Chapter Twenty-Two
Chemistry, But Make It Competitive
Chase
I step into the event space and am immediately hit with a wall of perfume, shrieking laughter, and the scent of catered cupcakes. Someone spots me—then someone else—and suddenly I’m surrounded by women waving copies of The Penalty Box and asking if Rip is single.
“Unfortunately, he’s very taken,” I say with a grin, signing a book.
One of them giggles. “Not you. The dog.”
Another woman shouts, “Team Scottie forever!”
And just like that, my eyes start scanning for her.
I find Scarlett across the room, perched casually on a high stool near the stage, her legs crossed and her face half-buried in a cup of coffee.
She’s wearing a silky wine-colored blouse that makes her look like she just stepped off the cover of a fashion magazine—if the fashion magazine was titled Don’t Even Try Me.
My heart does this dumb little stutter.
I shouldn’t be this into her, especially when she’s made it abundantly clear that this—whatever it is between us—is just temporary tension. PR and proximity.
But I am. Fully, recklessly, completely into her.
She glances up and catches me looking.
Raises one brow like she’s just waiting for me to say something ridiculous.
Challenge accepted.
I weave through the crowd and slide onto the empty stool beside her. “What is that shirt you’re wearing? It’s very…”
“Very what?” she snaps.
“Distracting.”
She doesn’t even flinch. “What, like I got dressed specifically to give you a stroke?”
I smirk. “Mission accomplished.”
Vivian appears on stage with her clipboard, all business. “Tonight’s discussion is themed ‘Battle of the Sexes.’ We’ll be looking at how male and female characters are portrayed in romance—flaws, strengths, double standards… This should be fun.”
Scarlett lets out a noise that’s somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “This is going to be a bloodbath.”
I grin. “You’re just mad because you already know you’re gonna lose.”
“Lose what? You think the average man in a romance novel could survive a single chapter of a book written by me?”
I laugh. “That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.”
The crowd’s already buzzing, everyone taking their seats, phones out and filming. The energy is high, chaotic, and honestly? I’m kind of loving it—much more than I thought I would. I can guess why…
Vivian gestures for us to come up to the front. I stand, offer Scarlett a hand, and she gives me a look like I just offered her a seat on the Titanic.
Still, she takes it.
We sit on the stage, the lights hot, the eyes of a hundred romance readers burning into us.
“Alright,” Vivian says. “Let’s kick this off. What’s the biggest difference between how men and women are written in love stories?”
Scarlett leans toward her mic, all confidence and control. “Men in romance novels are fantasy. Real men would never say half the things these characters say—unless they’re trying to get slapped or sued.”
There’s laughter. She barely hides a smile.
I take my turn. “Women in romance novels are way too skeptical. Like, ‘Oh, he brought me soup when I was sick, but what does it mean?’ It means he brought you soup, babe.”
The audience cracks up.
Scarlett glares at me.
“I’m just saying, sometimes it’s not that deep.”
“Oh, because men are famously simple creatures. Got it.”
I glance at the crowd. “She’s proving my point.”
More laughter.
The banter goes back and forth—she roasts my taste in books, I tease her about her tragic inability to flirt without sounding like she’s about to sue someone.
But underneath the jokes, there’s a current. A pull.
And for a second, I wonder if she feels it too.
Because when she laughs—actually laughs at something I say—it hits me square in the chest.
I want to make her laugh again.
And again.
But for now?
I’ll take one more hour on this stage where it feels like it’s just her and me. The crowd of people fades away, and Scarlett is all I can focus on.
After the event wraps and the crowd starts to thin out, I find her near the refreshment table, swirling what’s left of her lemonade like she’s thinking very hard about whether or not to throw it at me.
I lean against the table beside her. “You survived.”
She sighs. “Barely.”
“You crushed it. They loved you.”
Her lips twitch. “They loved watching us verbally spar.”
“Same thing.”
She rolls her eyes but doesn’t walk away. Progress. “This isn’t a game, you know. There are no winners here.”
I grin. “I don’t need to win.” I lift a cup of lemonade and take a slow sip. “I just like to.”
“I hung out with Lucy the other day,” she says casually, like it’s not a bomb she’s just dropped into the conversation.
I almost choke. “Oh, I’ve gotta know… what was that like?”
“Basically world domination.”
I nod solemnly. “Okay, so pretty much exactly how I pictured it.”
She laughs—an actual, unguarded laugh that curls in my chest and settles somewhere I probably shouldn’t examine too closely.
We linger there for a beat longer than necessary. Then someone calls her name from across the room, and the spell breaks.
She gives me a nod. “Goodnight, Remington.”
“Night, Calloway.”
And just like that, she’s gone.
Later that night, I’m sprawled in bed, one arm behind my head, the other scrolling my phone while Rip snores dramatically at the foot of the bed like he’s had a long day of doing absolutely nothing.
My feed?
Absolutely flooded.
@ReaderGirl2000: If enemies-to-lovers isn’t real, explain Chase and Scottie.
@BookTokBabe: THE CHEMISTRY. THE BANTER. THE TENSION. I NEED THEM TO KISS IMMEDIATELY.
@RomanceRiot: Watching Scottie Calloway slowly realize she might have a crush is like watching a lion accidentally cuddle a golden retriever. I am LIVING.
I scroll through meme after meme. One is a freeze-frame of Scarlett glaring at me mid-panel, captioned: “She wants to hate him so bad, but his biceps are distracting.”
Another has both of us side-by-side with “Love is War: Live Edition” splashed across the bottom.
I laugh, open up a text to Scarlett, and type:
Me: We’re trending again. The internet thinks you’re in love with me.
The typing bubbles appear, then disappear. Then reappear. Then finally her message comes through.
Scarlett: Tell the internet to take several seats.
Me: You sure? I think they’ve got a point.
Scarlett: Your ego is terrifying.
Me: And yet, you can’t look away.
No reply.
I grin at the screen, toss the phone on my nightstand, and scratch Rip behind the ears.
“Admit it,” I murmur. “She likes me.”
Rip groans and flops onto his back, unimpressed.
“Fine. Too soon.”
But still, I fall asleep smiling.