Chapter Five
My (Un)Happy Place
Scarlett
I stroll through the quaint town, past a coffee shop and a small café, my phone pressed to my ear, window shopping as I listen to Harper’s voice on the other end of the line.
“Well... how’s Michigan?” she asks.
“Fine so far. The house is great. There’s a hockey player living next door.”
A pause. “Is he famous?”
“I don’t know.”
“What’s his name?”
“Chase something,” I grumble, recalling the man who tried to steal my peanut butter swirl. “He plays for Dallas.”
“Please hold,” Harper says, and I hear her clicking on her keyboard. She’s practically attached to her laptop. “Oh, what do we have here?” She makes a breathy sound. “He just looks like a good time.”
I growl. “Can you not!?”
“Fine… how’s the writing going?” she asks, amusement lacing her tone.
I sigh, tilting my head back to soak in the sun. “Well, let’s see… I’ve successfully consumed an entire family-sized bag of pretzels, started and abandoned three different playlists for inspiration, and stared at a blinking cursor long enough to be declared legally insane.”
“So… not great?”
“Not great,” I confirm.
Harper hums, ever patient. “Scottie, it’s a process. The reclaiming of your creative self doesn’t happen overnight. You’re not a vending machine where you press a button and get a book. Give yourself time.”
I exhale, rubbing my temple. “I don’t have time, Harp. I have a deadline.”
“What you have,” she corrects, “is a brain that’s been running on empty. Give it a minute, girl. Sit in the sun. Put your toes in the water. Have a cocktail. The words will come.”
Maybe she’s right; it has only been three days.
I drag my gaze to the gentle waves rolling against the shore a few blocks away, the Lake Michigan breeze carrying the scent of fresh water and sand.
It is peaceful here. And it’s been… nice.
Mostly. Thankfully, I haven’t had any more run-ins with my irritating next-door neighbor.
I did see his cute dog yesterday morning napping on the deck.
“Maybe you’re right,” I admit, strolling past an old-fashioned candy shoppe I’ll definitely circle back to later. “I’ll work on the relaxing thing.”
“Good. And if that fails, try doing something that makes you not think about the book. Go for a walk. Read something fun. Flirt with a cute hockey player. Just be for a little while.”
“Harper, I can’t just—”
“Yes, you can,” she interrupts. “Trust me. Do something that reminds you why you love stories in the first place.”
I sigh, adjusting my bag over my shoulder. “Fine. But I gotta go. I’m in town running errands.”
“Just promise me you won’t stress yourself into an early grave, okay?”
“I make no promises.”
She snorts. “Have a cocktail, Calloway.”
I roll my eyes and hang up, slipping my phone into my pocket as I step inside the town’s small bookstore.
The place is straight out of a Hallmark movie—soft amber lighting, wooden shelves packed with books, a tiny café in the corner where a barista in a vintage apron is frothing milk for a latte.
The scent of coffee and paper surrounds me, and despite my best efforts, a small part of me does feel a little lighter stepping inside.
Harper’s words float through my head again.
Something that reminds you why you love stories in the first place.
I trail my fingers along the spines of the books on the nearest table, allowing myself to just be for a moment. I enjoy their colorful covers and vibrant designs…
And then I hear it.
A deep, familiar voice.
I freeze, my pulse kicking up.
No.
No, no, no.
I subtly step behind a nearby display of newly released paperbacks, peeking between the stacks.
And there he is.
All six foot three inches of Chase Remington. (Yes, I’d Googled him—apparently, he’s a pretty big deal if you’re into hockey, which I definitely am not.)
He’s in jeans and a T-shirt, looking obnoxiously relaxed as he scans the shelves like he has any business being in a bookstore.
What are the odds?
I press my back against the display and exhale sharply. I could be civilized; I could thank him for the oat milk, but I won’t. Because it should have been mine on principle.
I take a slow step backward, contemplating my escape. If I can just make it to the door—
“Scarlett.”
Crap.
I close my eyes, steeling myself before turning to face him. He’s leaning against a bookshelf, arms crossed, looking far too pleased with himself.
“You again?” I say, exasperated.
He lifts a brow. “You hiding from me?”
I scoff. “You wish.”
His mouth twitches like he’s holding back a smirk, but before he can respond, a flirty-looking store clerk approaches with a bright, eager smile.
“Can I help you two find anything?” she asks.
Gross. Her assumption that we’re here together is atrocious.
I open my mouth to say no, but Chase beats me to it.
“Actually, yeah.” He turns to her, all lazy charm. “Do you have a romance section?”
The clerk’s eyes light up. “Yes! We have an entire section, and we carry all the books from the Stampede’s romance book club!”
My stomach plummets.
Chase grins, his gaze sliding back to mine. “Cool, huh?”
I groan, fighting the urge to hurl a hardcover at his head. “You have got to be kidding me.”
During my Googling, I’d seen some nonsense about how the team was sponsoring a book club. As if the guys sit around in the locker room reading rom-coms. Gag me with a wooden spoon.
He smirks, clearly entertained by my distress. “What? I just figured I could grab myself a beach read, maybe see what all the hype is about.”
I narrow my eyes. “You don’t read romance.”
He gives me a pointed look; it’s a look that says he knows something I don’t, and I feel it deep inside my stomach. Weird. “How would you know?” he asks, amusement lacing his voice.
“Because.” I wave a hand at him. “You’re you.”
His smirk deepens. “Maybe I’m just looking for something empowering. You know, about how women don’t need men.”
My jaw locks. “You’re such a pain in the—”
“Right this way!” the clerk chirps, oblivious to the tension.
I sigh. This is not how I imagined my peaceful afternoon going.
A bookstore is supposed to be my territory, my happy place. He just managed to ruin that in about four seconds.
And yet, somehow, I find myself following Chase straight into the depths of my own personal hell.