Chapter Eighteen Not That Easy
Chapter Eighteen
Not That Easy
Scarlett
My laptop is mocking me. I know I should be working, but I can’t bring myself to do it right now.
With a frustrated groan, I minimize the document and lean back in my desk chair. Outside, the Dallas skyline glows faintly through the windows, and my apartment is obnoxiously quiet, which I normally love. But tonight? It feels suffocating.
I should be cranking out words. I have a deadline. I have a contract. I have a platform that’s waiting for my next groundbreaking declaration about female independence and why romantic love is a scam perpetuated by Hallmark and Big Chocolate.
But all I can think about is Chase freaking Remington.
And tacos. And tequila. And the fact that for a guy who annoys the ever-loving hell out of me, he was annoyingly... kind last night. Not to mention stupidly attractive in that dress shirt with his sleeves rolled up, showing forearms doing things I don’t want to discuss.
Ugh.
I toss my phone onto the couch across from me to avoid the temptation to text him.
It buzzes.
I stare at it.
It buzzes again.
Okay, rude. I cross the room and snatch it up, trying not to feel the ridiculous flutter in my chest when I see his name.
Chase: So when does the anti-romance merch line drop? I want a hoodie that says “Romance Novels Have Never Helped Anyone” on the back.
I blink. Then laugh. Then groan because—of course—he’s still thinking about that. And of course he couldn’t just be a gentleman and let me forget my atrocious hot take.
Me: Limited edition. Comes with a mug that says “Love is for suckers.”
Chase: Amazing. I can’t wait to wear the full set to my next press conference.
Me: Please do. Really lean into your villain era. You never know—it could do wonders for your career.
There’s a pause, and I can almost picture him smirking, thumbs hovering above his phone.
Chase: Appreciate the career tip lol.
Me: How does it feel to be the internet’s boyfriend right now?
Chase: Is that what’s happening?
I send an emoji of a person shrugging.
Chase: Real talk. You were good last night. Brave. Just wanted to say that.
I stare at the screen.
That’s… unexpected.
And worse? It makes something twist in my stomach. Something warm. Something terrifying.
Me: You’re not making fun of me?
Chase: Not this time. You held your own. Also, I think that lady wanted to be your best friend.
I bite back a smile.
Me: I was kind of a disaster.
Chase: You were honest. People like that. I liked it.
Why does he keep doing this?
I should leave it there. Shouldn’t reply. Should definitely not indulge this fluttery, stupid feeling in my chest.
But then my thumbs move like they have a mind of their own.
Me: Thanks. For the tacos, too. (And the margarita the size of my head.)
Chase: Anytime, Calloway. Just say the word and I’ll bring a barbacoa burrito to your doorstep.
Somehow, I think he really would. He’d be that kind of boyfriend. A complete golden retriever. A total cinnamon roll… at least in the beginning, cutesy stage. Before the inevitable heartbreak, death, and destruction stage.
Still, I can’t help but lean into this a little.
Me: Tempting. You bribing me with food now?
Chase: Would it work?
Yes.
No.
Maybe.
Ugh.
Me: Not a chance.
I toss my phone onto the cushion again and fold my arms, as if that will somehow shut down the heat crawling up my neck.
This is fine. Just casual banter. Post-event debriefing. Nothing to see here.
Nothing at all.
Except the tiniest, most inconvenient thought forming in the back of my mind—
I don’t hate talking to him.
And that’s probably the most dangerous thing of all.
***
The little bell above the nail salon door jingles as we step inside, and I’m immediately hit with the scent of lavender, nail polish, and judgment. It’s the kind of place with plush pink chairs, cucumber water in glass dispensers, and calming spa music that makes me want to scream.
Harper inhales like she’s just arrived in heaven. “Ah. The sacred temple of self-care.”
I snort. “It’s a pedicure, not a pilgrimage.”
She shoves me gently toward the counter. “You’re getting the deluxe scrub and the hot stone massage. You need it.”
