Boyfriend by the Book: A feel good romantic comedy Read online

“Still,” I said, “your readers have some level of input. If you don't make them happy, they might stop buying your books. Especially if you ignore all their opinions.”

  “I doubt that. Most of them read anything and everything that crosses their path. Including books like that,” he said, with a nod to the paperback sticking out of my tote bag. A run-of-the-mill romance/suspense novel I had gotten from a sales rack at Book Bound. I plucked it out, flipping the pages with a casual air.

  “Not every book can be a masterpiece,” I told him. “This one is light and entertaining. It’s not trying to be Anna Karenina, and I’m not going to judge it by the same standards. There’s no reason I can’t enjoy both of them for different reasons.”

  “No reason except it teaches you to expect less from your reading experience,” he replied. “You’ll find it harder to enjoy a serious book if you consume too many of those.”

  I bristled at the words. Gareth always found a way to make his point too heavily, causing a playful argument to escalate into something serious — as if we were discussing cancer, or children's dental health.

  He didn’t seem to notice my irritation, writing something in his notebook again. I felt the urge to wrap my fingers around his pen, forcing him to realize that I was still here. That would be childish, though. Instead, I settled for finishing off my coffee and setting the cup back in its saucer with a rattling sound. He glanced up, surprised.

  “What’s wrong? I didn’t mean to upset you —”

  I sighed, waving him off. “It’s all right. I know you didn’t. I just feel gloomy today. Maybe it’s the rain,” I added, attempting to lighten the mood.

  “Rain can do that,” he agreed. Staring out the window with a subdued expression. It struck me again that Gareth might be having the same doubts about our connection that I was. It would explain his distracted air, the way he was more consumed by the romance in his book than any potential romance between the two of us.

  Tentatively, I cleared my throat. “Gareth,” I began. “I think maybe—”

  He looked at me, as if sensing the tension in my voice. “Yes?”

  I smiled. Softly, my heart catching at what I needed to say, even though I didn't think it would hurt either of us in the end. “I think maybe we shouldn’t go to the book fair on Saturday.”

  “Why? Did you remember another appointment?”

  “No,” I said. “I’m just not sure we would enjoy it that much. Together, I mean.”

  He stared at me, realization beginning to dawn in his face. “You think we’re too different,” he said at last.

  "Maybe," I answered, softly.

  “Or maybe I’m too difficult. I know I can be harsh sometimes,” he added, apology in the green eyes that met mine. “I don’t mean to be.”

  “That’s not it,” I insisted. “Though we do seem to argue too much. It’s more like…well, like something is missing. Some spark or feeling between us. And I think you’ve noticed it too,” I added, seeing surprise flash across his face.

  “I suppose I’m not very romantic,” he admitted, fidgeting with the pen as he spoke. “Not exactly what you expect from a romance novelist, anyway.”

  “I’m not expecting you to sweep me off my feet, or anything cliché like that,” I told him. With a smile for the old argument between us. “I just expected to feel something else at this point. Something more than friendship.”

  “I know,” he said. “I…I thought maybe a little more time—” He paused and sighed. Stretching his body as he gazed out the window, as if trying to find the words he wanted. "I thought perhaps you felt differently. That maybe it was just me who couldn't make this what it could be."

  I shook my head. “I’m sorry, Gareth," I said. "I don’t think time will make any difference. I don't think either of us is to blame.”

  "I blame myself in part," he said. "I feel as if I should have tried harder ... perhaps it would have made this grow into something more."

  My fingers touched his hand, pressing it gently. “I don’t think I’m right for you,” I told him. “I really don’t. And I can’t change myself to be the kind of person who is, even if I wanted to. It’s not like a book, is it? Where everything falls into place, even when the odds seem against it.”

  “It doesn’t work that way,” he agreed. “Not even in my books, you know,” he said, smiling faintly for the joke.

  I nodded. “I don’t want to force anything between us. And I don’t want you to blame yourself for it not working out. I’m just not the right match for you. I’m not your Lizzie,” I added, more to myself than to Gareth. He overheard it anyway, though.

