Book Boyfriends

Chapter 1

NOT A BOOK BOYFRIEND

I wish I were on a date with Captain Wentworth.

Davis Mackenzie is no Captain Wentworth.

In fairness, none of my dates ever hold a candle to my dream book boyfriend.

They don’t have to be top-tier Austen male romantic leads, but at least in the ballpark of the book boyfriends that cause my pulse to race.

In the pages of my favorite romances are the perfect men.

Men who do battle, traverse distant lands, and say all the pretty words while still ensuring their lady is well-sexed.

In real life, I’m sitting across from Davis. He’s thirty-six, single, and breathing. Just my type. At least, that’s what my younger brother Jackson must think.

“It’s fascinating, Georgia. It all happened on Bainbridge Island,” Davis says, his focus fixed on his phone.

“The island off Seattle? What happened there?” I cock an eyebrow, which he’ll not notice since his vision appears permanently fused to his phone.

We’re twenty minutes into this meet/cute orchestrated by my younger brother, and the only connection here is between him and his phone. Even my breasts, served up on a platter thanks to this gravity-defying pushup bra, aren’t dragging his attention.

“Joel Pichard and Bill Bell founded pickleball in 1965 on Bainbridge Island,” Davis goes on about the one topic that’s dominated this blind date: pickleball.

I’m not anti-pickleball, even if I am not a sporty girl. It would just be nice to talk about anything else or for him to ask about me. Right now, it would be nice if he’d look at me.

Note to self: never again accept a date with someone Jackson has raved is ‘just my type’. I bite the inside of my cheek, attempting to force my face into a serene expression.

My younger brother means well. Everyone means well. Our soon-to-be-a-dad, older brother, Rem. My best friend, Hope. Colleagues from work. They all want me to have a relationship that lasts beyond the first date.

This isn’t the best first date but it isn’t the worst. It’s not like the guy who robbed me after I went to the bathroom or the one who asked for the server’s number in front of me.

At least Davis is attractive. If you’re into neat, dark stubble brushed across a strong jawline, thick raven hair, and ashen eyes rimmed in gold which peek out from behind trendy black-framed glasses.

With his height, which I clocked at just over six foot, and the lean physique visible beneath a blue short-sleeved button-up, he has the “hot nerd” look that sends a tingle to my lady bits.

It’s almost enough to wash away the simmering annoyance at the tick of checking his phone every three minutes. Almost .

“You’ve never played pickleball?” Right eyebrow arched, he looks up.

Well, that got his attention. Grinning, I lean against the chair’s cushioned back. “Nope.”

“How is that possible?”

“I’m more of an indoor kind of girl.” I sip my pineapple cider. Its crispness explodes on my tastebuds. At least, for this blasé date, I’m at Fisher’s Landing, my favorite—and the only—local gluten-free brewery with their unrestricted menu of tidbits and ciders for my consumption.

“There are indoor courts,” he says, his stare—again—drags back to his phone.

Seriously, dude? “Do they now?” My tone skews flippant.

I could be flirty and bat my lashes. The only promise I made to Jackson was to go on this date, and here I am.

I don’t have to feign flirtation for someone whose focus is elsewhere.

I may be single, but I’m not desperate. It’s far better to be lonely than unhappy.

It took a devastating heartbreak and the last five years to drill that lesson into my head.

He leans against the chair’s high back. “Maybe on date two, I can introduce you to the sport. On an indoor court, of course.”

Second date? I almost choke on my drink.

Beyond our shared basket of steak fries, there’s no commitment.

Drinks are all I promised my brother. This happy hour meeting is for Jackson’s sake, not mine.

An evening in with a good book and takeout is far superior to the squeeze of these Spanks, and this black mini-dress Hope talked me into.

But I promised… At least, I get french fries.

Bad dates—really anything—are always better with french fries.

I rarely get a chance to indulge in the salty treat while I’m out, due to my celiac disease.

Most places lack a dedicated fryer or kitchen to ensure gluten-free options.

That oversight often results in stomach cramps, migraines, and too much bonding time with the toilet for me.

“Have you been here before?” I pluck a fry from the basket.

“Nope.” His long fingers tap against his phone screen.

“It’s a favorite spot for my best friend, Hope, and me.”

He simply nods.

“Do you have a best friend?”

“Yep.” His focus remains tethered to his phone.

With a tap of my kitten heel against the chair’s leg, I force my mouth into an almost painful smile. “Besides pickleball, what kinds of things do you enjoy doing?”

