Everyone follows with a wide range of adjectives—intriguing, captivating, dynamic, sexy, emotional, intense, fascinating, engaging, evocative …
They like it so far. Freya shoots me a smile and a nod. I’m off to a much better start than her cunnilingus vampire book. These are my neighbors, my friends, my village. Of course I want them to like my taste in books.
“Great. So I have three different topics to discuss tonight. Let’s start with—”
The door to the right creaks open. Eric cringes. “Sorry, I’m a few minutes late.” He takes a seat across from me with his shaggy, slightly wet hair, prominent cheekbones, and perfect smile.
I inspect his ripped jeans, untied white sneakers, and tee that says “Fresh Out Of” with an image of two ducks at the end.
Cute.
I force my gaze from his odd shirt to his eyes. “We’re just getting ready to start discussing the prologue.”
“Wait! Eric needs to share his first impression of the book … with one word.” Freya smiles passing two different bottles of wine in Eric’s direction.
“Oh …” He takes the red wine and fills a glass. “One word, huh?” His lips twist as he finds an empty spot on the table to set the bottle. “Redundant.” He takes a sip of wine.
I narrow my eyes a fraction as a few other people chuckle like he’s joking.
Eric shrugs. “Has that word already been used? Repetitive works too. I don’t want to say predictable quite yet, but I’m a little suspicious that it’s headed in that direction.”
Clearing my throat, I tighten my low ponytail, trying to adjust it a little higher to keep my shoulder-length blond hair off my neck that’s suddenly feeling very warm. “Um … what exactly did you find so repetitive about it?” I play it cool like I’m not B. Ashton’s number one fan.
“The physical descriptions. In eight chapters, the characters’ hair and eye colors are mentioned seven times. It’s like the author thinks the readers aren’t smart enough to retain those little details. If their physical descriptions were an integral part of the story—like a tattoo with a hidden meaning—then I can see why repeating that would serve a purpose.”
“True.” Brea nods. “Now that you mention it. It is a little overkill.”
Clearing my throat again, I take a sip of wine and paste a smile onto my face. “I don’t think it takes away from the story. If anything, it keeps the visuals fresh, the characters stay vivid … almost real in the reader’s mind.”
Eric shrugs. “It’s just an opinion.”
Ignoring his brushoff, I continue, “Anyway … the prologue. It appears Jasmine is being chased into the woods. Who do you think is chasing her?”
“Her cat. He’s tired of eating off-brand food from a can.”
Everyone laughs at Greg’s comment, knowing he hasn’t read a single word of the book. Mel, his girlfriend, drags him to book club. Jasmine doesn’t have a cat, and everyone else knows that.
“I think she’s running from her boyfriend. In chapter three, she says he’s been aloof with her,” Tricia offers the first logical explanation.
I’ve read the whole book, so it’s fun to hear some of these early guesses.
Spoiler alert—it’s not the boyfriend.
Two other people agree it’s the boyfriend. Several other people think it’s the landlord who owns the farm house Jasmine’s renting with her boyfriend.
“It’s her mom.”
The group laughs at Eric’s response.
“The mom?” I chuckle.
“Sure.” He shoves a chip into his mouth. “Just an early guess.”
“Why do you think it’s the mom?” Freya asks.
“I don’t know. I read a lot of books. It’s hard to throw me off. This book feels …” He shoves two more corn chips into his mouth while leaving me hanging with how the book feels to him.
“It feels what?” I get tired of waiting.
“Sophomoric. If I’m wrong … if it’s not the mom … that will surprise me.”
“Drink up, everyone. There’s plenty of wine.” Freya passes more bottles of wine down the line.
“Moving on.” I force myself to stop glaring at Mr. Shits All Over My Favorite Book. “Character development …”
The good news? Everyone seems to like the characters—except Eric. After he calls Jasmine weak and gullible, I stop giving him opportunities to share his opinion. By the end of the evening, I can’t even look at him. His arrogance and terrible taste in literature makes me want to vomit.
“Where do you want the empty wine bottles,” Eric asks me as I toss some of the plates into a trash bag.
“Just leave them. You don’t need to help clean up.” Still … I don’t look at him.
“I want to. So … where do they go?”
Up your ass. All of them. You should shove them up your ass for being such a dick.
“In that box by the door. I’ll take them back to work to be recycled. Thank you, Eric. It’s really kind of you.” Freya wraps her full lips around his ego and blows so hard I fear she’ll pop him. “I’m going to grab some cleaner to wipe down the table, Anna.”
“Okay,” I mumble, brushing past Eric to set the trash by the door.
“Have I done something wrong?”
“Nope.” I shuffle my flip-flop-clad feet over to the opposite end of the sky deck and start collapsing the sun umbrellas.
“Good. I was worried I somehow offended you.” He starts at the opposite end, helping me collapse the umbrellas. “I’m getting my first shipment of tees in the morning. What time do you get coffee?”
“I don’t go for coffee on Wednesdays.”
“Noted, but tomorrow is Friday.”
“I’m not drinking coffee at the moment. It’s too hot.”
“I bet they can make iced coffee.”
We meet in the middle at the last two umbrellas, forcing me to acknowledge him with an actual glance. “A date? Are you asking me on a coffee date?”
“Definitely.” White teeth peek out from his quirked lips. His eyes wander along my body.
“Are you checking me out?”
“Affirmative.” He chuckles after ogling my legs, my short denim skirt, and my tight sleeveless floral blouse.
“I’m not interested.”
His head cocks to the side. “In coffee or letting me check you out?”
“Listen, I’m not okay with how you tried to decimate our book club tonight. Your negative and speculative views of the book, after just eight chapters, were awkward and insulting.”
He squints, parting his lips a fraction. “O—kay. I offended you?”
I shake my head, scrunching up my face. “No. Of course not. Clearly other people are really enjoying the story. So when you’re so critical of the book, they feel judged.”
“Judged how?” He slides his hands into his front pockets.
“Like you think they don’t have good taste in books. When clearly, after tonight, I think you’re the one who doesn’t know a good story when it’s right in front of your face.”