Page 43 of Booked on You
I read it twice.
I don’t know what I thought I’d find when I searched her. Maybe something that would explain why she was here. But the deeper I go down the rabbit hole, the more I realize she’s sharing the rawest form of herself with me. I don’t care about the million followers she has on social media or the accolades she’s collected over the years.
The real her is the one who wrecks me.
The version of her without the fame and fortune.
I take a seat at the kitchen table and find a few forums where her last book is discussed in detail, along with speculation about her current love life.
Scarlett has sworn off men. Doubt she’ll ever give anyone a chance again. It’s sad because I feel like she could date anyone she wants. She has a huge heart.
Even Scarlett’s love life is up for debate. I read a paragraph about how her last book was supposed to save her relationship, but it only destroyed it. There are pictures of Scarlett on the streets of New York with red-rimmed eyes, like she’d been crying. I think about the conversations we’ve had and how she’s told me she ruins men’s lives.
Is this why?
I click out of that and move on to reviews, and I recognize the cover of one. A few years ago, people were lined up at Charleston Books & Brews to grab a copy. Somehow, I didn’t connect the two.TheScarlett-fucking-Collins, the voice of modern romance, is staying in my cottage.
I set the phone down, like it’s shown me too much.
Why didn’t I just let it be? I had to act like a teenager with a crush and a high-speed connection.
This speculated version of Scarlett, I don’t care about.
I want to know how her story reads when she’s the one writing it.
I’m halfway to the front door before I even realize I’ve grabbed my keys.
It’s a compulsion now, a restless pull I can’t seem to shake. I tell myself I need a drive, a change of scenery, something to cut through the weight pressing behind my ribs.
The bookstore is a ten-minute drive away, and that’s where I go.
Charleston Books & Brews sits beside a bagel shop and a cinnamon roll bakery that always smells like the dark brown spice, no matter the time of day. When I step inside, the bell over the door rings.
A young woman looks up from behind the counter, a stack of books in her hands. She has to be in her early twenties, with a short black bob and glasses too big for her face, in a way that screams hipster. The name tag pinned on her shirt says “Bailey.”
“Hey there,” she greets me with a smile. “Can I help you find something?”
I clear my throat, trying not to sound like someone who’s just cyberstalked the author who’s staying at my place. “Yeah. Do you have any Scarlett Collins?”
Her face lights up. “Oh! We sure do. Come with me.”
I follow her across the store. She talks to me over her shoulder as she leads me to the romance section. “Why are you reading Scarlett Collins? Trying to impress a lady?”
I furrow my brows. “Excuse me?”
“For pointers,” she says. “Her books are an instruction manual for men. She writes the dreamiest heroes.”
“Really?” I ask, now finding Scarlett’s comments about me being the main character a huge compliment.
“Oh, yeah.”
“Men read romance, you know,” I explain.
She snorts. “Yeah, you’re right. But many do it to impress a woman or go viral. They usually don’t give a shit about the genre or respect it.”
“Noted,” I say.
At the top of a shelf, there are several copies of Scarlett’s last book. I reach for it, pulling it down. I hold the thickness tight in my grasp and smile when I see Scarlett’s name across the bottom in crisp white font. Bailey gives a hum of approval. “She’s amazing. An auto-buy author for me. We’re all impatiently waiting for her big comeback. It’s going to be epic. I can feel it.”
