The Bromance Book Club Read online

  “We call them manuals,” the Russian said.

  “And it’s a lot more than just reading,” Malcolm said.

  Gavin went cold. “If you’re about to drag me into some kind of kinky swinger shit, I’m out.”

  Del leaned forward, elbows on the table. “I’m going to tell you something I never told you before.”

  “Yeah, I’m not sure I want to know.”

  “Two years ago, Nessa filed for divorce.”

  The ground shifted beneath Gavin’s chair. “What? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “One, I barely knew you then. And two, probably for the same reason you’re reluctant to tell anyone what happened between you and Thea. It’s emotional, personal.”

  “But you and Nessa are perfect.”

  “Things are always different behind closed doors, aren’t they?”

  Yeah, but in Gavin’s case, part of the problem was that he was too stupid to know he totally sucked in bed or that his wife had apparently started to hate his guts. The way she’d looked at him today . . . He shuddered. He seriously doubted Del could relate.

  “Nearly every man at this table has been on the verge of losing his wife, girlfriend, or fiancée at some point,” Del continued, and Gavin recalled the cryptic thing he said last night. We’ve all been where he is. “And every one of us not only got our girls back but repaired our relationships better than ever.”

  Gavin scanned the faces at the table. They greeted him with nods, smiles, and—from Mack—the finger. Gavin returned the gesture and then shook his head. “I don’t understand what any of this means or has to do with me.”

  “Look, man,” Malcolm said, his Hulk-sized hands stroking a beard thick enough to qualify for federal forest protection. “Men are idiots. We complain that women are so mysterious and shit, and we never know what they want. We fuck up our relationships because we convince ourselves that it’s too hard to figure them out. But the real problem is with us. We think we’re not supposed to feel things and cry and express ourselves. We expect women to do all the emotional labor in a relationship and then act confused when they give up on us.”

  Gavin puffed out a nervous breath. That hit a little too close to home. You seem to think that all you had to do was show up here, and I’d just smile and pretend everything was fine. I’ve been doing that for three years, Gavin. I’m done. “I-I still don’t know what you’re talking about,” he stammered.

  “Romance novels are primarily written by women for women, and they’re entirely about how they want to be treated and what they want out of life and in a relationship. We read them to be more comfortable expressing ourselves and to look at things from their perspective.”

  Gavin blinked. “You guys are serious.”

  “Dead serious,” Del said.

  The Russian with the cheese problem nodded. “Reading romance make me know how much my wife and I see world differently, and how I need to be better job of speaking her language.”

  “Her language?”

  “Ever said something to Thea that you thought was totally innocuous only to have her storm off and then claim for hours that she’s fine?” Malcolm asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Or say something you thought was funny only to have her get super offended?”

  “Well, yeah, but—”

  Yan piped in. “Or tell her that you put the dishes in the dishwasher only to have her get all pissy about how you shouldn’t expect a gold star for doing what should be the responsibility of any adult in the goddamn house?”

  A chill ran down his spine. “Have you guys been talking to her?”

  Yan snorted. “You guys speak different languages to each other.” He pointed at the book. “You’ll learn hers by reading romance.”

  “But Thea doesn’t even read these kinds of books!”

  The guys exchanged glances and then burst out laughing. Del patted him on the back. “Keep telling yourself that.”

  “I’ve never seen anything like this in the house.”

  Derek Wilson, a local businessman he recognized from his TV commercials, spoke up. “She have one of those e-reader things?”

  “Yeah. I mean, I don’t know. I think so.”

  “It’s full of romance novels. Trust us.”

  Gavin looked at the book in his hand. “So you’re saying I need to d-do w-what the guy in this book does?” Good God, was he actually starting to listen to them?

  “Not word-for-word, no,” Del answered. “The point is to fit the lessons of it into your own marriage. Plus, that’s a Regency, so—”

  “What the hell is a Regency?”

  “That means it’s set in eighteenth- or early nineteenth-century England.”

  “Oh, great. That sounds relevant.”

  “It is, actually,” Malcolm said. “Modern romance novelists use the patriarchal society of old British aristocracy to explore the gender-based limitations placed on women today in both the professional and personal spheres. That shit is feminist as fuck.”

  Mack winked. “The sex scenes are also really fucking hot.”

  Gavin dropped the book.

  Mack and Wilson laughed and high-fived. “I loved that one,” Wilson said. “At least a BB Four.”

  “Do I want to know what that means?” Gavin shuddered.

  “It’s our rating system for how much sex is in it,” Wilson said.

  “But what does BB stand for?”

  The whole table spoke at once. “Book Boner.”

  Gavin shot to his feet again. “This is ridiculous. My w-w-wife isn’t going to take me back because of some stupid books.” But what was even more ridiculous was that he was actually starting to consider it. It’s not like he could fuck things up any worse than they were.

  “The books are just part of it,” Del said, picking up His Naked Countess or whatever it was called. “We’ve all been through it and came out on the other end better men, better husbands, and better lovers.”

  Gavin stopped and looked up at that. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, that got his attention.” Mack snorted. “Is that the problem, dude? Trouble in the bedroom?”