“What I need is a miracle,” I mutter under my breath.
We’re seated a few minutes later, our feet soaking in warm water, the world blissfully quiet except for the occasional chime of an unsilenced cell phone and the faint sound of Enya in the background.
“You’ve been quiet,” Harper says, eyeing me over the rim of her glass. She’s already half-done with her mimosa.
I stare at the bubbles in my foot bath. “I don’t know if I can do this.”
She blinks. “The pedicure?”
“The book.”
Harper sets her glass down, serious now. “Talk to me.”
I sigh, dragging a hand through my hair. “It’s not coming. I keep trying to write the book I think people expect from me—strong, independent, anti-love—but it feels… hollow. Like I’m just recycling old arguments. Nothing feels honest.”
She frowns. “You’re putting way too much pressure on yourself.”
“I’m under contract. I don’t get to take my sweet time and find inspiration while I twirl around in a meadow somewhere. I need words. Now.”
Plus, quite frankly, I tried that already. That was the whole idea with the Michigan beach town. It didn’t work. If anything, it only confused me further… meeting Chase.
Harper leans back, thoughtful. “What if you stopped trying to write the book they expect from you?”
I glance over. “And do what instead?”
“Write the book you need to write.” She shrugs. “Screw the brand. Screw the critics. What do you want to say?”
I open my mouth to answer—and promptly shut it.
Because I have no idea.
That’s the most terrifying part.
She studies me for a second, then smirks, just a little. “Also, not to add fuel to the existential crisis, but if you end up falling for the hot hockey player you claim to hate, I’m never letting you live it down.”
I narrow my eyes. “That’s not happening.”
“We’ll see,” she says breezily, lifting her mimosa again. “Might make a good plot twist, though.”
“Can you be for real right now? I’m having a crisis, Harp. And you want to taunt me?”
She leans closer, eyes locked on mine. “I think you’ve got this,” she says, voice softer now. “You’re brilliant, Scottie. Even if you can’t see it right now.”
I don’t reply. Just lean back and close my eyes.
Later that night, I’m sitting on my couch in pajamas, laptop balanced on my knees, staring at a blinking cursor and resisting the urge to throw it across the room when my phone rings.
Harper.
I answer on the second ring. “Please tell me you don’t already regret that glitter polish.”
“You were right,” she says, no greeting.
“Wait, what?”
“About the book. About how you feel stuck. I’ve been thinking about it all afternoon, and I was wrong to push. I gave you bad advice. You don’t need to force yourself to fit into anyone’s expectations.”
I blink. “Are you okay? Is this some sort of early apology for when you inevitably get arrested for trespassing again?”
She laughs. “Shut up. I’m serious. You’re the author. You get to tell the story you want to tell. Full stop. Just trust yourself, okay?”
I exhale slowly, the knot in my chest loosening just a fraction. “I wish it were that easy.”
“I know,” she says. “But maybe start there. Just write what’s real. Screw everything else.”
I don’t answer right away.
Because maybe—just maybe—she’s right.
There’s a long pause, and then Harper continues. “And… maybe your problem isn’t the book. Maybe it’s the fact that a certain hockey player has taken up permanent real estate in that grumpy little brain of yours.”
“I’m sorry—what?” I all but sputter.
“I’ve seen the way you talk about him,” she singsongs. “All that protesting and eye-rolling? Classic denial.”
“You’re insane.”
“I’m just observant. And honestly, if you did fall for him, I’d never let you live it down.”
I narrow my eyes. “Is that a bet?”
She laughs. “More like a prophecy. But sure. Let’s call it a bet. I say by the end of this book club fiasco, you’re going to catch real feelings for Chase Remington.”
I snort. “You’re delusional.”
“Prove me wrong, Calloway. That man could charm the stripes off a zebra.”
“I’m not a zebra,” I point out. “I’m a cactus. Uncharmable.”
She rolls her eyes. “You’re insufferable is what you are.”