Chapter Thirty-Eight
Author By Day, Hot Mess By Night
Scarlett
The bar is loud, full, and very, very into me right now, which is weird.
I’m not great at being the center of attention, and I doubt I ever will be.
The moment I walk in, Harper shoves a cocktail into my hand and yells, “She wrote a BOOK!” to the entire room, as if she’s announcing a baby’s gender.
Chase’s teammates are gathered at the back booth, all towering, loud, and already halfway tipsy. Bennett waves at me with both arms like he’s guiding a plane. Lucy is beside him, sipping something pink with a sugared rim, looking unbothered by the chaos.
“Scottie!” Harper shouts, dragging me toward the bar as if I’m not wearing heels and four hours of emotional vulnerability. “You did it! You made me cry! And you didn’t even kill anyone in this one!”
“High praise,” I say, grinning.
She turns to the bartender. “Two tequila shots, author’s tab!”
“Wait—” I start to protest.
“Nope,” she says. “You published a book and emotionally ruined me. This is happening.”
The bartender sets down two shot glasses, and for once, I don’t argue with Harper.
I put her through a lot while writing this book.
My publisher canceled my contract when I switched genres, but Harper fought for me.
She found a new home for my book and negotiated an even better deal.
We’ve been through hell together and come out on the other side. It’s worth celebrating.
The tequila burns, but in a warm, victorious way.
I navigate through the bar, dodging congratulations and compliments. Chase appears behind me like a warm shadow, slipping an arm around my waist.
“You surviving your own party?” he murmurs, his lips brushing my temple.
“Barely. If one more person asks if the male lead is based on a real person, I might launch myself into traffic.”
He grins. “Is he?”
I shoot him a look. “You wish, Remington.”
We settle into the corner booth with his teammates, who are trying to outdo each other with dramatic readings of my book. Tyler has one hand on his chest, reciting a steamy scene like it’s Shakespeare. Will is fake-swooning. Bennett is crying into a pint of beer.
“Can we not?” I mutter, burying my face in Chase’s shoulder.
“I tried to stop them,” he says, not even pretending to sound sincere.
Harper slides in beside me, stealing a fry off someone’s plate. “They’re idiots. But hot idiots. You should put them in your next book.”
I sip my drink. “Oh, I’m already mentally killing them off in book two.”
She grins. “There she is.”
Somewhere between round three of drinks and Chase feeding me a mozzarella stick like I’m royalty, I realize something strange.
I feel… okay.
Happy, even.
It’s loud and chaotic, and I’m being lovingly harassed by athletes with zero boundaries, but I feel good. Like I earned this. Like I deserve to be celebrated.
Chase catches me looking at him.
“What?” he asks.
I shake my head, smiling. “Nothing.”
But what I really mean is: Everything.
By the time we leave the bar, I’m buzzed on tequila, compliments, and the terrifying realization that I might be happy.
Chase wraps an arm around my shoulders as we walk toward his car, the night warm and quiet around us. My heels dangle from my fingers because my feet gave up two hours ago.
I yawn as he drives us home, tired but content.
He unlocks the door, and before I can step inside, a familiar thump-thump-thump of paws barrels down the hallway.
“Rip!” I drop my shoes and immediately crouch, greeted by the world’s most dramatic dog, tail wagging as if he’s been personally wronged by my absence. “Hi, baby,” I say, scratching behind his ears. “Did you miss me? Did Dad tell you I published my book?”
Rip whines and licks my cheek, proud yet slightly offended he wasn’t invited to the launch party.
I laugh, standing slowly, and Rip follows me like a shadow as I drift toward the living room. Chase disappears into the kitchen to grab us water, and I flop onto the couch, feeling the weight of the night settle over me—but in a good way. In a I-did-the-thing-and-the-world-didn’t-end way.
He returns a minute later, hands me a glass, then slides in next to me, close enough that our legs press together.
“I’m proud of you,” he says quietly.
I look over at him. “I know.”
He huffs a laugh. “You’re supposed to say ‘thank you.’”
“Yeah, well. I’m still recovering from watching your friends do dramatic readings of my sex scenes.”
He groans. “I will never be able to look Tyler in the eye again.”
“Good. That makes two of us.”
I take a sip of water and glance down at Rip, curled up at our feet like he knows this is a big moment and he’s not about to ruin it.
Then I feel Chase’s hand brush mine again. Not urgent. Not needy. Just there.
“I love you.”
My heart skips.
He says it like it’s not some grand declaration. Like it’s the most obvious truth in the world.
“I know,” I say, biting back a smile.
I lean in and kiss him—slow, soft, and grateful. His hands find my waist, grounding me.
“I love you too,” I whisper.
Rip lets out a sigh from the floor.
I glance down. “Yeah, yeah. You were right all along.”
Chase grins. “He totally called it.”
We stay like that for a while—pressed together on the couch, our dog-shaped third wheel asleep at our feet, everything finally still.
And for the first time in forever, the ending doesn’t scare me.
Because this?
This feels like a beginning.