  “What does that mean?” His smile was puzzled now. He thought I was teasing him, but I knew it was true. I wasn’t right for him. And I couldn’t be, no matter how much I enjoyed our time together. He must feel the same way, deep down, given how easily he was taking the news of our breakup — how easily he was letting me go.

  “Never mind,” I told him. “Let’s just say, I think your perfect match is someone a lot more spirited than me. Someone who can make you believe in happy endings, for instance.”

  He looked ready to argue this, when the server asked if we wanted any refills. Gareth shook his head. He was still looking at me as he spoke, however. “I think we might be done here," he said. "Aren’t we?”

  I nodded. “I think so.”

  We sat there a moment more, quiet and a little sad. Then I leaned across and kissed Gareth on the cheek. “Friends?” I asked.

  “Of course,” he said.

  I started to reach for my billfold, but Gareth was already paying our tab. Definitely a gentleman, I thought. But not the one for me.

  Walking out the door, I found the rain was more of a mist now. I glanced back at Gareth through the glass. He was writing something in his notebook, his pen flowing steadily across the page. He was going to be fine, I felt. Maybe soon he would meet the girl who could challenge him on the level he needed. As I walked away, I knew I had made the right decision.

  ~20~

  It took all morning to finish the yard for the nursing home. Meredith, the administrator, took pictures of the finished landscape to make into a slide show for the future residents. She took one of the crew as well, all of posed around the birdbath, the rose hedge blooming in the background. Afterward, Levi invited the crew over to his place for grilled burgers and hotdogs.

  I knew he lived in a bungalow from our previous conversations, and I wondered if its yard would show off any of his talent. As I pulled into its drive, I was struck by how small it was—both the bungalow and the yard. It was nicely kept, though, and Levi assured me it was still a work in progress as far as the landscaping went.

  “I get some ribbing about this, but I don’t have a lot of time for it between my job and the weekend projects. I promise eventually it will have something much more impressive than a privacy fence and a big elm tree, though.”

  The rest of his friends were already rounding up patio tables and chairs, Danny locating the charcoal for the grill. Someone broke out a game of lawn darts—a bit of a challenge in the limited space—but it was fun nonetheless. Levi’s Siberian Husky, Ben, joined the party after awhile, fetching his rubber ball and begging treats from sympathetic guests. I petted him, receiving a friendly lick in return. My cat would smell him on me later and make a fuss, but I couldn’t resist. He was just so adorable.

  At some point, I ended up going inside, the cool air a welcome relief from the afternoon sun. I could see Levi in the kitchen, cracking ice cube trays. His decorating taste was very straightforward and masculine. Lots of wood surfaces and earthen tones, bamboo bookcases and simply framed prints on the wall.

  “You like Georgia O’Keefe?” I called, studying the prints of desert landscapes that were staggered above the book case. O’Keefe was among my favorite artists, and my favorite of her works was one of the three hanging in Levi’s apartment.

  Levi’s voice drifted towards me from the kitchen. “The prints abov
e the book shelf? Those came with the place. They weren’t too bad so I just left them up.”

  A beat passed while I considered his answer. Levi appeared in the entrance to the kitchen after a moment. Grinning as he joined me in front of the framed prints. “Just joking,” he told me. “I do like O’Keefe’s work. A lot. I bought those at a second hand shop in Arizona on a road trip last year.”

  “Maybe I don’t believe you,” I teased, looking for a way to get back at him. “You might just be covering for a lack of art knowledge.”

  “I won’t claim to have a lot of it,” he admitted, sheepishly. “If I see a picture and I like it, that’s good enough for me.”

  “Well, you already know I’m not an art connoisseur,” I told him, studying the framed images again. “If I’m not careful, I mix up the works of Monet with Manet half the time.”

  “I’m pretty sure I’ve never even heard of that second guy,” Levi said, laughing with me. “That’s really unsophisticated, I guess. Maybe I’m the one who needs to work on art appreciation. Expand my horizons beyond landscape architecture to learn about a different kind of craft.”

