Rather than slide it back on the shelf, I bring it to my office—which is a MacBook Pro next to the register. I shove the book in my tote bag hanging off the back of my comfy leather desk chair. I guess it’s time for a reread. What can I say? Dark romance is my safe space. I won’t apologize for it, never have, and never will.
Long live the antihero and enemies-to-lovers trope.
No, but seriously, I’ve always been a reader, and I can’t imagine my life without books. Hence, why it was almost a compulsion to open The Scorched Page. A calling, if you will, and if Jason ever again refers to these books as garbage, I’m going to beat him half to death with one. Because the beauty of divorce means I don’t have to play nice when he pulls his pompous behavior bullshit.
I glance at my tote, winking at the book tucked inside it. “Nope, we certainly don’t, do we?” I ask it as if the characters written on those pages can—and will—answer me. “And it’s at this point in the story when Charly realizes she seriously needs a social life that consists of more than fictional men and a vibrator.”
Because that’s been the extent of my social interaction ever since my epic split from Harley Cove’s resident golden boy. ButI’m going to get out there. Get back on the figurative horse. Maybe do something wild and hop on an actual man and ride him like an actual horse. I don’t know. We’ll see where this whole fraternizing thing goes. I’m twenty-eight, not eighty-eight. Time for me to stop living like an old hermit and enjoy life. We only get one chance at it, and I’m watching mine pass me by.
I grab my cell phone off the counter and do the typical scroll, finding no new emails or notifications on my socials. Not a shocker there. One must be social on the apps to receive social interaction.
Funny thing about apps…
I swear phones can read a person’s mind, because an ad for an app pops up, and while my initial instinct is to scroll past it, I stop. Maybe because The Book Boyfriends seems like harmless fun. A silly way to kill time. After a glance around the empty shop and a one-shoulder shrug, I tap the Download Now button because…
Why not?
No big deal.
The moment The Book Boyfriends finishes downloading, my phone pings its usual alert. I launch the app, and…Wow. It’s a cheerful bright pink, almost to the point of burning the eyeballs. First, I create the requisite account. Then I build a profile and scroll through the possible ‘boyfriends.’ Options include, but are not limited to, Cinnamon Roll, Hockey Player, Billionaire, Demon, Antihero, Knight in Shining Armor, Mafia Boss, Monster, Best Friend, and Vampire. All undeniably interesting choices. However, one stands out from the crowd, and when I swipe right, there he is.
The Antihero.
Name: Rhys Ravenstone.
Not going to lie, I have a blast ‘building’ him, starting with his height. Six-feet-five because that seems like how tall an antihero should be. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Big ol’ dick. Two hundred fifty pounds of muscle. Now, let’s add tattoos. I tap my chin, pondering…
“What else are we giving you, Ravenstone?” A devious grin curls my lips. No self-respecting antihero is complete without a rather…interesting…piercing. “Sorry, my dude, but this one’s gonna hurt.”
One final touch. A scar. Gotta have a scar. A diagonal slash across his left cheek under his eye. Perfect! Moving on to the personality section.Pfft. This is easy. Loyalty is a must. Protective,check. Dangerous,absolutely. Let’s add a heavy dose of arrogance. Has to be gruff, a man of few words, because antiheroes are notorious for one-word sentences. Oh! And the eyebrow thing. Dudes in books always lift a single brow and it’s super sexy. Profession. Assassin, of course. I mean, go big or go home, right?
Should I be having this much fun?
Again, why not? It’s a silly app—owned by…
Cupid.
Of course.
What’s next? Is Thor going to launch a weather app?
When I’m done, the screen explodes with pink hearts. A cartoon version of Cupid shooting arrows follows. Next is the photo I uploaded of myself when building my profile, wiggling to the center of the screen. It’s met halfway by a composite photo of my book boyfriend. Once they meet in the middle, the twophotos overlap. A giant red heart encircles them, followed by the flashing words:
YOU’RE IN LUCK. YOU’VE BEEN STRUCK.
IS IT LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT OR LOVE AT FIRST FIGHT?
SEVEN DAYS TO BIND THE HEART OR FOREVER BE KEPT APART.
“Yeah, yeah,” I drawl with a wave of my hand. “Sorry, Cupid, but I’ve been in love, and you know what? It sucked. Never again. Next guy I meet, I don’t care who he is.” I wiggle my phone. “Not even Mr. Ravenstone here. I’m in it for a good time, not a long time.”
Love.
What a fucking scam. Don’t need it. Don’t want it. Got no time for it. Not that it matters. Cupid is about as real as Rhys Ravenstone.
And on that note, time to get back to work because I’ve wasted enough time on this bullshit.
Chapter Two
