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After I toss on my clothes, I grab a granola bar from my backpack on the chaise and unwrap it to take a bite.
I smile as the shower shuts off, and I snap my backpack clasps back into place.
I spin away from the chaise lounger in our hotel room, wanting to be ready to catch sight of Brooke before she covers herself in clothes, and in the process of my haste, I accidentally knock her brown leather backpack to the floor. It upends, and the contents scatter across the carpet with impressive distance.
“Shit,” I mumble, stooping down to pick it all up and put it back together as neatly as I can.
There are several pens and a bevy of notebooks, but there are also a handful of loose-leaf pages of paper with colorful notes scratched on every line of them.
I don’t mean to look at them, but when I see my name at the top of one, I can’t help but read through that line and then…keep reading for the entirety of the page.
Chase’s List of Flaws:
1. Doesn’t understand how handsome he is.
2. He uses a fake broadcaster-type voice when he’s on the phone with important people to make himself sound more authoritative.
3. He’s pretty fucking pushy about a book that’s ruining my life.
4. He forced his way on to this tour with me without asking if I’d be okay with it.
5. He’s so work-minded that sometimes he forgets to have fun.
6. He flirts without thinking of the fallout.
7. He practically martyred himself for this stupid book I didn’t even mean to write.
8. He let his ex walk all over him for a long, long time.
9. He’s arrogant in his ability to make this book what it needs to be.
10. With an ex and a best friend who went behind his back for a year and a half, his judge of character is a bit questionable.
A burn simmers in my chest, and my cheeks heat with unchecked embarrassment, all the things Brooke thinks are wrong with me laid out for me to see.
I don’t know how to breathe, can barely force my throat to swallow as Brooke comes stumbling out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around her body and a huge smile on her face.
A mere two minutes ago, that smile would have led to feelings of lust and charm and endearment, but now…now, it feels like a smirk that hides all the things I don’t know.
Why would she make a list like this? Why would she write it down? And why on earth does it hurt so much to read it?
It doesn’t take her all that long to notice the sheet of paper in my hand or the hard line of my jaw, and from the looks of her frown, I’d say she knows exactly what I’m holding. The guilt is written all over her—in her hesitant gaze, in her timid feet, and in the way her hands grip her towel.
“What is this, Brooke?”
She swallows hard and pulls the towel even tighter around herself, smoothing some of the wet strands of her long hair behind one ear. “I…”
“Speak up,” I hear myself chastise, and a pink hue rushes to her cheeks.
I feel badly, but I won’t let myself be swayed by the way I feel—the fact that I love her—right now. I have to know what in the hell is going on. I have to know what in the fuck this means.
I have to know why.
“Um…” She clears her throat. “W-when you told me the characters had no flaws, I did an exercise to get myself in the habit of picking out flaws. I was…having a hard time with Clive, and I needed somewhere to start.”
“Why on earth would you start with me?”
She steels her spine then, and it doesn’t take a body language expert to understand that what she’s about to say next isn’t going to be something I want to hear.
“Because…Clive is you.”
I blink, and then I shake my head, trying to understand. “What do you mean?”
“Clive Watts is Chase Dawson. And River Rollins is Brooke Baker.” She closes her eyes. “With a few improvements. But…I wrote the book about us.”
“I don’t understand.” When she turned in this book, we hardly knew each other.
Her laugh is a mix of a scoff and a sneer, and I don’t know what to make of it. “Of course you don’t understand. Because why would you? It’s an insane thing to do, writing a whole book about someone without their knowledge or permission. But you know what’s even crazier, Chase?” She doesn’t pause for me to respond. She doesn’t even pause to take a gulp of air. “Turning that book in to your editor by accident because you were too drunk to distinguish the files the night your manuscript was due. That’s crazy. And then, you don’t tell your editor what you’ve done. Instead, you go along with it, and you let him take that book to his boss and pitch it like it’s the most normal thing in the world to turn in a book the publisher isn’t expecting. And then the crazy finale! They decide to publish it!”