  The words made me think of Brock and his love for cubist art. Suppressing a grimace for the memory, I told him, “I wouldn’t worry about it too much. You’re already a pretty creative sort of person, from what I can see. I mean, landscaping has its artistic merits, just like painting or music. It’s all about creating something you’re passionate about, right?”

  “That’s true, I guess.” He smiled, adding, “You can see my creative instincts don’t extend to my living space, though. It’s pretty boring in here compared to the work I do outdoors.”

  “I think it shows a decent amount of personality,” I told him. “Like your book collection here. I can tell you’ve read them a lot.” Or bought them secondhand, I remembered too late.

  Levi nodded. “These are some of my favorites. I didn’t even like to read until high school. My tenth-grade English teacher assigned the class To Kill a Mockingbird. I just assumed old books were boring, but that one got me hooked. I started checking stuff out of the school library after that. Mark Twain, Robert Louis Stevenson. Jack London—that was my favorite.”

  “I love his stuff,” I said. “I wanted to be part of an Iditarod so bad when I was twelve.”

  He laughed. “I might know someone who can set you up with that. A dog breeder who works in Alaska part of the year.”

  “Thanks, but I kind of shelved that dream already.”

  “What took its place?” He was being more serious now, watching for my reaction.

  “I guess the hotel business. I thought about the restaurant business at first. I waited tables and worked as a seating hostess for awhile. Then I got a job in a hotel’s kitchen and realized I was working in the wrong department.”

  “You like to cook, though,” he reminded me. “Or is that just when you see a cooking-themed movie?”

  “It’s more often than that,” I said. “I actually wish I had taken some of the classes for it now. It might have come in handy.”

  He glanced away as the front door opened. Heather walked in, her reddish blond hair in loose waves, a denim skirt and beaded tank top showing off her trim figure. “Hey handsome,” she greeted Levi, with a smile. “Got room for one more? I wanted to help you plant this morning, but I just now got away from work.”

  “Yeah, of course,” he said. “I’m just glad you could make it to the cookout.”

  He pulled her into a hug, my glance sliding discreetly away from the two of them. When I looked back they were standing apart, Heather looking at the pictures from today’s project on his cell phone. “It looks like it turned out great,” she told him. “As always. You’re getting better with each project.”

  “That’s the idea,” he said, smiling as he pocketed the phone again.

  “Hey Jodi,” Heather said, finally noticing me. “Still loving that orchid plant?”

  “It was for someone else, actually,” I answered. “But it was really stunning. I’ve thought of buying one for myself.”

  Heather dropped her bag on the rug as she made herself at home on one of the armchairs. Glancing out the patio doors, she asked, “If the party’s out there, how come you guys are in here?”

  “I came in to get some more ice,” Levi said. “Then we got caught up in talking about art—”

  “And books,” I supplied, seeing her look of surprise.

  “Right,” she said. Was that a smile she was hiding? I must have imagined it. A moment later, she was getting to her feet, tweaking Levi’s sleeve in passing as she said, “Here, I’ll help you get that ice ready.”

  I watched them head for the kitchen together, a sinking feeling in my chest.

  _________________________

  “Did you go to the beach this weekend, Jodi?”

  Stephanie noticed my tan from the landscaping project with a critical eye, no doubt thinking I could have gotten a perfect one at the tanning salon she liked to visit every few weeks. I didn’t want her to make a big deal out of my day with Levi, so I told her, “Nope, just spent some time outside. It was beautiful weather, wasn’t it?”

  She shrugged, picking up an onion from the nearby produce bin. We were shopping for ingredients for her one-year anniversary dinner with Keith. Stephanie didn’t like to cook, but her boyfriend did. It was his suggestion they sign up for culinary classes throwing a kink into their otherwise perfect relationship.

  “I just don’t understand why we both have to enjoy working in the kitchen. I mean, we have plenty of other common interests. But he acts like I’m being insensitive when I tell him it’s just not my thing.”

