Chapter Nine
Ambushed
Scarlett
I wake up to golden morning light streaming through the bedroom window and the distant sound of waves lapping against the shore. For a few blissful moments, I lie there, warm beneath the covers, stretching lazily and letting my mind drift.
Then the memories hit.
The bonfire. The drinks. Chase.
I groan and drag a pillow over my face. Why did I have to notice him last night? The way his voice roughened when he teased me. The way his smirk made my pulse do stupid things. The way his stupidly golden skin glowed in the firelight.
I blame the alcohol.
Except I’m not hungover. Not even a headache. Meaning I can’t even excuse the fluttering feeling in my stomach as the result of one too many hard seltzers. The memory of him drinking me in like I was the most interesting thing at the fire pit settles somewhere deep.
I exhale sharply and shove the covers off. This is fine. I am fine.
Chase is an overconfident hockey player with a face carved by the gods and an ego twice the size of Lake Michigan. I don’t even like him. We are not friends. I’m just momentarily experiencing a lapse in judgment due to prolonged exposure. Nothing a little distance can’t fix.
I throw on some clothes and shuffle out of my room, desperate for coffee. But the second I step into the kitchen, I hear it.
Click-clack. Click-clack. Click-clack.
Harper’s fingers fly across the keyboard at warp speed, her phone wedged between her ear and her shoulder.
“Mmhm… right, but what if we lean into the controversy?” she says, pausing just long enough to grab her coffee mug and take a sip. “Exactly. Make it an event, something people can’t resist clicking on.”
I pause in the doorway, frowning. “What are you doing?”
Harper jerks upright as if she forgot I existed, spins to face me, and grins. “Oh, you’re up! I have the BEST idea.”
I narrow my eyes, but she ends her call and launches into a full-on TED Talk.
“Okay, so you know how you’ve been struggling with your book? And how you may or may not have gone viral for that, uh… super spicy take on romance novels last month?”
I groan. “Harper—”
“No, listen!” She waves me over like an excited toddler who’s just built a LEGO masterpiece. “I was talking to a few PR people I know, and we’ve got a genius plan that will solve all your problems.”
“Uh-huh.” I grab my coffee, take a long, slow sip, and brace myself. “Do I want to know?”
“Oh, absolutely. You’re going to co-host a romance book club.”
I nearly spit my coffee. “I’m sorry, WHAT?”
Harper grins, hands in the air like ta-da!
I gape at her. “You’re joking.”
“Nope.” She types something into her laptop, then spins it around so I can see an email chain titled Re: The PR Stunt of the Century.
My stomach drops.
“Harper. What the hell is this?”
She plucks the laptop away before I can slam it shut. “It’s genius, that’s what. Your publisher loves the idea, Stampede PR loves the idea, and—”
I hold up a hand. “Pause. You’re telling me the Dallas Stampede—a hockey team—wants me, a woman who has loudly and publicly waged war on romance, to co-host their romance book club?”
Harper beams. “Yep.”
Kill me. Just kill me now.
I rub my temples. “For the love of everything holy, why?”
She sighs dramatically. “Because, babe, people eat this stuff up. You and Chase? You’re like the human embodiment of enemies to lovers. Your entire brand is ‘I don’t believe in love,’ and his brand is literally ‘I will flirt with anything that moves.’”
I shake my head, unable to process this level of insanity. Especially before coffee. “This is the worst idea I’ve ever heard.”
Harper ignores me. “You’re trending. People are arguing about whether you’re a romance-hating cynic or just haven’t met the right guy yet.” She wiggles her eyebrows. “And then there’s Chase.”
I tighten my grip on my coffee mug. “What about him?”
She shrugs, way too casual. “Oh, nothing. Just that he’s about to take over as the new face of the book club, and the internet is already shipping you two into oblivion.”
I choke. “WHAT?”
Harper grins. “Hashtag #QuinnWilder walked. #ScottieRemington is about to run.”
“No.” I point an accusing finger at her. “No. Absolutely not.”
“Too late,” she sings. “The deal’s done. It’s all happening.”
I slam my coffee down. “And what if I refuse?”
Harper lifts a brow. “Then your publisher will ‘strongly suggest’ you reconsider your stance on publicity efforts.”
I stare at her, speechless.
She grins. “You’re in, babe.”
I want to scream.
Instead, I close my eyes, inhale deeply, and mentally start drafting my resignation letter from life.