow furrowing slightly.
“Fine,” I say too fast. “Just ready to get this over with.”
He studies me for a second like he can see straight through the lie. Then, thankfully, the stage manager calls out that it’s time to mic up.
A tech assistant begins clipping mics to us—his on his collar and mine on my dress near my collarbone.
I keep my eyes forward.
Breathe.
I don’t have time to analyze it. Because Vivian is leading us toward the stage, and suddenly, it’s happening.
The book club event is starting.
And I have absolutely no idea how I’m going to survive it.
I smooth my hands over my dress for the eighth time and remind myself that I’ve been on a stage before. I’ve spoken at events, led panels, and signed books for hours. This is nothing new.
Except it is. Because tonight I’m not in a room full of Scottie Calloway superfans. I’m in enemy territory—empowered book club devotees. Like they have dreams of falling in love with their own cinnamon roll hockey player.
Gross.
And unfortunately, I’m the cynic sent here to talk to them about love.
Fantastic.
“I think I might puke,” I mutter, mostly to myself.
“Please don’t,” a voice says, warm and low right by my ear. “It would really ruin the mood.”
I flinch, glancing over my shoulder.
Chase.
His voice is filled with both warmth and humor.
The beach bro energy is gone, and somehow that sets me on edge. His tie is slightly loosened, like he’s already conquered the day.
He looks... unfairly good.
“I hope you’re up for a challenge,” he says, eyes gleaming.
I arch a brow. “I can’t wait to prove you wrong.”
He just grins, like we’re about to compete in a game neither of us knows the rules to, but he’s convinced he’ll win.
I turn away and try not to let his aftershave fry my last functioning brain cell. I adjust the mic clipped to my collar, still in awe of the sheer volume of hopeless romantics on the other side of the curtain.
I exhale and plant a hand on my hip. “Romance novels have never enhanced one person’s life.
Not one. I can guarantee it. Reading about some bull-riding Fabio or a single dad Navy SEAL and then coming home to your real-life chonky, farting husband who’s asking, ‘What’s for dinner?
’ Ludicrous. Nope. Not here for it. Not buying what you’re selling. ”
“Scarlett!” Vivian skids around the corner, her eyes wide with horror. “Your mic is on!”
Oh. No. No, no, no, no, no.
I freeze, my blood going ice cold.
“Stage in thirty seconds!” someone yells.
My stomach drops to the floor.
Chase chokes on a laugh beside me. “You really know how to make an entrance, Calloway.”
I am going to kill him.
We walk out onto the stage to thunderous applause, and I’m fifty shades of mortified. The lights are blinding, the crowd massive, and the only thing keeping me upright is sheer adrenaline and Chase’s annoyingly steady presence beside me.
He steps up to the mic first, flashing his trademark smile. “Hey, everyone. I’m Chase Remington, right wing for the Dallas Stampede and apparently a newfound lover of books.”
Low laughter ripples through the audience.
“And I’m Scottie Calloway,” I say, trying not to wince. “Thanks for having us.”
Someone in the back yells, “We heard you backstage!”
The entire room erupts.
Chase leans toward me and murmurs, “Smile, Calloway. You’re charming as hell when you’re on the defensive.”
I send him a death glare, but somehow, he keeps things moving. He’s good at this. Damn him. He tosses out jokes, mentions his favorite book from the club so far, and even manages to redirect the crowd’s attention away from me and my mic mishap.
The moderator asks us both, “What’s your favorite romance trope?”
“None of them,” I grumble.
Chase flashes his signature smile at the crowd, like they’re in on some secret with him. “Enemies to lovers, obviously.” Then he smirks directly at me.
Do not commit murder. Do not commit murder.
We settle into a rhythm, him bantering, me offering sarcastic counterpoints, and for a while, it almost feels like fun. Or at the very least, like I might survive this encounter.
Then the Q&A starts.
A woman stands, maybe mid-thirties, holding the mic with both hands. She’s got a sweet face and a pink Stampede hoodie on.
“Hi,” she says, smiling nervously. “This is for Scottie Calloway. First of all, I love your work—I really do. But… I just wanted to say, I’ve been married six years.
My husband and I? We’re both a little chonky.
And yeah, sometimes he farts during movies.
But there’s something kinda nice about being comfortable enough to let one rip here and there.
He also holds my hand when I’m anxious and warms up my car on cold mornings.
And romance novels? They remind me why I fell in love with him in the first place. ”
The room goes quiet.
She swallows, steeling herself to continue. “I know they’re fiction. I know they’re not real life. But they make me happy. They give me hope. And… I don’t know. That’s not so bad, right?”
She sits.
And the room explodes in applause.
I just… sit there.
Stone-faced and quietly reeling.
All my carefully constructed arguments, all my witty retorts, every armor-plated piece of logic I’ve used to defend my worldview—it all wobbles.
Like a game of Jenga about to go sideways.
I try to say something. Anything. But the only thing I can manage is a tight-lipped nod.
Chase leans toward his mic. “I think what Scarlett meant earlier—when she was mocking farting husbands—is that she just hasn’t met the right one yet.”
Laughter again. More applause. Of course, Chase knew exactly what to say to diffuse the situation.
And now, of course, everyone is looking at us like we’re one of those will they or won’t they couples from a slow-burn rom-com.
I want to slide off this stage and never be seen again.
As we wrap things up, Chase turns toward me one last time.
“Well,” he says, his voice pitched just loud enough to carry. “You didn’t set the place on fire. I call that a win.”
I shoot him a look. “Don’t tempt me, Remington.”
But my voice comes out shaky. Because I’m off my game. Way off.
And he knows it.
His smirk softens. Just slightly.
And somehow, that’s even worse.
Because for the first time in a very long time… I don’t know if I’m the one in control.