Chapter Six
New Territory
Chase
Scarlett follows the bookstore clerk reluctantly, and I trail behind, enjoying the show. She’s clearly on edge, trying so hard not to let me get under her skin. It’s adorable, really.
“Here we are,” the clerk chirps, gesturing toward a shelf with a flourish.
It’s labeled Non-Fiction, filled with heavy, serious-looking titles—dark covers and blocky lettering.
Supposedly, this is where her books live.
It’s not surprising that she writes such serious material; her personality isn’t exactly warm and fuzzy.
The clerk searches, running a finger along the spines. “Huh.”
Scarlett’s eyes scan the display, her brows furrowing.
“Huh?” I echo, rocking back on my heels.
She frowns, shifting her stance and scanning higher, then lower. I fight the urge to smirk.
“Everything okay?” I ask, feigning innocence.
Scarlett shoots me a look that says she’d rather eat glass than admit whatever’s bothering her, but the tension rolling off her gives her away.
The clerk finally locates the book in question. “Oh, here it is!” she says brightly, crouching down and pulling it from the very bottom shelf, where it was buried between two thicker volumes.
I glance between Scarlett and the sad, dust-covered book. I don’t have to say a damn thing; her expression is already murderous.
She crosses her arms. “Wow. What a place of honor.”
I bite my lip to keep from laughing. “Tough break, Calloway.”
She ignores me, taking the book from the clerk and flipping through it, muttering under her breath about algorithm biases and mainstream book club pandering.
I lean casually against a nearby shelf, giving her a once-over.
I wasn’t wrong before—she is hot. I mean, she’s been hot since the second I laid eyes on her.
But today? With her sun-kissed skin and hair that looks like she just rolled out of bed in the best way possible?
It’s unfair, really. Cut-off jean shorts, tan sandals, and a white cotton sweater.
She looks like she belongs in Nantucket.
“You look like you got some sun, Calloway,” I remark casually.
She eyes me warily. “Yeah? And what does that mean, exactly?”
I tilt my head, studying her. “Just that the lake’s treating you well. A little sun-kissed glow. Healthy. Radiant.”
She rolls her eyes. “Flattery won’t work on me, Remington.”
I grin, slow and lazy. “Using my last name…which I never gave you. Someone looked me
up.” She turns six shades of red. Interesting.
“Well, in case you’re wondering, I did not come here for a tan. I came here to work.”
I lift a brow. “Sure. That’s why you’ve been frolicking around in the sun like you’re in a Nicholas Sparks movie.”
Scarlett glares. “I was reading on the deck.”
“Reading what exactly? A steamy romance? Taking notes?”
Her lips press together, and I can see the effort it takes her not to throw the book in her hands directly at my face.
“Not all of us spend our free time indulging in unrealistic fantasies, Remington.”
And since I lack self-control, I lean in just a fraction, dropping my voice. “Shame. Maybe you could use a good fantasy or two.”
Scarlett’s breath catches for just a second—a flicker of something—anger? Yep, definitely anger.
My mom’s words replay in my head—they’re mad at something else. You just happen to be in the line of fire.
“Oh! We just got a new shipment of the Stampede book club picks,” the clerk says cheerfully, oblivious to the storm brewing between us. “Want me to show you?”
I really had no idea she was still standing here.
Scarlett looks about ready to bolt, so obviously, I don’t give her the option.
“Actually, yeah,” I say, flashing the clerk a grin. “Maybe they’ve got a good enemies-to-lovers rec?”
Scarlett huffs a quiet noise of disbelief beside me. I hear it. I feel it.
“I figured you’d appreciate the genre,” I add, shooting her a knowing glance. “Since, you know, we’re living it.”
Her nails dig into her book. “We are not living anything.”
“Sure,” I say easily, grinning. “Tell yourself that.”
She sucks in a breath like she’s about to unleash hell on me, but then the clerk pipes up, holding a romance novel in each hand. “Ooh, we’ve got a few classics! Would you rather something with a slow burn or more of a forced proximity angle?”
Scarlett looks horrified. I swear I hear her soul trying to leave her body.
“I think we’re good,” she says quickly, shaking her head.
“Actually,” I interrupt, stepping over to the register, “I think I found what I came for.” I lift the dust-covered book in my hand and head for the checkout counter.
Scarlett blinks at it. Then at me. “You—”
“Buying your book?” I finish for her, flashing a grin. “Yeah.”
Her eyes narrow. “Why?”
I shrug, pulling out my wallet. “What can I say? It speaks to me.”
I finally glance down at the title.
How to Die Alone (and Love Every Second of It).
I grin. “Dark. I love it.”
Scarlett crosses her arms, her nostrils flaring, which, of course, makes me even more smug.
I whistle as I slide the book toward the clerk, grab a random bookmark, and run my black AmEx card through the card reader.
Then, without another word, I turn and stroll toward the door.
I don’t need to look back to know she’s still standing there, looking utterly aghast.