Which was ridiculous. His relationship with Sophie was professional, and he never mixed business with pleasure.
Sophie handed him a bottle of wine. “Do you mind pouring while I take the brownies out of the oven?”
He glanced at the label.Romance in a Bottle: Uncork the Passion. He raised an eyebrow, smirking as he looked back at Sophie. “Seriously?”
“Hey, don’t knock it. I design these wine labels and sell them on my Etsy store. They’re perfect for date nights and book club meetings.”
“For someone who likes to appear as if you play life casual, you’ve got a real knack for business,” he said, popping the cork and filling the drinks. When he glanced up, he caught sight of a hint of pride in her eyes.
Quickly glancing away, she took a seat and picked up her goblet. “Shall we toast to being each other’s opposites-of-what-I’m-looking-for-in-a-romantic-relationship person?” She held her glass out toward him, waiting for him to clink his to hers.
He hesitated, his brain needing time to catch up to what she’d rattled off. “What makes you think you’re the opposite of what I’d look for in a woman…if I were looking?”
“Easy. I’ve read enough romances to figure it out. I’m the sunshine to your unfixable grump. You want a woman who doesn’t need romance but is instead content with little conversation and who allows you your broody opinions about the world without trying to fix you or change your mind.”
He raised an eyebrow, prepared to challenge, but then lowered it. The fact that he’d engaged in more conversation with her over the last two weeks than he’d done with anyone else overthe last year didn’t count. They’d conversed so they could best pull off the fake-boyfriend ruse. Not because he’d suddenly become chatty. He did indeed date women who required little conversation. “You’re not wrong. But in my defense, my job is best suited to cynics who spend more time contemplating than discussing book boyfriends. A romantic in my position would give someone the benefit of the doubt and end up dead…along with the person they were supposed to protect.” With that declaration, he clinked glasses with her and took a sip.
“That is an unarguable excuse to keep love at bay.”
The fact that she agreed gave him heartburn.
She sat down her wine and swirled spaghetti on her fork, using a spoon as a prop. Then she glanced at him and gave him a smile. “Besides finding nothing in common with Miles, what did you think of your first romantic comedy book?”
“It wasn’t what I expected.” He took a bite of spaghetti so she wouldn’t ask him to expand.
She retrieved a folded sheet of paper from the pocket of her jeans. “As the reigning president of the Book Boyfriend Connoisseurs Club, I’ve prepared a few questions to see if you fully grasped why Miles is the epitome of a dreamy cinnamon roll hero.”
“In other words, you want to make sure I actually read the book.” He picked up his garlic bread and took a bite. If ever there was a sure sign a woman didn’t have romantic feelings toward you, it would be her serving you garlic bread.
“First question: What do you think makes Miles not just a love interest but a character with depth that resonates with readers like me?” Sophie twirled her fork in the spaghetti, then lifted it to her mouth.
“Hmm.” Stone took a sip of wine, his gaze steady on her, smugness filling him because he had an answer he didn’t have to pull out of his ass. “At first, I was ready to write him offas nothing but a crybaby. I mean, where I come from, no man would wallow in self-pity while watching a damn chick flick.” Or if they did, it would be their secret and theirs alone.
“But?” she asked when he stopped talking.
“But somehow the author—”
“Emily Henry,” Sophie said.
He nodded. “She turned Miles around. Saved him from himself.” A mental video of Sophie saving Stone from himself flashed before his eyes. He set his glass down, the clink resonating in the quiet kitchen, and shook his head to clear the fantastical musings.
“In what way?” Sophie prodded.
“For one, Miles stopped smoking weed inside.”
“And?” Sophie asked.
Stone tore off a piece of garlic toast, the aroma mingling with the rich scent of the spaghetti. “A douche, caught up in the whole I’ve-been-hurt scenario, wouldn’t have been so considerate.”
Sophie giggled. “True. What else.”
“He’s likable, and I can see why some women would find that attractive.” He popped the bread in his mouth.
She raised her brows, her fork pausing mid-twirl. “You say that like you’re not likable?”
“Being likable is the kiss of death in my line of work. I can be scary, intimidating, a dick, frosty, any of those, but I can’t be likable.”
“That’s too bad. Women like kind.” She leaned back, the flicker of candlelight casting shadows over her face as she chewed her food.
