Her voice sounds not convinced, like she thinks I’m bullshitting her. And who could really blame her? A group of burly, toothless, smelly hockey players sitting around in a circle reading and discussing romance novels? It’s unlikely.
“This month we’re readingOn the Ropesby Kathryn Nolan.”
“I’m noticing a sports theme here.” Her death grip on my hand eases just a smidge. If she lets me go I might retain function in it after all.
I snort. “I have a carefully crafted plan, thank you very much. I’m diversifying in the coming months.” I lean back into my seat a little, but don’t take my hand from hers. In fact, I give it a squeeze to reassure her that I’m not letting go and that she really is going to be okay.
She might hate me on principle, and a tiny part of me might wish I could hate her back, but I’ve never seen someone so utterly terrified to be on a plane in my entire life. Or anywhere at all for that matter. Her earlier fear seemed paralyzing. And no matter what she thinks about me, I can’t just sit here and watch her hyperventilate and cry her way through the next ninety minutes.
I wish I could. All that judgment and distaste for me has been clear in her blue-green eyes. She’s only talking to me right now because the air travel powers that be thought it would be fun to sit us together. I bet she’d rather walk to Minnesota right now than accept any help I could offer.
And yet, the twitching muscle in her face, her scrunched up shoulders, and the tears still welling in her eyes have brought me to my knees and punched the air from my lungs. She needs someone, and I’m here. After she survives the flight without hyperventilating until she passes out, she can go back to hating me.
It’s not like my love of romance novels and support for indie authors will wear her down any. It’s definitely not enough to make up for all the pain she thinks I caused. But it’s a start, common ground, something to keep her attention from her terror.
“I have a list of tropes, subgenres of romance, and each month I show them the three books I’ve selected that they get to choose from. Most votes wins.”
“Sounds like a very logical system.”
Maybe now she’ll believe me. There’s no way someone could come up with such a creative and complex lie at the drop of a hat. Okay, maybe there’s someone out there who could, but that’s not me. I’m a plotter, not a pantser.
“Are your teammates enjoying the smutty reads?”
I idly stroke the back of her hand. It could be to comfort her, but truth be told I really need to check that I still have mobility in my digits. She’s got me in such a tight grip, I’m losing feeling.
“Y’know, they’re enjoying it more than I expected them to.” I relax further into my seat, and her death-grip tightens around my fingers. She’d lost all color in her face, but now she’s starting to look a little green.
Dear God, I hope they have barf bags in the seat back pocket.
“It took a while to get some of them on board. Most of them signed up because I asked them to, not because they’re big readers or into romance—novels or otherwise.”
That makes her lips twitch. “Real life hockey players aren’t quite the same as book boyfriend hockey players.”
“Facts.” I crack a smile. She’s not wrong. Romance authors rarely write about the toothless grins, and some of the pathetic attempts to grow mustaches for Movember. If it wasn’t to raise awareness for testicular cancer, prostate cancer, and men’s suicide, I’d want some of the guys on our team to stop trying before they end up mistaken for suspects onDateline.
“There were four of us that first month, last month there were six, and I’m hopeful that another one or two of them will join this month.”
“The month is almost over.”
I heave out a sigh. “I know. Between school, hockey, and my job, I’ve been slammed. We all have. We’re meeting next week to talk about it. Those that have read the past two books have enjoyed the process, if not the books themselves. They’re enjoying the discussions about the characters and plot.” It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her I’ll have one of my author friends hanging out with us atGet Litbut I’m not going there.
Her pallid face pinks up a little. “Are you planning to read any more of J.R. Blake’s books at your book club?”
“You like ’em, huh?”
She gives me a jerky nod and shaky smile. “He’s my favorite romance author. So full of emotion. He really digs deep, you know?”
Boy, do I ever. Grinning, I want to tell her it’s me. I’m him. I’m J.R. That those emotions are my own, and that sometimes it feels like if I don’t get them down on paper they’ll tear me apart at the seams.
But I bite my tongue. “I’ve gotHot Motherpuckeron the list for next month.” I shrug. “I’m trying not to have the same author over and over again, or the same subgenres and tropes, but… I know what I like. It’s hard not to stick to sports romances every month when they’re just so damn good.”
Her eyes light up. Her smile is real this time, and I feel it everywhere. Damn, she’s pretty.
“That’s one of my top picks. Harry is one of my favorite book boyfriends. He’s so swoony.” She nods. “Great choice.”
“Thanks,” I mumble, watching my thumb move back and forth on her pale skin.
Praise kinks aren’t my jam, and hearing her validate my book selection is one thing, but hearing her gush over my words, my characters? Wow. That’s…something else. Her muscles loosen around my fingers. She doesn’t let go, but my extremities are less at risk of popping off the end of my arm at least.