A vee forms front and center on his brow. “Hike.”

“Guess you’re an outdoorsy guy.”

“Sure.” With a shrug, his attention moves back to his phone.

I bite back an annoyed breath. “My older brother, Rem, is a big hiker. He loves Chino Hills. Which trails do you like?”

“Lots of them.”

Seriously! The fries here are good but not worth this. Blind dates aren’t my thing either, but at least I’m present. Davis appears more décor than an engaged partner. Granted, what hiking trails do you like isn’t going to whip me into a verbal frenzy, but I’m at least trying.

I brush my long brown hair behind my ears. “If you need to be doing something else, it’s okay. If you need to leave?—”

“What?” Confusion twists his features when he looks up.

I wave between us. “You’ve been looking at your phone a lot.”

“I… I didn’t realize… Sorry.” He places the phone on the table.

“If you need to go, it’s okay.”

He rubs the back of his neck. “No. I’m here, Georgia.”

My nose crinkles. “Are you sure? Because we can call this if you want…”

“Yes—” His face scrunches “—I mean, no. I don’t…. We don’t need to call it. Let’s do this. I promised your brother, and I hate breaking my promises.”

Promised my brother? Great! Did Jackson call in a favor for this blind date?

My dating history is less than stellar, but I had no idea it was younger brother calls in a favor bad.

When Jackson told me there was a guy he wanted me to meet, I assumed it was because he thought we’d get on.

However, Davis’s engagement screams uninterested.

Is this how my younger brother sees me? Desperate? Shifting in my seat, mortification blazes my cheeks.

For several beats, we stare at each other.

The clank of dishes, chatter from other patrons, and muffled music from the bar’s speakers spin around us.

It’s the trademark awkward first date pause, where neither of the participants knows what to say.

In a book, my actual love interest would rescue me from this awkwardness.

My real-life book boyfriend isn’t in sight.

No dashing duke, cinnamon roll baker, or devoted werewolf alpha is coming to my rescue.

“You’re not athletic like your brothers.”

My spine stiffens at the statement of fact aspect of his question.

True, I’m not cut out of marble like the pickleball champion of Southern California across from me.

With my round hips, thicker thighs, and squishy belly, I’m built for comfort.

I detest running, love pastry, and adore my soft curves.

Still, I bristle at the undertone of his accusation about my lack of athletic prowess.

“Why do you say that?”

“You’re an indoor girl, remember?” He smirks.

“I can think of some very athletic indoor activities.” I skate my fingertip around the glass’s rim.

Interest sparks in his eyes.

“Yoga,” I say with a dream on, buddy lilt.

Davis may have this whole hot nerd aesthetic thing going on, but I don’t plan to engage in indoorsy activities with him. I’ve been fooled by a handsome face before. Though fooled seems a poor choice of words for what Will did and its impact on my heart. But we’re not going to think about that.

“Yoga?” Davis huffs a breathy chuckle. “Can’t imagine someone from Jackson’s gene pool not being into competitive sports. They call him Beast at the pickleball courts.”

“It’s a deep genetic pool… Lots of options.” My gaze flicks around the crowded bar.

This isn’t the first time someone’s noted the difference between me and my siblings. Rem and Jackson are your poster children for Type A personalities. Sports. Grades. Careers. It’s all a competition for them.

Then there’s me, Georgia Lane. Sometimes, it’s as if the only thing we have in common, besides a shared last name, is each being named after one of Dad’s favorite artists.

“Jackson says you write.” He dips a fry into the ketchup.

“He did?” Queasiness swirls in my stomach at the idea that Jackson is telling people about my writing.

“He says it’s a hobby of yours.”

And there it is, the reason for that churn in my belly. Hobby may be the kindest term my brothers used to describe my writing.

I clear my throat. “It’s not exactly a hobby. I’ve published three novels.”

“Really?” His head tilts. “Impressive. Jackson didn’t mention that. Who’s your publisher?”

“I am.”

After years of scribbled story ideas and starts/stops with manuscripts, I completed my first novel four years ago.

Instead of the traditional path of querying agents even to have a chance at a publisher, I took a different route.

Not waiting, I got a freelance editor and cover artist and did all the things to independently publish.

And honestly, that’s a big deal, all businessy and stuff.

“Did you self-publish because you couldn’t get an agent?”

“No.” I narrow my gaze. “I prefer to have control over my career.”

He nods. “And you make a living at it?”

“Not yet.”