Book Boyfriend

by Emily Wibberley, Austin Siegemund-Broka

Genres: General Fiction; Women's Fiction; Romance; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

Devoted fangirl meets hesitant fanboy in this swoony contemporary love letter to readers who adore fantasy worlds, from the beloved authors of The Breakup Tour.
 
Jennifer Worth lives to escape into the world of her favorite romantasy series Elytheum Courts, where the romance is sweeping and the men are brave, chivalrous . . . and winged. Newly single and craving connection, she travels to an immersive fan experience celebrating all things Elytheum, only to see the last face she expected—Scott Daniels, her work nemesis, whose disinterest in Jennifer’s favorite series and standoffishness have made their publishing jobs feel like a feuding fae court.
 
Except the Scott she encounters at the Elytheum Experience, in his secondhand cosplay outfit, is . . . different. Swaggering, flirtatious, confident. Unlucky in romance himself and inspired by Jennifer’s love for the swoonworthy men of Elytheum, Scott is determined to remake himself into the perfect book boyfriend.
 
Jennifer has no interest in helping the man who vexes her every workday and dismisses her fictional fantasies, but as the immersive convention activities force them together, they’re surprised to discover magic like none Jennifer has ever read about. But is enemies-to-lovers romance only for books, or can Jennifer and Scott bring the trope to life?

Release date: February 25, 2025

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 384

Sample

1

The elevator opens. I walk out into the lobby, ready to get dumped.

Honestly, I've known the dumping was coming for a while. I have no emotional connection with Jordan, no deep passion, very few shared interests. I probably should've dumped him myself already. Instead, I've let one chance exchange of phone numbers in a coffee line draw out into six months of increasingly unenthusiastic dating for one reason.

Hope.

No magic in the fantasy novels I've cherished practically my entire life, intertwining them with my personality and now my livelihood, is as powerful as hope. Human, ordinary, and devastatingly enchanting. Especially, in my case, when it comes to my relationships.

At least I call it hope. Others might have other names for it. Idealism. Sentimentality. Naïveté. I'm well aware I'm a dreamer. The problem is reality never manages to match my dreams.

Was I hoping Jordan Jenkins would change into a completely different person overnight, embodying romance itself with his devotion and graceful kindness? Was I hoping we would fall madly in love and start planning an incredibly romantic elopement in Ireland?

Yes.

Even when our relationship is over in approximately five minutes, will I keep dreaming of the Ireland thing?

Probably, yes.

For now, though, no green hills or whitecapped waters wait for me. The lobby of the West 56th Street office building housing Parthenon Publishing Group, where I work, smells of linoleum with hints of stale coffee. The summer sunlight coming in the plexiglass windows heats the wide room uncomfortably. The corporate décor of marble floors and couches no one uses complete the picture.

I wait while people in suits pass me, swiping into the elevators on their return from coffee runs or late mornings working from home. Parthenon takes up five floors of the high tower, with other offices occupying the rest, giving me an audience of plenty of people I've never met during the joyous occasion of my dumping.

Would I have preferred we do this literally anywhere else? Once more, yes. Unfortunately, however, my office is right next to Jordan's place, where he works from home. We planned to get lunch this afternoon, like we often do.

But Jordan's hesitance to either pick a restaurant or meet at his apartment has indicated there shall be no lunch.

Which is disappointing, as I packed nothing to eat today. Not that I would prefer eating ramen in the place nearby, waiting to be dumped after the bill. Or worse, sitting down only to be dumped before the food even comes out.

Oh well. Even without the powerful magic of hope defending me from the conversation I know is coming, I'll manage. I remind myself of how Queen Kethryn doesn't possess any magic of her own. Only perseverance. Sure, the heroine of the Elytheum Courts book series never got dumped in front of her office elevators, but our circumstances are close enough.

While I'm mentally encouraging myself, Jordan enters in the glass doors, and-

Wow. It's even worse than I imagined, which is saying something.

Jordan is carrying a medium-sized cardboard box. I recognize my coziest hoodie, one of my scarves, even my Halloween costume peeking up from the top. He has, I realize, consolidated my possessions from his apartment. How considerate.

Now I'm going to have to haul my Just-Dumped box up to my office for the rest of the day, in front of every single one of my colleagues. Including-ugh, I know Scott's going to make some comment. Probably write it down in the notebook he's never without. J. Worth dumped today. Very entertaining.

When Jordan comes closer, I force a smile. I'm not expecting the pang I feel despite the dark comedy of the occasion. Giving up hope never doesn't hurt, I guess. Even irrational hopes.

"Wow. All my possessions that I keep at your apartment. Is that my toothbrush in there? My pajamas, too," I marvel sarcastically. "How did you know this is exactly what I needed to get through my workday?"

