The Book Club Boyfriend (Must Love Hockey #2)

Chapter One

The Escape Plan

Scarlett

There’s nothing more ironic than a woman who writes about how much better life is without a man… sitting alone on her couch, eating peanut butter straight from the jar, and spiraling.

Not that I’m spiraling.

I’m contemplating. Deeply. Existentially. Like one of those tortured, brooding artists who chain-smoke on their Parisian balconies and stare moodily at the rain—except I live in Dallas, it’s ninety-seven degrees outside, and my balcony overlooks an aggressively mediocre parking lot.

Also, I look like a dumpster raccoon.

My hair is in a half-fallen bun, I’m wearing a ratty old sweatshirt that says Love is Dead across the front (which, at the time of purchase, felt both on-brand and hilarious), and the only thing I’ve accomplished today is discovering that if you eat enough peanut butter, your jaw actually gets tired.

All of this would be fine—comical, even—if I had written a single damn word today.

But I haven’t.

Not yesterday, either. Or the day before that.

In fact, the last thing I wrote of substance was last year’s empowerment masterpiece, How to Die Alone (and Love Every Second of It), a bestselling manifesto on why women don’t need a soulmate to be happy.

That book had my signature tone—sharp, insightful, delightfully scathing.

It was everything my readers wanted from me. Everything my publisher wanted from me.

And now?

Now, I am failing to deliver.

I push the jar of peanut butter onto the coffee table with a frustrated sigh and stare at my laptop screen like it personally betrayed me. The cursor blinks. Taunting. Mocking.

There was a time when I could churn out chapters effortlessly, weaving together the kind of biting, liberating truth bombs that built my entire career.

It all started when, after a bad breakup, I wrote a blog post that went viral about the lie that is modern romance (If He Wanted to, He Would, But He Doesn’t, So Move On) and became a full-blown cultural phenomenon.

Three bestsellers. A TED Talk. Daytime talk show circuits.

Women in my DMs, thanking me for helping them walk away from toxic relationships.

I thrived on it.

Thought I was actually doing something good in the world.

But now?

I blow out a breath, glaring at the open document on my screen—working title: How to Want Nothing and Get Everything.

It was supposed to be my next big hit. The kind of book that reinforces my brand, secures another multi-six-figure deal, and further cements my reputation as the woman who doesn’t need a man, thank you very much.

Except… the words won’t come.

And I’m terrified to examine why that is.

I squeeze my eyes shut and shake the thought away because absolutely not. This is what burnout looks like. A minor blip in my creative genius.

I just need inspiration. A fresh setting. A change of scenery.

Which is exactly why I’m escaping to Michigan for the summer.

It was Harper’s idea—my best friend, my agent, and the only person who gets away with calling me out on my bullshit. She practically packed my bags for me, saying I needed to “unplug and get out of my own head” before I snapped and wrote something so unhinged it would permanently tank my brand.

So, I’m going.

To a quiet beach town.

Alone.

And if all goes according to plan?

I’ll come back recharged, re-inspired, and ready to write another iconic takedown of love and its false promises.

But first?

I’m going to wallow for at least another hour because even a self-sufficient, independent woman is allowed to have a dramatic moment before she figures her life out.

***

The second I step out of my car, the wind off the lake rushes over me—cool, crisp, and carrying the unmistakable scent of water and freshly cut grass.

The air tastes different here, cleaner somehow, with that mineral tang that only comes from the Great Lakes.

Beneath my feet, the gravel driveway crunches, still damp from morning dew.

In the distance, I can hear the rhythmic whoosh of waves against the shore, punctuated by the cries of gulls circling overhead.

The late afternoon sun filters through the massive oaks, creating dancing shadows that remind me of being thirteen again, watching this same light play across my mother’s face as she laughed on the porch.

I close my eyes, inhale deeply, and finally feel like I can breathe again.

This is exactly what I need.

A break. A reset. A summer of solitude in a charming beach town with a rental house that, based on the listing, is basically a Pinterest dream.

I open my eyes, and yeah—this place is glorious.

A charming white cottage, tucked between towering oak trees, with a wide front porch that practically demands you sit and drink coffee in an oversized sweater.

But the real selling point? The sprawling back deck that faces the lake, perched high enough to give a perfect view of the endless blue horizon.

It’s breathtaking.

I pop open my trunk and grab my suitcase and duffel, but before I can drag them up the porch steps, my phone buzzes.

I groan. I already know who it is before I check.

“Harper, I literally just got here,” I answer, tucking my phone between my ear and shoulder.

“And?” she demands, like she’s been holding her breath waiting for an update.

For the love…

I glance around, taking in the quiet, the stillness, the absolute peace of it all. “I hate to admit it, but… you were right. It’s perfect. Just like I remember.”

She makes a triumphant noise. “I told you. You need this, Scottie. You need to unplug, get out of your own way, and let this place heal you.”

I roll my eyes. “Okay, that’s dramatic.”

“I’m serious! You’ve been in a creative death spiral, and frankly, I’m terrified of what you’ll write if you don’t take a second to recalibrate. Like, I don’t know, a manifesto on why everyone should commit tax fraud instead of dating?”

“That’s not entirely off-brand for me.”

She groans. “Just relax, okay? Swim in the lake, read something for fun, do not go on a weird feminist rage spiral about love—”

“I don’t rage. I educate.”

“Scarlett.”

I sigh dramatically. “Fine. I’ll relax. Maybe even be one of those chill people who post scenic Instagram stories with captions like just vibes.”

“You are a writer. Maybe write something?”

“Hey, I have every intention of—”

“Not something angry.”

I scowl. “I don’t only write angry things.”

Harper hums like she doesn’t believe me, and okay, fair.

I’ve built an entire career on cynicism. But for the first time, I don’t know if I want to keep writing the same thing.

I shake the thought away.

“This place does feel… nostalgic,” I admit, kicking a rock by my foot. “The last time I was on this stretch of beach was the summer before my parents’ divorce.”

Harper softens. “You were happy there.”

I nod, throat a little tight. “Yeah. I was.”

There’s a pause, like she’s debating whether to push further, but Harper knows me well enough to let me sit with that thought.

“Well,” she finally says, “if anything can shake the creative cobwebs off, it’s that lake air. I fully expect you to be barefoot and having a spiritual breakthrough by week’s end.”

I snort. “I’ll settle for just getting one decent chapter down.”

“And no men. No distractions. You promised me a summer of self-care.”

I scoff. “Trust me, I’m not about to start craving male attention out of nowhere. I’ll be in full-on hermit mode.”

Harper makes a satisfied noise. “Good. Call me if you need anything. And if you don’t send me at least one sunset picture in the next twenty-four hours, I’ll assume you’ve been kidnapped and murdered and call the authorities.”

I smirk. The sunsets over the lake are glorious. “Understood.”

I hang up, shaking my head as I shove my phone in my pocket.

No distractions. No men. No drama.

Just me, my laptop, and the perfect setting to write my next bestseller.

What could possibly go wrong?