15. Nessa

Nessa

“ W hat about that scene where he bends her over his motorcycle and fucks her from behind?”

“That was good, but I preferred when he ate her out in her childhood bedroom.”

“Cue the swooning now.”

I loved romance readers. I loved the way they talked about fictional characters as if they were lifelong friends and how they ate up the same tropes time and time again, not despite the genre’s predictability, but rather because of it. There was a certain ease that came with knowing that no matter who the book was about or what era it took place in, the main couple—or sometimes throuple—was entitled to a happily ever after.

Most importantly, I loved the conversations that romance novels inspired amongst their faithful fanbase. Especially when it came to conversations about sex.

“Personally, I was hoping for a little more . . . umph .” Mel and her girlfriend were both regulars at Smutty Buddies. In fact, this month’s book club pick, a motorcycle romance called Rode Hard and Put Away Wet, had been her suggestion. “Like, there wasn’t even a blow job scene.”

I lifted a brow. “As I recall, this was your pick, Mel.”

“That’s probably why I’m so disappointed.” She stuffed another prospect pizza bite into her mouth. “BookTok duped me again.”

Thankfully, my regular batch of book club attendees were just as obsessed with a festive party theme as I was. Everyone was encouraged to bring a small, shareable dish inspired by our monthly pick, and this month, which included prospect pizza bites, mini club sandwiches, and biker cuts . . . of meat. I had also prepared three pitchers of Old Ladies, a delicious blend of pomegranate juice, seltzer, and shit ton of gin.

If you considered just how quickly tonight’s group had gone through the drinks, it was actually impressive that they’d waited this long to discuss blow jobs—or lack thereof.

“Did anybody else notice the Chekhov's dildo?”

A few heads swiveled in my direction.

“I’m sorry,” Mel said. “ Chekhov’s dildo ?”

Janet, who was a book club novice—and old enough to be my mother—nodded her head. “Yes, do tell.”

I glanced at the clock. It was getting late. We were already two hours into our discussion. Did they really want to talk about sex toys and Russian playwrights?

“I’m curious myself.”

My heart leapt at the familiar, deep-timbred voice. Like Moses parting the Red Sea, the crowd of mostly middle-aged soccer moms parted down the center, revealing none other than Jared Pink.

Excited gasps and titters filtered through the room. It didn’t matter if they were baseball fans or not. Jared had a chokehold on girls, gays, and theys everywhere.

“We said Friday night,” I said through a phony smile.

In fact, I specifically remembered mentioning that I was unavailable this evening due to a work event.

“Yes, but if I had waited until then, I would have missed the riveting lecture on Chekhov’s dildo.” He crossed his ankle over his knee. “Please, go on.”

“Fine.” I turned my attention back to the group. “I’m sure most of you are familiar with the concept of Chekhov’s gun. The idea that if a writer includes a gun in a story, it should be used later in the plot.”

Several of them nodded, so I continued.

“Well, like Chekhov, I believe that sex toys should only be introduced in romance novels if the author plans to incorporate them into the story. Hence the name—”

“Chekhov’s dildo,” Jared finished. “A noble theory indeed.”

“Agreed,” Mel added.

“Me, too.”

“Great point, Nessa.”

The praise continued until each of our seventeen book club attendees—including Sandra, who until now, hadn’t said a word all night—added something. After that, it took another twenty minutes to wrap our meeting—mostly because everyone was more focused on Jared—and select October’s book pick, which just so happened to be a small-town baseball romance.

Imagine that.

He waited until I locked the front door behind the last book clubber before asking, “Do you have next month’s book already in stock, or should I order it online?”

I must have misheard him. Xan didn’t work on Fridays, so it had been a long and lonely day in the store by myself.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“ Hitters are for Quitters. I can get it online later if you’ve already closed the register for the day.”

I narrowed my gaze. “You want to read the October book club pick?”

“Yeah.”

“A queer baseball romance novel?”

His carefree smile slipped back into place. “Sounds right up my alley.”

After a nine-hour day on my feet, I didn’t have the energy to argue with him beyond that. Instead, I blew out my breath and shrugged. “You know what? Sure. I’ll grab a copy for you.”

I had just opened the box of books today, so I knew exactly where they were in our baseball romance display. Ever since the Roasters had moved into town, my baseball book sales had nearly tripled. Xan even convinced me to create a Roasters-inspired table display.

“Is that me?”

I didn’t need to ask to know that he was referencing the miniature cutout of him on the Roasters Romance table. Each of the players had one sprinkled amongst the books there.

“It is.”

“Damn.” He paused before clarifying, “That’s cool.”

“I’m glad you like it.”

I handed him the book and walked him back to the register.

“Oh, yeah!” When I looked back up, he was pointing down at the book in his hand. “I knew I recognized her name. She wrote the blurb for July’s book club pick.”

My mouth opened, but nothing came out. Instead, I quickly raced to the erotica section of the store to find July’s read, a forbidden romance between a college professor and his student. I snagged a copy from the shelves, rolled it over in my hands, and—

“How the hell did you know that?”

“Because I read it,” he said all matter-of-fact. “I liked that one a lot. Especially when it came to her relationship with his ex. I appreciated the way the author didn’t demonize her. That happens too often—in books and in life.”

Who was this man?

A goddamn unicorn, that’s who.

He had been inside the store before—months ago, long before our arrangement—but as far as I knew, it had only been that one time. I hadn’t taken him seriously then.