  A heat rash broke out on Gavin’s neck. “No,” he growled.

  “Because you know that problems in the bedroom stem from problems outside the bedroom. You can’t fix one without the other.”

  Orgasms are the least of their problems.

  Gavin jerked a thumb in Mack’s direction but spoke directly to Del. “Why is this dickweed part of the club? He’s not even married.”

  “I’m here for the dirty parts,” Mack said, winking as he chomped into a slice of pizza, devouring half of it in one big bite.

  Yan stood and approached him. “Look, I thought these guys were fucking with me too. I didn’t even look at the book they gave me for a month. But I’m telling you—we’re all telling you—we can help you. Book club isn’t just about books.”

  Malcolm nodded solemnly. “It’s a brotherhood, man.”

  “A way of life,” one of the city officials said.

  Mack slung an arm over Wilson’s shoulder. “An emotional fucking journey.”

  Gavin backed up. “I don’t like emotional journeys.”

  “Just trust us,” Del said. “We’ll come up with a plan for saving your marriage every step of the way.”

  “Are you sure you’re not just screwing with me?”

  “You’re one of my best friends,” Del said. “Do you really think I’d make a joke out of you and Thea breaking up?”

  “No.” Gavin sighed. But it seemed too easy. Read some books and, voilà? Thea would take him back with open arms? Was he really that desperate?

  He pictured life without Thea.

  Yes, he was really that desperate.

  Gavin studied the cover again. “Why this one?”
>
  Mack smirked. “Because it’s about an idiot who screws up his marriage and has to win back his wife. Sound familiar?”

  He swallowed against his rising humiliation. “What do I have to do?”

  “Simple,” Malcolm said. “Listen to us and read the book.”

  “Yeah.” Del snorted. “And for fuck’s sake, do not kiss your wife again until I tell you to.”

  Courting the Countess

  The seventh Earl of Latford had seen many a woman in various stages of undress in his nine and twenty years, but that had not prepared the man for the first breathtaking sight of his wife on their wedding night, looking like an angel in a sheer dressing gown.

  Especially since her eyes conveyed the rather clear message that she’d just as soon bathe herself in a pig trough than feel his hands upon her skin.

  Bloody inconvenient, that. Because for the first time in his life, Benedict Charles Arthur Seymour was good and truly in love.

  “I will do my duty, my lord,” his new wife said, her voice flat and hands trembling as she untied the sash at her waist. Her gown floated to the floor in a pool of white silk, leaving her before him in a simple shift that robbed him of speech and thought.

  Benedict ordered his feet to remove themselves from their roots in the doorframe separating his bedchamber from hers. As he drew closer to her, his heart shattered with every sign of her discomfort. The clenched fists at her sides. The shaky rise and fall of her chest. The defiant gaze that refused to look away from his.

  He had done this. It was his fault.

  “You may rest easy,” Benedict rasped, bending to retrieve the silky garment from the floor. Her blessedly bare feet were suddenly the most erotic thing he’d ever seen. Standing, he held the robe open for her. “I am not here for that.”

  Confusion replaced anger for a brief moment in her gaze. She allowed him to hold the gown as she threaded her arms through the silk openings once again. She blushed a pale pink as he tied the sash at her waist, a liberty he should not have taken but could not resist. Dear God, just being close to her was going to destroy every shred of coherent thought in his brain.

  “May I ask, then, why you are in my bedchamber?” she asked, stepping back from him.

  “I have a gift for you.” Benedict pulled the small package from the pocket of his own robe.

  Her eyes fell upon the plain brown paper. “I do not require a wedding present, my lord.”

  “Benedict.”

  “Begging your pardon?” She arched an eyebrow, a sardonic expression for such a well-bred young woman. Precisely the sort of hidden surprises that made him fall in love with her.

  “We are married now. I want you to use my Christian name.” He extended the gift farther. “Please.”

  A heavy sigh escaped the seam of her lush lips. “What is the purpose of this?”

  “Does a husband need a reason to give his wife a present?”

  “I thought I made it clear that we are not going to have that kind of marriage, my lord.”

  “Benedict. And I don’t recall agreeing to any terms defining what kind of marriage we would have.”

  “You established the terms of our marriage quite clearly with your accusation.”

  Regret sliced through him, deepening the wound that had bled inside his chest from the moment he realized how wrong he’d been. But by the time he had learned the truth, it was too late. He’d betrayed her trust when it mattered most. “A mistake for which I will be eternally sorry,” he finally rasped.

  “And this is an apology?” she asked with a glance at the gift.

  “I am not so foolish as to think I can buy your forgiveness, my love. This is just a token of my affection.”

  Avoiding his gaze, she carefully unwrapped the paper and opened the long, velvet box to reveal the strand of rubies and diamonds that had cost him a small fortune. Her eyes widened. “My lord . . .” she breathed.

  “Benedict,” he corrected quietly. “Does it please you?”

  “It is beautiful. But far too lavish for me.”

