"Why romance?"
"Again, because women are fucking amazing," he says, his fork halfway to his mouth. "The strongest, most emotionally complex people I know are women. But we rarely explore their inner lives, their needs, wants, desires, or motivations in any real depth in literature. When we do, it's usually boiled down to the dumbest shit. She was jealous, so she murdered her husband's mistress. She was a stripper, so she was sexually assaulted. Most of the time, she did something to cause the bad thing that happened to her, and there's almost always a bad thing she needs to be rescued from, usually by a man. In romance, it isn't like that. Women rescue themselves, or don't need to be rescued at all. They simply get to be women," he says. "They get to like whatever the fuck they like, want whatever the fuck they want, and be whoever the fuck they want to be. They're fully evolved, capable beings who can solve their own problems, manage their own lives, and choose love because they still believe in it with their whole hearts. Romance delves deep into who women are and the experiences and desires that shape them in a wayother genres don't, and it centers them as humans instead of as victims."
"That's my favorite thing," I whisper, intensely grateful that he gets it. Not many do. They have this ridiculous view of the genre that's never been true, and they belittle the hell out of it. Reading about women living their lives and experiencing sexual gratification and desire without shame can be empowering, but people never talk about that part. Sometimes, they even write or read romance while disparaging it. I'm glad that isn't him. I don't think I could keep reading him if it were, because nothing pisses me off more.
"I know I don't always get it right, and I won't pretend to speak for women because that isn't my place, but I love creating books where women simply get to be women versus victims or sidekicks or whatever other bullshit they've been written to be. That's not the reality I know or the women I know, so why the fuck should it be the predominant reality in mainstream literature?"
"This is why you should come talk to Book Club," I murmur around a spear of asparagus. "You know how many readers hear, every single day, that what they're reading is ridiculous, silly, or unrealistic? They deserve to hear from people who understand why they read what they do and respect them and the genre. They need those voices bolstering them."
He holds my gaze, chewing thoughtfully on a bite of pork chop before swallowing. "I'll make you a deal."
I groan, narrowing my gaze at him. "I almost preferred it when you just gave me an autocratic, irritating no. What do you want this time?"
"For you to date me."
"Uh…" I make a show of looking around the restaurant, pretty damn sure he's sitting at the same table I am. "What do you think we're doing right now, River? We're on a date."
"Yes, but I don't just want a date, princess. I want you to date me. Officially." His eyes gleam behind his glasses, the candlelight catching on the wire frames. "I want labels and exclusivity."
Christ on a cracker.
"You don't think this is awfully fast?" I say. "I mean, this is the first date. Usually, there's more than one before people put labels on it."
"Yeah, fuck that. I know what I want. She's sitting across from me right now. That's not going to change, so why pretend it is?" He spears another bite of pork chop. "I told you that you were mine today. I meant it. I'm not sharing you."
"About that…"
Is it just my imagination, or does he look like he's ready to flip tables and cause a scene? Why is that hot to me? Huh. Maybe I do need the therapy Lilah keeps suggesting.
"It's just you, River," I say. "It's been a while since I've dated."
"Define a while," he growls.
"I don't know. Since before I moved to Santa Maria?"
"And how long ago was that?"
"A year?" I narrow my eyes at him. "I don't recall asking you this many clarifying questions when we were discussing your dating history earlier today."
He grins at me. "Just trying to make sure there isn't a jealous ex lurking around that I'm going to have to kill for trying to lure you away, baby," he says, almost like he's teasing, but I'm not entirely sure he is kidding. He's jealous as hell at the thought of me with anyone who isn't him. Lord have mercy, this man is…I don't know what he is, but he's something.
"There is no jealous ex. There's no ex at all. I said I dated, not that I've been in a long-term relationship. No one ever lasted that long."
"Because of your dad," he says, his expression softening with understanding.
"Yeah, I guess so. It's hard to trust anyone when your own father was a jackass who used you to hide his own affair," I mutter. "Guess it made me leery."
"You aren't leery of me."
I think that's the problem, isn't it? I'm not leery of him, not the way I thought I would be. It's a mindfuck and a half. I've spent the last two days freaking out about the fact that I'm not entirely freaked out. And then he showed up today, and reminded me why I'm not freaking out. I like him, even when he's an annoyingly disagreeable, insufferable ass.
Apparently, he likes me too. Enough to want to date me.Officially.
"What do you say? Are we doing this or not?" he asks. "Because I have ways of convincing you."
An incredulous laugh spills from my lips. "Are you blackmailing me again?"
"No. I'm negotiating," he says. "Your biggest wish for mine."