Just as I hadn’t taken him seriously since.

Fuck. What have I done?

“What about the June book?”

He strummed a finger against his cheek. “The rockstar romance. It was good, but not great.”

“And May?”

“Was that the ménage?” I nodded. “That’s probably my favorite so far. In fact, I went back and read the rest of the series.”

“There’s a new one out next month.”

His cheeks pinkened. “I know. I, uh, already preordered it.”

I sucked in a breath and blinked rapidly. The answer was staring me right in the face, no matter how much I didn’t want to believe it.

I’d broken the cardinal rule—of love and literature—and judged a book by its cover.

Jared’s loveable goof fa?ade wasn’t a fa?ade at all. This man had shown me exactly who he was since the night we’d met—a dedicated athlete who adored his friends, put together one hell of a potato board, did what he could to turn even the sourest of pusses’ frowns upside down, and read romance novels for fun.

And I had goaded him into pretending he was my boyfriend.

Asshole, party of one.

“I— I’m sorry.”

He wrinkled his brow. “What?”

My hand slipped down to cover my stomach and keep the butterflies fluttering inside of it at bay. “I owe you an apology.”

“I don’t think—”

“I do.”

He opened his mouth as if to say something but stopped, allowing me to continue. “I misjudged you. All this time, I thought you were just another loud-mouthed, arrogant jock. I, um, kind of have a bad history with those.”

Understanding dawned across his face. “Ryan?”

I shrugged. “Amongst others. It never really all clicked together until just now, though.” Two weeks as Jared Pink’s pretend girlfriend had done more for me than two years in therapy. “I’m sorry for using you.”

“We’re cool.” He wet his lips. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“This whole ‘fake dating’ thing. Is it just to get back at him in some way or make him jealous—”

“No.” His eyes widened at my abrupt response. “It’s not really about him at all.”

“Who’s it about then?”

There was no way to say it without looking like a selfish asshole. Not if I wanted to be completely honest with him—and myself. I thought I owed us both that.

“Me.” I had to look away from him. I was too embarrassed, and he was being too understanding, which only made me feel worse. “It’s probably going to sound super immature—which is ironic because I assumed that out of the two of us, you were the immature one—but I think I freaked out when Kaylani showed up with Ryan. Not because it was Ryan, although that definitely didn’t help, but because it meant another one of my friends had found their person and I hadn’t. It’s hard being ‘the single friend’ after a while, you know?”

I snuck a peek through my lashes, mostly to make sure he was still there. That I wasn’t speaking into the void.

Not only was he there, but he was also listening. A captivated audience hanging on my every word.

“I get it.”

“You do?”

“Yeah, it’s—” The crack in his voice was like a punch to the gut. It was clear that I wasn’t the only one of us with some unprocessed hurt. “Sometimes it’s easier to play a role than be yourself.”

“Exactly.”

I squirmed beneath his penetrating gaze. His pupils dilated to pools of black, dragging me deeper into the unknown. Where did we go from here?

“Your dracaena is getting too much light.”

I reeled back. “My what?”

He pointed toward the large potted plant beside the front window. The one that had started dying the second I’d brought it into the shop. “ Dracaena Giganta.”

The words effortlessly rolled off his tongue, sending a burst of tingles directly toward my pussy.

That was a first. Did I have a Latin fetish?

“They’re fairly low maintenance, but they prefer indirect sunlight.”

“Did they tell you that?” I teased, grateful for the lighter subject.

“They didn’t need to.” He pulled his wallet out of his pants pocket and tossed it on the counter. “I read it in a book.”

I finished checking him out after that. While I processed his order and bagged up his book, he rattled off plant facts like they were days of the week. Playing professional baseball and reading romance weren’t enough—from the sound of it, the guy was an expert gardener, too.

As soon as his transaction was finished, he plopped a gift bag that I hadn’t realized he’d come in with on the counter between us.

“What’s that?” I asked, pointing to the bag.

“Your teapot.”

“I told you I didn’t need another teapot.”

“And I told you I was buying it anyway.” He nudged the bag closer to my side of the counter. “C’mon, Nessa, you should know by now that I usually get what I want.”

We shared a smile. It didn’t escape my notice that for the first time in a long time, he had actually used my name.

“You know, you don’t need to be my fake boyfriend anymore if you don’t want to.”

“Who said I didn’t want to?” he asked, a challenge in his eyes.

“I just meant— I can come clean about the whole stupid idea.”

“Hey, I resent that. It was my idea to keep it going.” I caught my breath when he placed his palms on the counter and leaned forward. “Has it ever crossed your mind that maybe I just like spending time with you?”

I faltered under his transfixing stare. Pink had made no secret of his attraction to me, but until tonight, I hadn’t considered it might be more than that. What could a twentysomething baseball player with movie-star good looks—and a dick that apparently rivaled a porn star’s—want with me?

He had his entire career, his entire life ahead of him. Rose City was all I had ever known.

Rather than wait for an answer he was never going to get, he pocketed his wallet and backed away toward the door.

“Face it, angel. You’re stuck with me for the next three weeks. And during that time, I’m going to woo you like you’ve never been wooed before.”

That was what I was afraid of.

Now that I knew Pink was as genuine as he claimed to be—not to mention, a certified romance reader and plant daddy to boot—I couldn’t shake this nagging feeling that once our ruse was up, I might not want to let him go.