  “Nonsense. You are the Countess of Latford. You should be draped in jewels.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” She turned to set the box on her vanity table. “If there is nothing else . . .”

  Her politeness was a cold draft in the room. He wanted the heat back, the one that had scorched between them before he’d let his pride douse it with a single, reckless misunderstanding. Benedict once again closed the distance between them. “Please, my love. I beg you to give me a chance to make this right.”

  Her lashes fluttered as her pupils dilated. “To what end, Benedict?”

  “A long and happy life together.”

  Her slim, elegant throat worked against a nervous swallow. “I don’t believe in such things anymore.” She brushed past him and crossed the room to stand beside the bed. “I told you I would do my duty, and I will. I will give you an heir as soon as possible. And then I and the child will away to the country so you can be free of me.”

  “I don’t want to be free of you,” he growled.

  “My lord, two weeks ago, you accused me in front of the most vicious viper of the ton of arranging for us to be caught in a compromising situation to force you into marriage for your title.”

  “And I have since learned the truth.”

  “Yet the damage has been done.”

  “Then let me fix it.” He rushed forward in words and steps. “Please, Irena.”

  Her lips parted. Perhaps it was the use of her name. Or perhaps it was the strain of his voice, heavy from carrying the weight of an apology he would never stop repeating. Not until she believed it.

  “I cannot change what I’ve done or the horrible things I said. All I can do is try to prove the depth of my regret for what I have done and the sincerity of my feelings for you. If you will let me.”

  There. A flutter of something other than disdain lit up her eyes. It dissipated immediately, but it had been there, and that mattered.

  “Irena—”

  “It’s too late,” she whispered.

  “It’s never too late. Not for love.” He raised her hands to his lips, taking time to kiss each knuckle before meeting her shocked gaze. “And I do, Irena. I love you.”

  A brittle smile met his words as she tugged her hands away. “Love isn’t enough, my lord.”

  “Benedict,” he said, tracing his finger along the delicate line of her jaw. “And you’re wrong. Love is all that matters. And I will do whatever it takes to prove that to you.”

  The arched eyebrow returned. “And how, daresay, do you plan to accomplish such a thing?”

  “I am going to court you.”

  Irena snorted in a particularly unladylike way. “Don’t be absurd.”

  Her laughter made him stand tall, the idea taking root as its brilliance bloomed with certainty. “My love,” he said, “we are going to start over.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “I am so disappointed in you.”

  Thea jumped at the sound of Liv’s voice behind her. Her hand slipped on the dustpan, and the entire pile of dust and debris from the wall landed back on the floor. She glared over her shoulder. “Why?”

  “I leave you alone with a perfectly good bottle of wine, and you ignore it to clean?”

  It was Sunday night, and Liv had offered to put the girls to bed so Thea could apparently stare mindlessly, but Thea didn’t have time for navel-gazing. She had to clean up the mess from the wall before the girls and the dog decided to play in it. Thea dumped the dirt in a trash can as Liv opened a bottle of Riesling chilling in the fridge. She poured two glasses, handed one to Thea, and plopped down on the couch. “Where’s the fun in getting divorced if you can’t use it as an excuse to get drunk?”

  “I haven’t found any part of getting divorced to
be fun yet,” Thea said, taking the opposite end of the couch.

  “Hence, the wine,” Liv said, stretching her legs out until her feet rested on Thea’s lap. The fact that her legs were long enough to do that didn’t help Thea’s mood. How had Liv gotten lucky enough to get their father’s tall, lean build, and Thea got stuck with the stature of a Smurf? Anytime Thea complained about being short, though, Gavin always said she was perfect because he could prop his chin on her head when he held her.

  “You look like you’re having second thoughts,” Liv said.

  “I’m not.”

  Liv tilted her head and narrowed her eyes, as if she didn’t believe Thea’s denial. “You’re making the right decision.”

  “I know.” Thea took a small sip to cover the twinge of guilt about all the things she hadn’t told Liv. And wouldn’t. Thea pointed at the pockmarked wall to change the subject. “This might have been a bit impulsive.”

  “I know. That’s what I love about it. The feisty version of Thea clawed its way out with a roar.”

  Thea raised her eyebrows. “The feisty old Thea?”

  “Yeah. Remember her? The one who went through a phase of painting naked and once handcuffed herself to a bulldozer to protect a tree on campus? I’ve missed her.”

  Thea stared at the wall and the small progress she’d made. “So have I.”

  When was the last time she’d done anything impulsive? Of course, being impulsive was partly to blame for how she got here. One throw-caution-to-the-wind romp in the back seat of Gavin’s car was all it took for sperm to meet egg. And just like that, the mistakes of her own family were repeated. An unplanned pregnancy. A shotgun wedding. A move to the suburbs. A husband who was never home.

  Speaking of . . . “You RSVP yet?” Thea asked. Their father was getting married for the fourth time in December.

  Liv snorted. “What’s the point?”

  Thea nodded. “I’m thinking about writing maybe next time on the card, but that just seems mean.”

  “Which makes it perfect.”

  “What the hell is wrong with these women? How does he convince them to totally ignore his track record?”