Yes, I could make this easier for Jordan. I won't, though.

"Where do you want to go for lunch?" I continue cheerfully. "Ramen?"

Jordan winces, like he legitimately worries I might not have grasped what's happening here.

"No to ramen, then," I continue. "Pizza?"

"I'm sorry, Jennifer," Jordan says. "I think we should break up."

I gasp theatrically. "No. You don't say! I'm shocked!"

Jordan drops my gaze, understanding now. With every literal passing second, I forget what I saw in him. Is he cute? I guess. Light brown hair, perpetual stubble. He's in his ordinary zip-up, T-shirt, jeans WFH ensemble. He's five ten. He never pretends he's six feet. He just says I'm five ten. Then he changes the subject.

He has the grace to meet my comedy routine gently. "I figured it was better this way," he says, nodding to indicate the box.

I notice the books I left on his shelves, having learned I needed reading material for when Call of Duty or FIFA consumed him. Yes, even on the nights I stayed over. I hope it's very heavy.

"Now you don't have to come by later for it all. This is less awkward," he explains.

"So much less awkward," I agree.

I do not offer to receive the parcel from him. Instead, I decide, if I'm going to get dumped at work on a Friday-just hours from the good part of Friday, no less, when everyone soft-decides it's the weekend and emails stop coming-I'm going to have the full fucking horrible experience. "Want to tell me why?" I invite him.

"Um." Jordan shuffles, either under the weight of his considerate packing efforts or the unexpected masochism of my question. "I guess. I just think that, like, you don't really like me."

I pause. Okay, fair.

"I think you're hot and we have fun together. It's cool how much you're into in the bedroom," Jordan elaborates generously. I flush the color of the end papers in the special edition of The Shattered Court-pink. Very pink. I pray to every fantastical god that we're not in earshot of any of my coworkers. "But, like, I think you like the idea of a boyfriend more than you really like me as your boyfriend," Jordan says.

I narrow my eyes, surprised. The observation is . . . unusually insightful coming from him.

"I'm not like the guys you read about." He hefts the box, indicating the books inside. "Honestly, Jennifer, I don't think anyone is. They're not real."

Instantly, my enjoyment in my own dumping disappears. He didn't need to invoke my favorite books. I know the guys he means. Lord Valance, in particular, and his fictional counterparts-the ominous, reserved, intimidating, ultimately incredibly noble, devoted men of my romantic fantasy favorites.

"How would you even know what they're like? You never read the books," I point out indignantly.

I won't pretend Jordan's disinterest in my fantasy favorites, especially the Elytheum Courts series, didn't hurt. When I invited him to read one-Just one! I entreated playfully-he explained he "didn't read fiction," which meant he didn't read anything.

I didn't need him to love them. I didn't need him to share my every interest. He knew they were important to me, though. I would've played Call of Duty if he'd offered to let me, let alone asked me.

"I don't need to read them," Jordan protests.

I cross my arms, pissed. "So you're saying it's impossible for you to be emotionally available, charming, flirtatious, kind, sexy, devoted, and loving?" I clarify. Just to get it on the record.

Hands pinned under the cardboard, he nevertheless manages to shrug. "I mean. Yeah."

Infuriated now, I wrest the box from him, ignoring his visible relief. Yes, I know the men in the fantasy novels I like to read are a little exaggerated. But the core of who they are shouldn't be impossible to find in the real world. Should it? Not every hope needs to feel like magic, evanescent and unrealistic.

Does it?

It's not like I need a literal strapping fae warrior. The man of my dreams doesn't need wings. Obviously.

"Thanks for my stuff," I say. "I hope you find a girl willing to settle for everything you're willing to offer her. Barely texting me back, showing up late to half our dates, never taking an interest in my interests. What a total package!"

Jordan glares. I guess he's finally had enough of my self-deprecating enthusiasm for this conversation. "Yeah, well, if you want the kind of fantasy love story you read about, I hope you're ready to wait forever," he retorts. "I'm going to go live my life."

Without hesitation, he leaves, evidently planning to start right now.

Regrettably, I have no comeback or perfect rejoinder. It was a respectable dramatic flourish, I have to concede.

Nonetheless, I won't dignify it by watching his retreat. I'm done with Jordan. Not interested. Over him. He's a foolish hope, a failed enchantment. A fantasy not worth having.

Holding the heavy reminder of our ended relationship, I start for the elevator-only to run into the last person I want to see right now.

2

Of course, I drop the box-full of hefty hardcovers-right onto his foot.

"Ouch," Scott Daniels says.

Not yelps or exclaims. No, Scott simply observes the experience of my possessions falling onto his foot with the droll dispassion he's reserved for every one of our interactions over the past year.