  My mind went back to my conversation with Levi about cooking-themed movies. That was back before things got awkward. Now that they seemed back to normal, would we talk like that again?

  “Maybe you could find a way to make it more fun,” I told her. “Watch a movie together about restaurant owners or chefs or something. Then pick a recipe from the movie and make it together.”

  “Or, we could watch Mystic Pizza and send out for delivery,” she said. Letting out a sigh as she dropped the onion into her basket. “Never mind about my guy problems,” she said after a moment. “How are things going with Connor?”

  “Well,” I said, taking a deep breath, “we’re going out for dinner and a movie this week. He wants to eat sushi.”

  “Oooh, lucky girl. Going out to dinner.” She glanced with longing at a display of prepackaged pasta. “Did I tell you Keith ordered a pasta machine? You crank it by hand. That’s just so middle ages, Jodi.”

  “I know,” I told her. Trying to sound sympathetic as I thought of watching Letters To Juliet before making a big Italian dinner for two.

  Only it wasn’t Connor I pictured making it with. It was Levi. Quickly, I readjusted that image, but it was too late. It was a sign that my subconscious was still in the wrong place, and I desperately needed to make the switch given how things had turned out for me. Somehow, I needed to see Levi as just a friend and Connor as something more. I just didn’t know how to do it yet.

  _________________________

  Connor arrived at my apartment building that weekend in a gleaming, silver BMW. I climbed into the passenger seat, eager for another chance to explore our connection. It didn’t hurt that he looked extra handsome in his black sports jacket, his Oxford shirt unbuttoned at the collar. He never wore a tie, I noticed, despite his otherwise polished appearance.

  “Nice ride,” I told him, going for a playful effect as I buckled myself in. He grinned his perfect grin.

  “It’s a beauty, isn’t it? I got sick of waiting for a rental option to show up, so I went ahead and pulled the trigger on this baby instead. I mean, it’s not like I can’t use a luxury vehicle in my life, right?”

  I stared at him, stunned. “You bought this vehicle today?”

  “Yesterday,” he said, flipping the turn signal as we pulled back onto the road. “I have a friend with a deal
ership, so it was a cinch to find out the best model for me. And I’ve missed having my own set of wheels ever since that bozo totaled my SUV. You should’ve seen his face when he learned the guy driving it was a licensed attorney,” he added, chuckling at the memory.

  This was making my head spin. A car like this would cost a fortune, but Connor was acting like it was nothing more than a whim that made him buy it. Reaching over, he switched on the music player, the sound of Schubert’s music streaming from the speakers. “Your favorite, right?” he asked, smiling in my direction.

  My favorite composer was Bach, actually, but the fact Connor remembered our conversation about this composer’s music sent warmth through my veins. Or maybe that was the heated leather seat, a feature I knew must be one of several luxury amenities in a car like this. “It’s perfect,” I assured him, letting the music wash over me with its soothing melody.

  By contrast, the movie was a gritty dystopian piece called Warrior’s War. Connor told me it was based on a series of best-selling books he’d read back in high school. Since I hadn’t read any of them, and this was based on the second book in the series, I was clueless about most of the plotline. What there was of it, that is. Mostly, it was lots of CG-created action scenes that pitted the leather-clad warrior maiden and her rag tag group of followers against a goblin villain that resembled something out of The Lord of the Rings.

  I was yawning long before it ended, but Connor seemed to enjoy it. He bought us two sodas and a popcorn, his arm resting against the back of my seat for part of the film. His fingers brushed against my hair, playing gently with the strands. When I looked at him, his smile appeared briefly in the dim lighting.

  He checked his phone once we were back in the lobby, listening to his voicemail before he tucked it back inside his pocket. “Ready for some sushi?” he asked.

  The sushi was actually some of the best I had eaten, though I still wouldn’t count it among my favorite foods. Connor told me about trying it for the first time at a restaurant in Japan. “Amazing gardens over there,” he commented, spearing another piece of sushi. “Remind me to show you the pictures some time. It’s like an Impressionist painting come to life.”