“Did I tell you I’ve read all of her books?” she says, and I turn to her, impressed.
“That’s a lot of pages for an author you just discovered.”
She raises one shoulder with a slight grin, shyly covering her face. “What can I say? I went on a binge. It’s not every day your brother dates a romance writer. I thought it was cool, having actually met her.”
“What did you think of the books?”
“I loved them. She’s really talented. I noticed her books have different themes, but they follow the same formula. The couple meets and gets together, and then some outside drama keeps them apart. They have to fight to get back together, and the end. Yes, they’re all super romantic, and the way she writes love makes you believe you’ll find it someday.”
“I feel a but coming on.”
“But”—she smiles—“there’s always someone who doesn’t believe in love fighting against the couple. Whether it’s a meddling mom or boyfriends who left the heroine scarred for life or even a father who deserted her … the conflict always revolves around the heroine saying true love doesn’t exist.”
When our eyes meet, I know she’s thinking the same thing I am. Lacey writes about herself. She’s the one who’s fighting against the notion. It’s like her books are her own therapy. I know, deep down, she wants it because every couple gets their happy ending, yet she’s not living her own. I hate that she’s onto something.
“She wrote a book about me. About us. Every single fucking detail.”
“Every detail?” she asks slowly.
“Every. Single. One. I should be flattered. Hell, I kind of am.” I turn back to face the stars. “I wanted to be her muse until I read it and saw me there. Do you think all of her heroes are old boyfriends she uses to create romance?”
She shrugs. “I don’t think so or else she’d have an epic dating life that I’d envy. It seems to me, she inserts herself into her worlds, and she might not even realize she’s doing it half the time.”
“She knew she was doing it with us. She even gave us a happily ever after.”
Penelope laughs lightly. “What was it?”
“She had us breakup—like she knew that was the next stage in our relationship—then we get back together in this big, romantic scene where I grovel for her love at the museum where I took her on our first non-date.”
“I like that ending. Does it work for you? Do you want to beg for her forgiveness?”
I run my hand through my hair. “I have nothing to apologize for.”
“Do you still want her?”
The question is simple and so damn complicated.
“I do, but I want someone who isn’t afraid of love. A woman who is willing to put me first, and I don’t care how cocky that sounds.”
“May I make a suggestion?” Before I even answer, she reaches for her phone, types something in, and then hits Send.
My phone dings with an incoming email. I open it up to see Penelope just sent me a book of Lacey’s through Amazon, one I hadn’t read yet.
“Start with this one. It’s her first book. Learn more about what’s inside her head. Then, maybe you’ll understand why she ticks the way she does.”
“So, I read and then what? I already know why she is the way she is. She’s been burned in the past, which is why she can’t open up in the present.”
She pats my leg as she stands up. “I was really glad you brought her home. Seeing you two together gave me hope for myself. Just don’t give up on her, okay? If her books are anything like her real life, she’s been let down a lot when it comes to love.”
I nod. Penelope’s the second person to say that to me about Lacey, the first being her friend Charisse when she told me to read the book, though I’m not sure if it’s already too late.
She kisses me goodnight and heads inside. I finish my drink and stare at the dark night as I hold up my phone.
“Fuck it,” I say and open the Kindle app.
Looks like I have some reading to do.
Chapter Twenty-Three
LACEY
“I feel like shit,” Charisse says over the phone as I tell her for the tenth time that it’s not her fault.
“Stop apologizing. You’re an adorable meddler. It’s in your nature.”
It makes me laugh a little that I’m the one who is calming her down. But that’s why she’s my best friend. When Charisse gets something in her head, she acts on it. This time, it was my love life and her need to fix me.
“I know how you get, and when you told me you were freaking out about the relationship, I heard it in your voice—you were going to bail,” she says, stinging me a little.
“Actually, I wasn’t. Doesn’t matter though. Turns out, me not seeing ourselves twenty years from now was a deal-breaker.”
She groans, annoyed. “But you love him.”
With my hand on my chest, I steady myself and take a breath. “I care for him deeply.”
I don’t know why I can’t just admit that I’ve fallen for Jake in more ways than just caring for him. The fact that I can’t breathe without thinking about what he must be doing right now shows I’m more attached to him than I thought.
Do I love Jake Moreau?
Yes, I fucking love him so much, it hurts.
I just don’t know how to dig my way out of this hole of self-pity.
I haven’t seen him in a week, yet it feels like a year. I went so long without him in my life, and now that he’s gone, I miss him like crazy. I’d try telling him that, but then what? He’s too nice of a guy. He’d come over and want to talk. He’d wind up understanding my issues, as he always did, but then we’d never move forward. He’s a romantic, and I am … scared.
“Do you need me to come over? Melody will