"Sorry," I say, matching his enthusiasm.

He eyes me warily, like he doesn't really believe I'm sorry. Which, yeah, I'm not. He's Scott. He deserves it.

Ever since I knew publishing was a job, I've wanted to work in it. I networked and interviewed hard for the internship I managed to secure after college, which several years later led me to work in commercial fiction marketing for Parthenon. Now, I love every single part of my job-except for one arrogant, rude coworker.

Scott Daniels started in my department a year ago. While we work on different titles in different genres, we and the other marketers work closely on coordinated plans, allocation of department resources, and other joint efforts. I remember my excitement when he was introduced during the weekly interdepartmental meeting. A handsome man my age who loved literature? Was this the American Dream? Of course, I expected we would get along.

Until we didn't.

The man regarding me with disinterested displeasure in our office lobby should be my type. Cute in a nerdy way. Muscular in an unshowy way, his nice shoulders visible in the stretch of his work shirts. Intelligent in an eager way, quick to endorse or expand on every one of our colleagues' ideas except mine. A perfect Excel spreadsheet of a man.

Instead, after our first interaction, my professional relationship with Scott Daniels descended from strained to outright unpleasant. Every meeting, every discussion, neither one of us can help frowning, or pointedly contradicting the other, or deliberately putting our titles in competition for promotional opportunities. I am forced to deal with him every weekday, including work-from-home days, when he shadows my Outlook inbox like the worst demons let loose on Kethryn's court.

"Nice box of personal possessions," my demon remarks. "Either you're planning to move into your cubicle more seriously or you just were dumped."

I purse my lips. I hate how quickly he catches on. How effortlessly he pairs wry humor with hidden delight for my misfortune. Yes, I'm definitely going in the notebook. J. Worth dumped. Dropped heavy shit on my foot. Still a win.

Notebook worthy or not, I'm relieved that his question means he didn't overhear my breakup. "That's a personal question," I return with Scott's dismissiveness. It's what we do. Return. Displeasure. Dismissal. Dislike. "We have no obligation to answer each other's personal questions because we are only colleagues. And look," I observe, "we're in the lobby. Technically outside of work. I'm surprised you even want to talk to me."

I give him a meaningful glare.

He doesn't look embarrassed, because he's not. "I do consider the lobby to be part of our professional sphere," he replies.

"Elevators, sure, but we're outside the card swipers," I point out. "I think you're in the clear."

Scott genuinely considers my observation. I watch pros and cons, rebuttals and concessions neatly arrange themselves in his eyes the way they do in meetings or on dreaded team calls we have to join in Parthenon conference rooms. Pretending we've never met is the only way I endure them.

Finally, he nods once, conceding my point. Hooray, me.

Except, I can't help myself. I remember his phrasing. "Why do you assume I was the dumpee?" I ask.

I'm really one for masochistic questions this fine Friday. Scott, of course, looks ready to indulge me. He pauses, regarding his favorite colleague, chin raised in the unconscious way he does, sunlight glinting off his glasses' gray frames. "Because I know you," he finally says.

Leaving me fuming. What was I expecting from Scott?

I notice, despite the early hour, Scott has his leather shoulder bag. If he's going home early, the day has its silver linings. I put on a smile. "Have a great weekend, Scott," I say.

"Actually, I'll be out all week," he informs me with reluctance, like the orderly imperative of work staffing is feuding with his hesitation to provide me information or welcome news.

Which it is. I don't force my smile now. "A whole week," I say. "What a treat for us both. Me because I'll be free of you, and you because you'll be . . . where?"

"A friend's wedding," he replies hastily.

"You have friends?"

Scott glares.

"Personal question, Jennifer," he reminds me.

I don't laugh. I would never give him the pleasure of knowing I find his reprise clever. Instead I purse my lips, defeating the urge, while Scott stoops down to pick up the box. I hurriedly pull it from his hands before he can examine the details of my Halloween costume, which was, shall we say, provocative.

I'm not fast enough. Scott's eyes widen. Then they move to mine.

Wait, I order myself, controlling my reaction. Why should I be embarrassed in front of Scott? I would have to care about his opinion to be embarrassed.

"You want to ask, don't you?" I say.

Scott says nothing, visibly warring with himself.

"Your colleague who you strongly dislike has a box of her possessions, and what's that? It's strappy and leathery? How interesting," I continue. "What could it be? I wonder if she looks hot as hell in it. Alas, if only such a line of inquiry weren't-what's the word, again?" I exhale. "Oh yes. Personal."

Scott's frown deepens when I hit the final word with victorious venom. I grin.

"I'm not that curious," he grumbles.

"You're well within your rights to lie to me, of course," I remind him sweetly. "Since we aren't friends."